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idle cousin of mine, day after day for this same shyness of publicity, even among friends."
"Publish!" cried all. "You are very kind!
Publish!" ejaculated South.
Its lightness would my age reprove;
I may not, must not, sing of Fishinge.'
In honest truth, I've lost the energy. Yet Percy, I doubt, could you place upon that board of ours a goodly salmon, fresh from his native element, you'd unseal my lips at once, in double sense,-first to eat, then to dilate on the glories of salmon fishing. I know not what great wonders an apparition, so substantial, might work upon me. The sight of a large fish of this fair isle, poor as most fish here are, oft do I find a stimulating provocative. Yes! my energies might return once more, although my hairs grow grey, could I but find good fishing; could I go forth once more with those old angling friends I fished beside in England. Think who and what they were, and tell me how their places can be filled? First and always foremost, there was that brother, Tom. From earliest infancy we were linked in love, and went a fishinge.' Even in later years, was Whitsun week, by rule, held sacred to our love and fishing; and never lacked that holiday, of zest, or love, or pleasure in their brightest, dearest forms. Then came Sir A. C- and Sir F. C, the one always full of life, and wit, and wisdom, to keep me ever in a roar, when fishes would not bite; the other full of science and of gentle mirth, and of a disposition like the great prototype of old, "Old Isaak,' ever to be loved. But of these two, alas! as Old Isaak' says of his fishing friends, Honest Nat and R. Roe,' so I of mine: "They are gone, and with them most of my pleasant hours, even as a shadow that passes away, and returns not." Then there was that amiable naturalist, John B, who not only fished with me, but with me walked "the meadows, by some gliding stream, and there contemplated the lilies that take no care, and those very many other various little living creatures that are not only created, but fed, man knows not how, by the goodness of the God of nature." Then his brother, Tom B- who was all skill, urbanity, and goodness-my Urbanes. Then came that lover of fun and fishing, he of Hints and Maxims,' R. P. Then there was that almost bosom friend, Ned P——. Then that quaint, enthusiastic, merry friend, Antiquarius. I love him! and Medicus, and my Generosus, with many more much longed-for Piscatorians. Of these, were there but one now with me, what might I not aspire to! Aye,
"Do but start
An echo with the clamour of thy drum,
"And so, good coz," archly interposed Mrs. Percy, "your dormant energies are roused once more, and your heart warms with its olden
fervour to the subject. You are trapped at last; your energy has betrayed you; so come, confess the authorship at once."
Percy smiled maliciously. "Immortal cockroach!" was all he said. South seemed posed outright. "Then burst his mighty laugh; and in his kerchief muffling up his face" he pondered for awhile.
"Come, South, confess at once; or Marian, turn the rack again," said Percy, as he nudged the old angler's arm.
"Leave him to me," answered Mrs. Percy; "he shall not need it long."
With all the comicality which old Dowton threw into Falstaff's face when he retorted on Prince Henry from behind his buckler, "D'ye think I did not know you? By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye," South unveiled his visage. Then rising from his chair, and with the most profound of bows, bowing to Percy, he exclaimed:
"As murder will out, so fame will find out merit; and since you say merit is not altogether out of the manuscript, and, in truth, having no way else to escape out of the charge, I may as well out with it at once and confess. Yes, I do confess. Ye heavens!" he muttered, "just as if I were confessing to a crime. I do confess myself the writer of that manuscript, the real Simon,' the veritable Theophilus South' of those 'puffs and panegyrics.' There! your very cunning flattery has charmed," he said, turning to Mrs. Percy, "wormed," he said, looking at Alice, piped and gulled," he added, as he winked at Percy, "me out of my hiding-place as a charmed serpent. But, my good friends," continued South, with a somewhat saddened air, "let not that charming' out be with the view to my undoing; rather let it be that my charming, if I be a Cobra, tend to your amusement, that I may dance before eyes which shall beam delight with my dancing. Yes; I am the writer, and yet,
'Twas I, but 'tis not I; I do not shame to tell you what I was,'
for changed I am in exile. Oh! loss of opportunity, of times gone by! How pained I oft have been, looking around in hour of relaxation, for hour of ease and pleasure mingled, by that which, ere I left thy beloved shores, O, England, I never sought in vain. Alas! 'tis here I feel
'On every hand
This cannot be my native land.'
