her art of cutting!

And proud ought that man to be of such a wife; for never was mortal
'suited' so before!

SCENE VI.

"Catching--a cold."

What a type of true philosophy and courage is this Waltonian!

Cool and unmoved he receives the sharp blows of the blustering wind--as
if he were playing dummy to an experienced pugilist.

Although he would undoubtedly prefer the blast with the chill off, he is
so warm an enthusiast, in the pursuit of his sport, that he looks with
contempt upon the rude and vulgar sport of the elements. He really
angles for love--and love alone--and limbs and body are literally
transformed to a series of angles!

Bent and sharp as his own hook, he watches his smooth float in the rough,
but finds, alas! that it dances to no tune.

Time and bait are both lost in the vain attempt: patiently he rebaits,
until he finds the rebait brings his box of gentles to a discount; and
then, in no gentle humour, with a baitless hook, and abated ardor, he
winds up his line and his day's amusement(?)--and departs, with the
determination of trying fortune (who has tried him) on some, future and
more propitious day. Probably, on the next occasion, he may be gratified
with the sight of, at least, one gudgeon, should the surface of the river
prove glassy smooth and mirror-like. (We are sure his self-love will not
be offended at the reflection!) and even now he may, with truth, aver,
that although he caught nothing, he, at least, took the best perch in the
undulating stream!

SCENE VII.

"Help! help! Oh! you murderous little villin? this is vot you calls
rowing, is it?--but if ever I gets safe on land again, I'll make you
repent it, you rascal. I'll row you--that I will."

"Mister Vaterman, vot's your fare for taking me across?"

"Across, young 'ooman? vy, you looks so good-tempered, I'll pull you
over for sixpence?"

"Are them seats clean?"

"O! ker-vite:--I've just swabb'd 'em down."

"And werry comfortable that'll be! vy, it'll vet my best silk?"

"Vatered silks is all the go. Vel! vell! if you don't like; it, there's
my jacket. There, sit down a-top of it, and let me put my arm round
you."

"Fellow!"

"The arm of my jacket I mean; there's no harm in that, you know."

"Is it quite safe? How the wind blows!"

"Lord! how timorsome you be! vy, the vind never did nothin' else since I
know'd it"

"O! O! how it tumbles! dearee me!"

"Sit still! for ve are just now in