of "Murray's fools," who for a time swarmed that angler's paradise, with no more appreciation of the art, or of the delectable recreation of angling than a donkey has of the heavenly harmonies. I owe to them, however, the pleasant recollection of many weeks of delightful solitude and repose amid pathless woods and unfrequented lakes and streamlets. So I forgive them-glad, nevertheless, to be able, here, upon the far-off Cascapedia, to fish undisturbed, and to feast upon the magnificent scenery which everywhere meets the eye and gladdens the spirit, without fear of molestation from cockney intruders. This assured isolation during the hours set apart for angling constitutes one of the chief charms of these preserved waters. "Yet" (as that most lovable lover of nature, Thoreau, says) “I would not insist upon any one's trying it who has not a pretty good supply of internal sunshine; otherwise he would have, I judge, to spend too much of his time in fighting with his dark humors. To live alone comfortably, we must have that self-comfort which rays out of nature— a portion of it at least."

Forest solitudes, away off upon and beyond the verge of civilization, have an irresistible fascination. To be alone becomes a passion with some There are to-day, as there have been in all the past, hundreds of hunters and trappers in the

men.

wilderness of the far west who cannot endure contact with their fellow men, and are only happy when remote from all human habitations. But this exaggerated love of isolation of perpetual separation from their kind—is no proof of intellectual superiority or of an exalted appreciation of the beauty and grandeur of nature uncontaminated by the depravities and meannesses of a selfish civilization. Moral or esthetic considerations seldom enter the minds of these "mighty hunters." Their hermit-life is simply proof of a morbid and distorted condition of mind, which is neither to be commended, admired nor imitated. It would be as untruthful and as unjust to associate the angler who seeks, temporarily, for repose and recreation, the solitudes of the forest, with these uncouth, unkempt and unlettered trappers, as it would be to proclaim all angling debasing because professional "pot-hunters," who are alike indifferent to times and seasons and the processes by which they achieve results, engage in it.

Nor must it be inferred that isolation is the fixed status of the angler. At proper times and seasons in no class of men is the social element more fully developed. To have this demonstrated it is only necessary to visit the camp-fire after the sports of the day are over. John Wilson's "Noctes Ambrosiana" and "Dies Borealis," are no mere fic

tions. His unapproachable dialogues have their counterpart under many another canvas in our own primitive forests. They may not always be marked by the profound philosophy, rollicking humor, tender pathos, or glowing imagery which have given the recorded sayings of these eminent anglers a foremost place among the classics of the century. But they are kindred in tone and spirit, and often approach them in all the good qualities which will render them the delight of all thoughtful men of all the ages.

It is the recollection of these social re-unions, participated in by men of kindred tastes and sympathies, who have sought these far-off solitudes to be happy in their own simple way, quite as much as the strike and struggle of the gamey salmon, which makes the memory of these seasons of recreation and repose "a joy forever." Those who do not find it so have not yet imbibed the spirit of the Fathers, nor attained unto the highest possibilities of the gentle art.

CHAPTER XVI.

A PLEASANT MORNING-THE JUDGE'S FIRST SALMON.

'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the field, and ever ringeth

A call to prayer.

-[Horace Smith.

Give me mine angle. We'll to the river; there,
My music playing afar off, I will betray

Tawny finn'd fishes; my bended hook shall pierce
Their slimy jaws; and as I draw them up,
I'll think them every one an Antony,
And say, "Ah, ha! you're caught."

-[Shakspeare.

UR first morning in camp was cloudless and serene. The "callar mountain air" was pure and bracing. The gentle western breeze came down from the hills freighted with the perfume of a million flowers and the melody of a thousand songsters, calling up the beautiful apostrophe of the psalmist: "Praise waiteth for Thee, O God, in Zion; I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help; my help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth." The leaves, besprinkled with "the

dew of the morning," sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight, while the river murmured out its perpetual anthem as it moved along its cleft pathway to the sea. Here and there, on the high-up

summits of the hills which encircled the beautiful valley in which we had pitched our tents, the morning mist, transparent as a bridal veil, hung in midair like a benediction, while every forest tree and flowering shrub swayed to and fro like a waving censer before the grand altar of nature.

And in due time, as if to fill up the measure of our devout gratitude to a kind Providence for having permitted us to "cast our lines in such pleasant places," there came up from the camp-fire the odor of broiled salmon, mingled with the aroma of slowly distilling Mocha, whetting the already keen appetite for the morning meal in rapid preparation. And when served, "there was silence for the space of half an hour," when the Judge held up his crutch in speechless thanksgiving for such a luscious repast amid such gorgeous surroundings.

The first business in order was the allotment of pools. There are three within easy distance of the camp. Each usually affords ample sport, but one of them is more coveted than the others because it uniformly abounds in larger fish. As the Judge had never taken a salmon, this pool was awarded him by unanimous assent—a striking illustration of