houses, and then and there consider how many dead bodies time had piled up at the gates of death: so when I would beget content, and increase confidence in the power, and wisdom, and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other various little living creatures, that are not only created but fed, man knows not how, by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him. This is my purpose; and so, let everything that hath breath praise the Lord: and let the blessing of St. Peter's master be with mine.

Piscator-And upon all that are lovers of virtue, and dare trust in his providence, and be quiet, and go a angling.

PRITHEE, SEND ME BACK MY HEART.

BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

[1609-1641.]

I PRITHEE send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine;

For if from yours you will not part,

Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain;

For th' hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again!

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

Oh, Love! where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;

For when I think I'm best resolved,

I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,

I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart
As much as she hath mine.

RED AND WHITE ROSES.

BY THOMAS CAREW.

[1589-1639.]

READ in these roses the sad story
Of my hard fate and your own glory;
In the white you may discover
The paleness of the fainting lover;
In the red the flames still feeding
On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding.
The white will tell you how I languish,
And the red express my anguish;
The white my innocence displaying,
The red my martyrdom betraying.
The frowns that on your brow resided
Have those roses thus divided.

Oh, let your smiles but clear the weather,
And then they both shall grow together!

ANGLING.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

[JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT, English poet and man of letters, was born near London, October 19, 1784. After a clerkship in the War Office, he became editor of the Examiner on its foundation by his brother; made it a leading organ of literature and later of politics; was imprisoned two years with £1000 fine for portraying the Prince Regent (afterwards George IV.), and wrote "Rimini” during the time; as the friend of Byron and Shelley he was invited by them to Genoa to start a Liberal magazine, but Shelley was drowned and Byron went to Greece (1822), and the magazine stopped. Returning to England in 1825, he produced "Lord Byron and his Contemporaries" (1828); Ralph Esher" and "Christianism" (1832); "The Indicator and the Companion," selected essays (1834); the London Journal (1834-1835); “Captain Sword and Captain Pen " (1835); "A Legend of Florence," a play (1840); "The Palfrey," based on an old French poem (1842); "Stories from the Italian Poets" (1846); and many other volumes of collected essays, poems, etc. He died August 28, 1859.]

THE anglers are a race of men who puzzle us. We do not mean for their patience, which is laudable, nor for the infinite non-success of some of them, which is desirable. Neither do we agree with the good old joke attributed to Swift, that angling is always to be considered as "a stick and a string, with a fly at one end and a fool at the other." Nay, if he had hooks with him, and a pleasant day, we can account for the joyousness

THE XEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

of that prince of punters, who, having been seen in the same spot one morning and evening, and asked whether he had had any success, said No, but in the course of the day he had had "a glorious nibble."

But the anglers boast of the innocence of their pastime; yet it puts fellow-creatures to the torture. They pique themselves on their meditative faculties; and yet their only excuse is a want of thought. It is this that puzzles us. Old Isaac Walton, their patriarch, speaking of his inquisitorial abstractions on the banks of a river, says:

So saying, he "stops the breath" of a trout, by plucking him up into an element too thin to respire, with a hook and a tortured worm in his jaws

Other joys

Are but toys.

If you ride, walk, or skate, or play at cricket, or at rackets, or enjoy a ball or a concert, it is "to be lamented." To put pleasure into the faces of half a dozen agreeable women is a toy unworthy of the manliness of a worm sticker. But to put a hook into the gills of a carp-there you attain the end of a reasonable being; there you show yourself truly a lord of the creation. To plant your feet occasionally in the mud is also a pleasing step. So is cutting your ankles with weeds and Other joys Are but toys.

stones

The book of Isaac Walton upon angling is a delightful performance in some respects. It smells of the country air, and of the flowers in cottage windows. Its pictures of rural scenery, its simplicity, its snatches of old songs, are all good and refreshing; and his prodigious relish of a dressed fish would not be grudged him, if he had killed it a little more decently. He really seems to have a respect for a piece of salmon, to approach it, like the grace, with his hat off. But what are we to