An eccentric, simple old man, an amateur angler in the streams which adorn the dales of Cumberland and Westmoreland, gave rise to the following attempt to procure him:--This man, named John Wilson, had not been born in the dales, but had come at an early age to take his lot among the single-minded people who dwell there. He had bought a small farm, on the produce of which, tilled by his sons and grandsons, he lived. He was soon found out by the agents of the speculators; but for some reason, known only to himself, refused to be speculated on, and as the secret of his birthplace was confined to his own breast, no register of his age could be procured without his consent. At ninety he would have passed for seventy. He would wander for whole days with only his fishing-rod and basket among the lakes and rivers of his adopted home. For a week together he would be away from his dwelling, lodging, when the night came, wherever he could procure a bed. In vain was he tempted with presents of fishing-rods; in vain the choicest London-made fly was offered; he turned away with an air of indifference and defied the temptation. There came to reside in the village, apparently on account of his health, a young gentleman who took John’s fancy, for he was fond of fishing and had never asked the old man where he was born. To him he showed his choicest retreats for casting the fly, told him stories of wonderful throws he had made, and wonderful fish he had caught, and pleasant were the long summer days passed by these two in the deep recesses of the hills, following the course of rivers, and tracing streams to their rise. It never entered into the old man’s thoughts, that one of those who were interested in knowing his birthplace was becoming a bosom friend. But so it was. The invalid had only sought the neighbourhood for that purpose, and when he had thoroughly gained his confidence, he turned the conversation very cautiously to the old man’s early history. The latter showed no symptoms of anxiety, and the Londoner went yet further: still there was no alarm apparent. But the next question, which, if answered, would have settled the point, was too abruptly put. The ancient angler wheeled round, faced his companion sorrowfully, and merely saying--“Eh! man, the ways of the world, the ways of the world!” shouldered his rod, and disappeared down a ravine close by, leaving his companion to find his way home as best he could, and far too much annoyed to remain any longer in the neighbourhood where he had been so unsuccessful.