this weapon I had
already, in Ireland, performed some execution among the rooks and
choughs, and it was now again destined to be a source of solace and
amusement to me, in the winter season, especially on occasions of severe
frost when birds abounded. Sallying forth with it at these times, far
into the country, I seldom returned at night without a string of
bullfinches, blackbirds, and linnets hanging in triumph round my neck.
When I reflect on the immense quantity of powder and shot which I crammed
down the muzzle of my uncouth fowling-piece, I am less surprised at the
number of birds which I slaughtered than that I never blew my hands,
face, and old honeycombed gun, at one and the same time, to pieces.

But the winter, alas! (I speak as a fowler) seldom lasts in England more
than three or four months; so, during the rest of the year, when not
occupied with my philological studies, I had to seek for other
diversions. I have already given a hint that I was also addicted to the
angle. Of course there is no comparison between the two pursuits, the
rod and line seeming but very poor trumpery to one who has had the honour
of carrying a noble firelock. There is a time, however, for all things;
and we return to any favourite amusement with the greater zest, from
being compelled to relinquish it for a season. So, if I shot birds in
winter with my firelock, I caught fish in summer, or attempted so to do,
with my angle. I was not quite so successful, it is true, with the
latter as with the former; possibly because it afforded me less pleasure.
It was, indeed, too much of a listless pastime to inspire me with any
great interest. I not unfrequently fell into a doze, whilst sitting on
the bank, and more than once let my rod drop from my hands into the
water.

At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground which
rises towards the south-west, is a small river, the waters of which,
after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the
district, and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean.
It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant is it to trace its course from its
spring-head, high up in the remote regions of Eastern Anglia, till it
arrives in the valley behind yon rising ground; and pleasant is that
valley, truly a goodly spot, but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses
the little stream. Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a
blue pool, and are there stilled, for a tim