That quaint old cruel coxcomb in his gullet
     Should have a hook, with a small trout to pull it.

That was the little punishment which Byron devised for Izaak Walton.  But of course, if you once begin to be supersensitive about cruelty, you find your way blocked at every cross-road of life, and existence ceases to be worth having.

On, as the sun slopes, and his beams fall slant over solemn mounds of cool gray hue and woody fields all pranked in gold.  Look to the north, and you see the far-away hills in their sunset livery of white and purple and rose.  On the clear summits the snow sometimes lies; and, as the royal orb sinks, you will see the snow blush for a minute with throbbing carnation tints that shift and faint off slowly into cold pallid green.  The heart is too full of ecstasy to allow even of thought.  You live—­that is all!  You may continue your wanderings among all the mystic sounds and sights of the night, but it is better to rest long and well when you can.  Let the village innkeeper put down for you the coarsest fare that can be conceived, and you will be content; for, as a matter of fact, any food and drink appeal gratefully to the palate of a man who has been inhaling the raciest air at every pore for eight or ten hours.  If the fare does not happen to be coarse—­if, for example, the landlord has a dish of trout—­so much the better; you do not envy any crowned personage in Christendom or elsewhere.  And how much does your day of Paradise cost you?  At the utmost, half-a-crown.  Had you been away on the Rhine or in Switzerland or in some German home of brigands, you would have been bleeding at the purse all day, while in our own matchless land you have had merriment, wild nature, air that is like the essence of life—­and all for thirty pence.  When night falls heavily, you pass your last hour in listening to the under-song of the sea and the whisper of the roaming winds among the grass.  Then, if you are wise and grateful, you thank the Giver of all, and go to sleep.

In the jolly greenwoods of the Midlands you may have enjoyment of another kind.  Some men prefer the sleepy settled villages, the sweeping fens with their bickering windmills, the hush and placidity of old market-towns that brood under the looming majesty of the castle.  The truth is that you cannot go anywhere in England outside of the blighted hideous manufacturing districts without finding beauty and peace.  In the first instance you seek health and physical well-being—­that goes without saying; but the walking epicure must also have dainty thoughts, full banquets of the mind, quiet hours wherein resolutions may be framed in solitude and left in the soul to ripen.  When the epicure returns to the din of towns, he has a safeguard in his own breast which tends to keep him alike from folly and melancholy.  Furthermore, as he passes the reeking dens where human beings crowd who never see flower or tree, he feels all churlishness depart