PHAETHON; LOOSE THOUGHTS FOR LOOSE THINKERS. 1852.



Templeton and I were lounging by the clear limestone stream which
crossed his park and wound away round wooded hills toward the
distant Severn. A lovelier fishing morning sportsman never saw. A
soft gray under-roof of cloud slid on before a soft west wind, and
here and there a stray gleam of sunlight shot into the vale across
the purple mountain-tops, and awoke into busy life the denizens of
the water, already quickened by the mysterious electric influences
of the last night's thunder-shower. The long-winged cinnamon-flies
spun and fluttered over the pools; the sand-bees hummed merrily
round their burrows in the marly bank; and delicate iridescent
ephemerae rose by hundreds from the depths, and, dropping their
shells, floated away, each a tiny Venus Anadyomene, down the glassy
ripples of the reaches. Every moment a heavy splash beneath some
overhanging tuft of milfoil or water hemlock proclaimed the death-
doom of a hapless beetle who had dropped into the stream beneath;
yet still we fished and fished, and caught nothing, and seemed
utterly careless about catching anything; till the old keeper who
followed us, sighing and shrugging his shoulders, broke forth into
open remonstrance:

"Excuse my liberty, gentlemen, but what ever is the matter with you
and master, sir? I never did see you miss so many honest rises
before."

"It is too true," said Templeton to me with a laugh. "I must
confess I have been dreaming instead of fishing the whole morning.