north; one glance at the purple gulf out of which Snowdon rises,
thence only seen in full majesty from base to peak: and then the
joyful run, springing over bank and boulder, to the sad tarn beneath
your feet: the loosening of the limbs, as you toss yourself, bathed
in perspiration, on the turf; the almost awed pause as you recollect
that you are alone on the mountain-tops, by the side of the desolate
pool, out of all hope of speech or help of man; and, if you break
your leg among those rocks, may lie there till the ravens pick your
bones; the anxious glance round the lake to see if the fish are
moving; the still more anxious glance through your book to guess what
they will choose to take; what extravagant bundle of red, blue, and
yellow feathers, like no insect save perhaps some jewelled monster
from Amboyna or Brazil--may tempt those sulkiest and most capricious
of trout to cease for once their life-long business of picking
leeches from among those Syenite cubes which will twist your ankles
and break your shins for the next three hours. 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