And was I not an ardent fisherman? There, take my keys; go search yon painted box and polished case within my sanctum. Mark well my weapons. Look upon my baits: you'll see the tooth mark of full many a pike; the trace of many a fair day's fight; the patient zeal of an enthusiast's search for all the requisites to equip him. Not only these, but bits and scraps of these, of flies half-made, and feathers half-stripped off, as though Vesuvius had entombed an active workman bending o'er his task. But now, alas! they lie, wasting their beauties on this exile land, like stored pieces of antiquity, to raise a sigh for times long gone. In truth, oft when I've thought and heard of fishing here, such was my love, and might be still (for, like the dying o'er-compunctious fox, showing the ruling passion strong in death, a fishinge' too might do me good), and such the sense of want of fitting opportunities here to exercise my skill, that the very thoughts have oft been thrown aside as worse
than painful. Thence comes my silence. Yet Percy did not know me for a fisherman so ardent? I not an ardent fisherman ! How had I lived till now, through years of trial, had it not been for this dear cherished art? How bright and joyous has it made spring's morn! how cool has summer been, 'midst midday heat! how chastely contemplative each autumnal eve. And Winter, too! canst thou be forgotten? No, no; to thee, even to thee, cold Winter, I owe my thanks, perhaps my greatest thanks. Thy milder days, 'midst tyrant pikes, have braced my chilling nerves; thy genial, glowing hearthstone's side, wrapping me in evening meditation upon all difficulties and disappointment surrounding the practice of this cherished art, has gendered thoughts, has worked up principles and theories, that have satisfied me it is not mere art, but science, deep science that may be, or rather is (to a contemplative mind) involved; from which a thousand things, as yet unthought of and unknown, may one day prove of benefit to man. I not an ardent fisherman! I thank Almighty God it was not so, it is not so, save from the want of opportunity; I thank the Great Almighty for this love. 'Tis this has made me search into nature, and adore, as I humbly contemplated Him, in His handiworks. 'Tis this has made me compassionate my fellow-creatures, choosing-as a true fisherman must do-peace. 'Tis this has made me not less humble than contemplative, seeing how little man yet knows of the Great Creator's works, even in the instance of a little foolish fish! Excuse me for this rhapsody; the very thoughts have almost carried me beyond what I am, have almost made me what I was-Richard, himself again!'"
"Why, South, you charm me!" said Percy. "This unwonted energy is like an inward burning fire, wanting vent; betraying mines of hidden wealth."
"And cousin, the manuscript-the manuscript; will you publish it?" chimed in Mrs. Percy.
South was, as was his wont, in a Shaksperian mood, and answered metaphorically:—
Will you be patient?-will you?
I have o'er-shot myself, to tell you of it.'
No, my good friends," he continued, with determination; "it is not meet that I should publish such dull, dry detail, devoted to practical instruction. Readers now-a-days would never tolerate it-these rattling railroad times! When the learned ones of England shall rise in a body, and shall found a College-Angling-Fellowship, and shall dub me, your humble servant, Theophilus South, D. P.' (Anglicè, Doctor of Angling), then
"Sir, you must; and if you won't, I will."
"Halloa!" exclaimed the startled South; "who says must? Whose voice is that? What is that you, my good, old, staunch, tried friend the New Sporting Magazine? Needs must when,' &c.; so I
agree, and by-and-by I will.
THE ALPEN STOCK;
OR, GLACIAL TOILS AND SUNNY RAMBLES.
BY CAPTAIN J. W. CLAYTON,
(Late of the 13th Light Dragoons: Author of " Ubique" and " Letters from the Nile.")
[COMMUNICATED TO, AND EDITED BY, LORD WILLIAM LENNOX.]
Besides the beauty of the locality, the chief object of interest near Arona is the colossal statue of Carlo Borromeo. Notwithstanding the stupendous proportions of the figure, which is composed of copper, and rises to a height of 106 feet from the earth, the attitude is easy; and the expression of the monstrous face is complacent and benign, as it turns towards Arona, the town of the saint's birth. Although the ascent of the statue by the interior, by means of ladders tied together, besides curious Bights of steps consisting of slippery and very uncertain iron bars, entails a fairish degree of fatigue in squeezing and clambering up through the folds of the drapery, and an amount of heat, produced by the rays of the sun beating upon the undefended copper, which is astonishing, and sufficient for the baking of bread, yet the novelty of finding oneself at last comfortably seated in the very nose of St. Carlo himself, which forms a luxurious arm-chair, is sufficient reward, there being obtained at the same time a magnificent view of a great part of the Lago Maggiore, from the nostrils.
