When these preparations are once ended, the punt is pushed into the midst of the river; the two boatmen, seated at the extremities, keep it still in the current, and their master sets to work. He flourishes his line two or three times in the air, and then with an adroit turn of the rod, he throws the fly up the stream, as far away as possible, holds it on the surface of the water whilst it descends the stream, and then recommences, without growing tired of it, during four or five hours. Every morning I see seven or eight gentlemen devote themselves to this amusement. From time to time their fly catches a hat on its way, either their own or a boatman’s. This is about the only thing I ever saw them catch. When it happens, they pause an instant in order to enable the owner to recover his lost headgear, but this is the only incident which can trouble their Olympian serenity. These are the lucky ones of this world. They pay 200_l._ or 300_l._ per annum, and sometimes more, to obtain the right of enjoying this amusement. They alone can hope to capture a salmon, but allow others to gather up the crumbs from their table. On the bank one sees gentlemen of less importance, whom the others allow to fish for trout. This is the democracy of fly-fishing. Outside all questions of sentiment or prejudices, whichever you like, I do not pity them much, for they appear to me to catch a great deal more than the others. I am not the only one who contemplates all these beautiful scenes. I also meet on the river banks a good number of people who are taking their constitutionals--that walk for health’s sake which absorbs one-half of every good Englishman’s existence. The “constitutional” is still an institution of the country. I must say a few words about it.