All impotently spluttering poisonous spleen
Let's hope such monster may no more be seen.
And let us hail great Herschelles, whose skill
The high-nosed horror hath availed to kill.
Blow, Infants, blow the pipe, and thump the tabor,
In honour of the hero's Thirteenth Labour!

* * * * *

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

VII.--THE DUFFER WITH A SALMON-ROD.

No pursuit is more sedentary, if one may talk of a sedentary pursuit,
and none more to my taste, than trout-fishing as practised in the
South of England. Given fine weather, and a good novel, nothing can he
more soothing than to sit on a convenient stump, under a willow, and
watch the placid kine standing in the water, while the brook murmurs
on, and perhaps the kingfisher flits to and fro. Here you sit and
fleet the time carelessly, till a trout rises. Then, indeed, duty
demands that you shall crawl in the manner of the serpent till you
come within reach of him, and cast a fly, which usually makes him
postpone his dinner-hour. But he will come on again, there is no need
for you to change your position, and you can always fill your basket
easily--with irises and marsh-marigolds.

[Illustration: "I wade in as far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe
with the rod."]

Such are our county contents, but woe befall the day when I took to