OXONIAN.—“Poor fellow, let him be safe to-day. After all, it is a cruel sport, and I should break myself of it. But it is strange that whatever our love for Nature we always seek some excuse for trusting ourselves alone to her. A gun, a rod, a sketch-book, a geologist’s hammer, an entomologist’s net, a something.”
WAIFE.—“Is it not because all our ideas would run wild if not concentrated on a definite pursuit? Fortune and Nature are earnest females, though popular beauties; and they do not look upon coquettish triflers in the light of genuine wooers.”
The Oxonian, who, in venting his previous remark, had thought it likely he should be above his listener’s comprehension, looked surprised. What pursuits, too, had this one-eyed philosopher?
“You have a definite pursuit, sir?”
“I—alas! when a man moralizes, it is a sign that he has known error: it is because I have been a trifler that I rail against triflers. And talking of that, time flies, and we must be off and away.”
Sophy re-tied the bundle. Sir Isaac, on whom, meanwhile, she had bestowed the remains of the chicken, jumped up and described a circle.
“I wish you success in your pursuit, whatever it be,” stuttered out the angler.
“And I no less heartily, sir, wish you success in yours.”
“Mine! Success there is beyond my power.”
“How, sir? Does it rest so much with others?”