It has a stately look,that old building,indistinctly seen,as it is,among those umbrageous trees;you might almost suppose it an earl's home;and such it was,or rather upon its site stood an earl's home,in days of old,for there some old Kemp,some Sigurd or Thorkild,roaming in quest of a hearthstead,settled down in the gray old time,when Thor and Freya were yet gods,and Odin was a portentous name.Yon old hall is still called the Earl's Home,though the hearth of Sigurd is now no more,and the bones of the old Kemp,and of Sigrith his dame,have been mouldering for a thousand years in some neighbouring knoll;perhaps yonder,where those tall Norwegian pines shoot up so boldly into the air.It is said that the old earl's galley was once moored where is now that blue pool,for the waters of that valley were not always sweet;yon valley was once an arm of the sea,a salt lagoon,to which the war-barks of 'Sigurd,in search of a home,'found their way.
I was in the habit of spending many an hour on the banks of that rivulet,with my rod in my hand,and,when tired with angling,would stretch myself on the grass,and gaze upon the waters as they glided past,and not unfrequently,divesting myself of my dress,I would plunge into the deep pool which I have already mentioned,for I had long since learned to swim.And it came to pass that on one hot summer's day,after bathing in the pool,I passed along the meadow till I came to a shallow part,and,wading over to the opposite side,I adjusted my dress,and commenced fishing in another pool,beside which was a small clump of hazels.
And there I sat upon the bank,at the bottom of the hill which slopes down from 'the Earl's home';my float was on the waters,and my back was towards the old hall.I drew up many fish,small and great,which I took from off the hook mechanically,and flung upon the bank,for I was almost unconscious of what I was about,for my mind was not with my fish.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 not thinking so?'
'Fishing is mentioned frequently in Scripture.Simon Peter was a fisherman.'
'True;and Andrew and his brother.But thou forgettest:they did not follow fishing as a diversion,as I fear thou doest.-Thou readest the Scriptures?'
'Sometimes.'
