for us to do one another justice!  Differing in mind, in aim and method, how shall we say infallibly that this man or that is wrong?  To fail with Plato for companion may be better than to succeed with Aristotle.  But one thing is perfectly clear:  there is no warrant for Compromise but in Success.  Use a worm if you will, but you must have fish to show for it, if you would escape the finger of scorn.  If you find yourself camping by an unknown brook, and are deputed to catch the necessary trout for breakfast, it is wiser to choose the surest bait.  The crackle of the fish in the frying-pan will atone for any theoretical defect in your method.  But to choose the surest bait, and then to bring back no fish, is unforgivable.  Forsake Plato if you must,—­but you may do so only at the price of justifying yourself in the terms of Aristotelian arithmetic.  The college president who abandoned his college in order to run a cotton mill was free to make his own choice of a calling; but he was never pardoned for bankrupting the mill.  If one is bound to be a low man rather than an impractical idealist, he should at least make sure of his vulgar success.

Is all this but a disguised defense of pot-hunting?  No.  There is no possible defense of pot-hunting, whether it be upon a trout brook or in the stock market.  Against fish or men, one should play the game fairly.  Yet for that matter some of the most skillful fly-fishermen I have known were pot-hunters at heart, and some of the most prosaic-looking merchants were idealists compared to whom Shelley was but a dreaming boy.  All depends upon the spirit with which one makes his venture.  I recall a boy of five who gravely watched his father tramp off after rabbits,—­gun on shoulder and beagle in leash.  Thereupon he shouldered a wooden sword, and dragging his reluctant black kitten by a string, sallied forth upon the dusty Vermont road “to get a lion for breakfast.”  That is the true sporting temper!  Let there be but a fine idealism in the quest, and the particular object is unessential.  “A true fisherman’s happiness,” says Mr. Cleveland, “is not dependent upon his luck.”  It depends upon his heart.

No doubt all amateur fishing is but “play,”—­as the psychologists soberly term it:  not a necessary, but a freely assumed activity, born of surplusage of vitality.  Nobody, not even a carpenter wearied of his job, has to go fishing unless he wants to.  He may indeed find himself breakfast-less in camp, and obliged to betake himself to the brook,—­but then he need not have gone into the woods at all.  Yet if he does decide to fish, let him

  “Venture as warily, use the same skill,
   Do his best, ...”

whatever variety of tackle he may choose.  He can be a whole-souled sportsman with the poorest equipment, or a mean “trout-hog” with the most elaborate.