Morning.

Hal.—You will soon take your leave, gentlemen, of this agreeable villa, but we must catch at least two brace of trout, to carry with us to London as a present for two worthy patrons of the angle. For though I know our liberal host will have a basket of fish packed up for each of our party, yet fish taken this morning will be imagined a more acceptable present than those caught yesterday. The May-fly is already upon the water, though not in great quantity, and it will consequently be more easy to catch the fish, which I see are rising with great activity. I advise you to go to the deep water below, where you will find the largest fish, and I will soon follow you.

Poiet.—I hope I shall catch a large fish,—a companion to that which Ornither took yesterday with a natural fly.

[Halieus leaves them fishing, and returns to the house; but soon comes back and joins his companions, whom he finds fishing below in the river.]

Hal.—Well, gentlemen, what sport?

Poiet.—The fish are rising every where; but though we have been throwing over them with all our skill for a quarter of an hour, yet not a single one will take, and I am afraid we shall return to breakfast without our prey.

Hal.—I will try; but I shall go to the other side, where I see a very large fish rising. There!—I have him at the very first throw. Land this fish, and put him into the well. Now I have another; and I have no doubt I could take half a dozen in this very place, where you have been so long fishing without success.

Phys.—You must have a different fly; or have you some unguent or charm to tempt the fish?

Hal.—No such thing. If any of you will give me your rod and fly, I will answer for it, I shall have the same success. I take your rod, Physicus.—And lo! I have a fish!

Phys.—What can be the reason of this? It is perfectly inexplicable to me. Yet Poietes seems to throw as light as you do, and as well as he did yesterday.

Hal.—I am surprised, that you, who are a philosopher, cannot discover the reason of this. Think a little.

All.—We cannot.

Hal.—As you are my scholars, I believe I must teach you. The sun is bright, and you have been, naturally enough, fishing with your backs to the sun, which, not being very high, has thrown the shadows of your rods and yourselves upon the water, and you have alarmed the fish, whenever you have thrown a fly. You see I have fished with my face towards the sun, and though inconvenienced by the light, have given no alarm. Follow my example, and you will soon have sport, as there is a breeze playing on the water.

Phys.—Your sagacity puts me in mind of an anecdote which I remember to have heard respecting the late eloquent statesman, Charles James Fox; who, walking up Bond-street from one of the club-houses with an illustrious personage, laid him a wager, that he would see more cats than the Prince in his walk, and that he might take which side of the street he liked. When they got to the top, it was found, that Mr. Fox had seen thirteen cats, and the Prince not one. The royal personage asked for an explanation of this apparent miracle, and Mr. Fox said, “Your Royal Highness took, of course, the shady side of the way, as most agreeable; I knew that the sunny side would be left to me, and cats always prefer the sunshine.”

Hal.—There! Poietes, by following my advice you have immediately hooked a fish; and while you are catching a brace, I will tell you an anecdote, which as much relates to fly-fishing as that of Physicus, and affords an elucidation of a particular effect of light.

A manufacturer of carmine, who was aware of the superiority of the French colour, went to Lyons for the purpose of improving his process, and bargained with the most celebrated manufacturer in that capital for the acquisition of his secret, for which he was to pay a thousand pounds. He was shown all the processes, and saw a beautiful colour produced, yet he found not the least difference in the French mode of fabrication and that which he had constantly adopted. He appealed to the manufacturer, and insisted that he must have concealed something. The manufacturer assured him that he had not, and invited him to see the process a second time. He minutely examined the water and the materials, which were the same as his own, and, very much surprised, said, “I have lost my labour and my money, for the air of England does not permit us to make good carmine.” “Stay,” says the Frenchman, “do not deceive yourself: what kind of weather is it now?” “A bright sunny day,” said the Englishman. “And such are the days,” said the Frenchman, “on which I make my colour. Were I to attempt to manufacture it on a dark or cloudy day, my result would be the same as yours. Let me advise you, my friend, always to make carmine on bright and sunny days.” “I will,” says the Englishman; “but I fear I shall make very little in London.”

Poiet.—Your anecdote is as much to the purpose as Physicus’s; yet I am much obliged to you for the hint respecting the effect of shadow, for I have several times in May and June had to complain of too clear a sky, and wished, with Cotton, for

Hal.—Whilst we have been conversing, the May-flies, which were in such quantities, have become much fewer; and I believe the reason is, that they have been greatly diminished by the flocks of swallows, which every where pursue them: I have seen a single swallow take four, in less than a quarter of a minute, that were descending to the water.

Poiet.—I delight in this living landscape! The swallow is one of my favourite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he cheers my sense of seeing as much as the other does my sense of hearing. He is the glad prophet of the year—the harbinger of the best season: he lives a life of enjoyment amongst the loveliest forms of nature: winter is unknown to him; and he leaves the green meadows of England in autumn, for the myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa:—he has always objects of pursuit, and his success is secure. Even the beings selected for his prey are poetical, beautiful, and transient. The ephemerÆ are saved by his means from a slow and lingering death in the evening, and killed in a moment, when they have known nothing of life but pleasure. He is the constant destroyer of insects,—the friend of man; and, with the stork and the ibis, may be regarded as a sacred bird. His instinct, which gives him his appointed seasons, and teaches him always when and where to move, may be regarded as flowing from a Divine Source; and he belongs to the Oracles of Nature, which speak the awful and intelligible language of a present Deity.