From Arona, some fishermen pulled us along the beautiful banks, studded with most elegant villas and delicate palazzos, peeping modestly or rearing proudly from out their verdant recesses, with most luxuriant groves and bowers of cedar, acacia, chestnut, walnut, orange, lemon, olive, and every other fair production, engendered in the wildest profusion by the balmy breath and the kind airs of that gentle clime; till, upon our doubling suddenly a point of land jutting into the lake, those quaint yet lovely and garden-like islands, Isola Bella and Isola Madre, the theme of the poet and the artist, burst upon us; sleeping quietly on the violet waters, with the slanting rays of the sun gilding their array of dazzling statues, spires, and obelisks, and throwing their long shadows across the stately porticoes and the rearing marble terraces, which teem with all the glowing vegetation of the tropics. The magic beauty of this singular creation of art, nature, extravagance, and taste, with its long rows of mourning cypress, its aromatic groves, and perfumed summer-gardens, running down to the margin of the lake, where they droop, and, kissing themselves in the crystal mirror, mingle with the dark-blue
waters; the air, laden with sweet odours; the young crescent of the moon, and the vesper star, melting in the twilight sky, far over the silvery range of alpine snows; together with the whole wide extent of voluptuous scenery around-all this so enwraps the senses and enthrals the mind in dreamy repose, that even death itself, amid such beauty, would seem preferable to quitting it altogether; and, upon first arriving upon its shores, one almost expects so wonderful a spot to be the abode of some higher order of being.
After threading the brilliant halls and marble corridors of Count Borromeo's splendid palace, which adjoins the gardens, we reluctantly pushed off from the laughing shores of this summer isle; yet, for a time,
Softly, oh softly, we rested the oar,
And vexed not a billow that sighed to the shore;
For sacred the spot where the starry waves meet
With the beach, where the breath of the citron was sweet.”
Oh travel, ye that are oppressed with the mind's ills and the soul's poignancy! ye that are sensitive to the harsh judgment of the world, and the heartlessness and injustice of busy societies and the deformed world of the town! The town may delight the unthinking and the gay; but, in solitude, or only with thy partner through the accidents of life, to dwell thus for a season, and in such a solitude, wisdom and happiness will find their kindest nurse. The deceitful friendships of societies-violent perhaps, and as short-cut off in the bud by weakly received calumny, by pride, or by jealousy; the forced civilities and flatteries of idlers, and the feigned commiseration with which they insult the sanctity of sorrow, and the wretched triumph of some poor coward-heart over another's dowry-all is a hollow mockery, destitute of feeling, truth, or compassion-a sound without an echo, a world without a sun. Solitude is the mind's medicine, its chief support, and reflection its health. Yet is interchange of ideas necessary, to guard against the attacks of melancholy, which often prowls through the paths of utter solitude; for the happiness of a generous, warm, and sanguine disposition is rendered far sweeter by the companionship of a heart of sympathy and a congenial spirit, lit by the smile of confidence, and the tender and liquid luxury burning in holy light within the eyes of the loved. To walk thus through life, is to walk in truth, with the sweet sharer of joy, of torment, of glory, or of shame by thy side. In solitude is truth, and there temptation is a stranger; for, 'midst the babbling stream of flatterers, slanderers, and polite hypocrites, systematic deceit is so upheld, that men are false in spite of themselves. Nothing creates such havoc and astonishment as truth in manner, conversation, and ideas, amongst the gaudy flutterers and prattling crew of London's midnight assemblies, and the gilded saloons, which are but the gaudy caskets covering the rottenness within. Openness of character is there startling and scaring a moral devil among the tailors-and, on account of the candour of that character, laying bare the reverse side of the many others there the annoyance, the disagreeableness of conscious shame, is vented and relieved by the poisoned word which is winged from the quiver of bitter natures. Originality and nature in disposition