works of God, that it would appear that soon bricks and smoke (as one of our own poets also hath said) will "leave never a meadow outside Paradise." These are the days of controversy and ear-splitting noises, and little wonder if the Muse tarries long before she returns.
But while there is a distinction in angling poetry according to the age in which it is written, one might also divide it by the rivers of which it tells. I detect a subtle shade of difference in the poetry of each stream, as there is, so scientists tell its, a variation in the sound of their flow. In the North by Tweedside, and among the Welsh and Cumbrian hills, we have a more rugged and galloping verse to suit with the impetuous waters. In the low country, where the rivers are slow and idling, the poetry is quiet, telling of fields and well-fed cattle rather than black hills and the birds of the moor.
In all angling poetry, nevertheless, there are some notes of similarity, some common qualities, as in the natures of fishermen. For this character, now, I profess a peculiar liking. I see in him certain noticeable