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THE CUSTOM-HOUSE MOLE.

XXIII.

The Angler's Library.

"A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver,
But not by thee my steps shall be
For ever and for ever."

TENNYSON.

I ONCE read of a book slightly similar in scheme to this (but in execution and interest, alas! far otherwise), that it was one to thrust into the fishing-creel for spare minutes on the bank, when an enforced period of idleness bids the angler rest awhile from toil to refresh his spirit; and I wondered at the criticism, for such trifles surely are not for the holiday or the open air. They are for the foggy London day, the crawling suburban train, the miserable afternoon, or the dull cold evening, when all the shepherds are blowing frozen finger-nails,

and it is folly to face the outward world; when summer is only a name, and " the very birds are mute"; when rods are laid aside; when business and the worries of human existence wear down the tired nerves; and the impatient soul longs to flee away, as on the wings of a dove, and be at rest.

Whither? it is needless to ask: to the wild woods and the downs, to moor and crag and fell, to stream and river and fjord. And if, on the pinion of fancy, you could be lifted for a brief instant to the happy hunting-grounds, to smell once more the burning pine chips, to taste delight of battle with a heavy salmon, to see the summer sun dying over the majestic fjeld, or "firing the proud tops of the eastern pines," if any breath of mine could waft you thither I should be crowned, and "my crown is called content." And so

"God send every one their heart's desire." What volume, then, shall we thrust into the bag with fly-book and sandwich-box, to brighten the long bright morning by the water, to gild the refined gold of the day's happiness? I have made it plain, I think, what my choice

falls upon. It is not Plutarch's Lives which schools the mind to greatness, or Walton's Angler, that old familiar friend, but the treasure-house of jewels which we love with an appetite that grows by what it feeds upon,— that score of books packed into one cover, and called simply by the playwright's name— SHAKESPEARE.

I fancy I see mothers of sporting sons smile their condescending approval, as they picture me on the bank pencilling my impertinent reflections in the margin of my duodecimo, so I hasten to add that I am no student, much less a teacher, and only read because it gives me pleasure. Indeed, it scarcely can be called reading at all, but is more like the silent enjoyment of the companionship of a silent friend. I have him there by me, and a few lines taken at random serve to direct a daydream with the magic of that green paste served to M. Franz de Quesnel, Baron d'Epinay, in the grottos of Monte Cristo, that wonderful hatchis which turned statues into houris. I hook a fish, the only one, I am persuaded, which will show himself to-day, and

he kicks himself off, upon which my natural depravity bids me to

"Fall a-cursing like a very drab, a scullion," and no amount of political respectability or decorous church-going can raise a barrier to prevent my complying; but my book says softly

"I am sure care's an enemy to life";

upon which I smile instead of frowning, cease fretting, and read a bit of Twelfth Night to Anders, "he not caring one blow."

"A merrier man

Within the limit of becoming mirth
I never spent an hour's talk withal.
His eye begets occasions for his wit,
For every object that the one doth catch,
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest.

I tell him that reminds me of Eric, and he promptly replies, with a fine irrelevance, that Eric is a very good "mekanik."

Most anglers, I am persuaded, leave their books behind them on the shelf, and concentrate their faculties on the practice of their art. Or perhaps "trees shall be their books," or they find appropriate literature "in the

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