greater creation! Besides, it took two to make Mr. Pickwick, the
author and the artist, whereas Mr. Briggs issued fully equipped from
the brain of Leech alone!

Not indeed that all unauthorised gallopers after the fox find
forgiveness in the eyes of Leech. Woe to the vulgar little cockney
snob who dares to obtrude his ugly mug and his big cigar and his
hired, broken-winded rip on these hallowed and thrice-happy
hunting-grounds!--an earthenware pot among vessels of brass; the
punishment shall be made to fit the crime; better if he fell off and
his horse rolled over him than that he should dress and ride and look
like that! For the pain of broken bones is easier to bear than the
scorn of a true British sportsman!

[Illustration: THANK GOODNESS! FLY-FISHING HAS BEGUN!

MILLER. "Don't they really, perhaps they'll bite better towards the
cool of the evening, they mostly do."--_Punch_, 1857.]
Then there are the fishermen who never catch any fish, but whom no
stress of weather can daunt or distress. There they sit or stand with
the wind blowing or the rain soaking, in dark landscapes with ruffled
streams and ominous clouds, and swaying trees that turn up the whites
of their leaves--one almost hears the wind rush through them. One
almost forgets the comical little forlorn figure who gives such point
to all the angry turbulence of nature in the impression produced by
the _mise en scène_ itself--an impression so happily, so vividly
suggested by a few rapid, instructive pencil strokes and thumb smudges
that it haunts the memory like a dream.

He loves such open-air scenes so sincerely, he knows so well how to