I was thinking of my earlier years--of the Scottish crags and the heaths of Ireland--and sometimes my mind would dwell on my studies--on the sonorous stanzas of Dante, rising and falling like the waves of the sea--or would strive to remember a couplet or two of poor Monsieur Boileau.
'Canst thou answer to thy conscience for pulling all those fish out of the water and leaving them to gasp in the sun ?' said a voice, clear and sonorous as a bell.
I started, and looked round.

Close behind me stood the tall figure of a man, dressed in raiment of quaint and singular fashion, but of goodly materials.

He was in the prime and vigour of manhood; his features handsome and noble, but full of calmness and benevolence; at least I thought so, though they were somewhat shaded by a hat of finest beaver, with broad drooping eaves.
'Surely that is a very cruel diversion in which thou indulgest, my young friend ?' he continued.
'I am sorry for it, if it be, sir,' said I, rising; 'but I do not think it cruel to fish.' 'What are thy reasons for thinking so ?' 'Fishing is mentioned frequently in Scripture.

Simon Peter was a fisherman.' 'True; and Andrew his brother.

But thou forgettest; they did not follow fishing as a diversion, as I fear thou doest .-- Thou readest the Scriptures ?' 'Sometimes.' 'Sometimes ?--not daily ?--that is to be regretted.