What matter (to a
minute philosopher, at least) if, after two hours of such enjoyment
as that, he goes down again into the world of man with empty creel,
or with a dozen pounders and two-pounders, shorter, gamer, and
redder-fleshed than ever came out of Thames or Kennet? What matter?
If he has not caught them, he might have caught them; he has been
catching them in imagination all the way up; and if he be a minute
philosopher, he holds that there is no falser proverb than that
devil's beatitude--'Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall
not be disappointed.'
Say, rather, Blessed is he who expecteth everything, for he enjoys
everything once at least: and if it falls out true, twice also.
Yes. Pleasant enough is mountain fishing. But there is one
objection against it, that it is hard work to get to it; and that the
angler, often enough half-tired before he arrives at his stream or
lake, has left for his day's work only the lees of his nervous
energy.
Another objection, more important perhaps to a minute philosopher
than to the multitude, is, that there is in mountain-fishing an
element of excitement: an element which is wholesome enough at times
for every one; most wholesome at all times for the man pent up in
London air and London work; but which takes away from the angler's
most delicate enjoyment, that dreamy contemplative repose, broken by
just enough amusement to keep his body active, while his mind is
quietly taking in every sight and sound of nature.
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