Simply we shall say, that any body who so leisters fish from this day forward is a BRUTAL BARBARIAN, fit for the society of a Burke or a Hare, who did not venture to immolate their victims till gross physical corruption--the heavy prostration of drunkenness--rendered them in general the easy and stupid prey of a disgusting assassin. Let the leisterer of foul fish be accursed in the sporting calendar. Under all circumstances, to be quite candid, we remonstrate against the leister. It is not a fair way of going to work--the fish has no option. There is too much of the tinge of the Venetian bravo in the blow. Less apology must there always be for striking a salmon than for striking a man behind his back. The man who detects the stealthy thrust may turn and smite his enemy. The fish, vigilant happily of the descending trident, can but shift its quarters and swim away. Basking, too, at the moment under the broad beam of the all-rejoicing sun--as motionless, as tranquil, as bright, and as beautiful, as the silver pebbles in the river's bed--why should idle human violence invade and extinguish that unsuspecting repose? At this very instant, while he is in such attitude and mood, fling, if you can, with delicate precision, over his snout the most attractive mottled wing in your book, and then--if the pensive Zoroaster of the stream quits his meditations to swallow your temptation--then hook him, play him, land him, and encreel him; but do not, without any warning, plunge a barbed steel fork into his heart. Or, at this very instant, let the seduction of the triple worm travel athwart his ruminations, and if the glutton shall overcome the sage, then, even in his voracious throat, strike home, and overcome the glutton; but do not hack the noble form with ruffianly prongs of rusty iron-- "Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds." Pr'ythee permit the leister, for the future, to decorate a museum along with other implements of the Cannibal, not the British islands!