so close above the fish that he has not time to be alarmed by the gut.  “Gut-shy” he is, and the less he sees of it the better.  Moreover, a wonderful temper is required, for in the backward cast of the long line the hook will, ten to one, catch in a tree, or a flower, or a straw, or a bit of hay, and then it has to be disengaged by the angler crawling on hands and knees.  Perhaps a northern angler will never quite master the delicacy of this sport, nor acquire the entomological knowledge which seems to be necessary, nor make up his mind between the partisans of the light one-handed rod and the double-handed rod.

AMATEUR AUTHORS.

Literature knows no Trades Unions, but if things go on as they are at present, perhaps we shall hear of literary rattening and picketing.  The Kolnische Zeitung, in Germany, has been protesting against the mob of noble ladies who write with ease, though their works, even to persons acquainted with the German tongue, are by no means easy reading.  The Teutonic paper requests these ambitious dames to conduct themselves as amateurs, to write, if write they must, but to print only a few copies of their books, and give these few copies only to their friends.  This is advice as morally excellent as it will be practically futile, nor does it apply only to ladies of rank, but to amateur novelists in general.  The old quarrel between artists and amateurs is fiercely waged in dramatic society, perhaps because actors and actresses feel the stress of competing with cheap amateur labour.  Now, though the professional novelist has only of late begun to think seriously of the subject, it is plain that he too is competing with labour unnaturally cheap, and is losing in the competition.  To define an amateur is difficult, as all athletic clubs and rowing clubs are aware.  But in this particular field of human industry, the amateur may be defined with ease.  The amateur novelist is not merely the person who, having another profession, writes a romance by way of “by-work,” as the Greeks called it.  Lord Beaconsfield was no amateur in romance, and perhaps no novel was ever sold at so high a ransom as “Endymion.”  Yet Lord Beaconsfield only scribbled in his idle hours, and was not half so much an amateur novelist as Mr. Gladstone is an amateur student of Homer.  No; the true amateur is he or she who publishes at his or her own expense.  The labour of such persons is not only cheap; its rewards may be estimated by a frightful minus quantity—­the publisher’s bill.  Every one must have observed that when his box of books comes from the circulating library, it by no means contains the books he has asked the librarian to send.  The batch does not exclusively consist of the plums and prizes of the publishing season, of Sir Henry Gordon’s book on his illustrious brother, of the most famous novel of the month, of Mr. Romilly’s “New Guinea and the Western Pacific”—­as diverting a book of travel