The epis­tle to the read­er opens not with pride, but with gen­tle humil­i­ty. The author speaks plain­ly, stat­ing that his intent is not to impress but to share. He notes that the book was writ­ten to please oth­ers more than him­self, prompt­ed by kind encour­age­ment rather than ambi­tion. If it fails to enter­tain, he only asks that it be for­giv­en, not judged too harsh­ly. There’s a qui­et grace in that appeal, one that soft­ens the expec­ta­tions of the audi­ence. He does­n’t boast of pol­ished rhetoric or deep lit­er­ary skill. Instead, he hopes the charm of his hon­est reflec­tions might offer some val­ue, espe­cial­ly to those who under­stand the leisure of angling. For read­ers dri­ven by harsh cri­tique or dis­tract­ed by busy­ness, he admits the book may not be for them.

Through­out this intro­duc­tion, the author care­ful­ly man­ages the reader’s expec­ta­tions. He weaves in mild humor and cheer, not to be flip­pant, but to cap­ture the spir­it of his angling days. These were light-heart­ed times, spent with friends who are now absent, and their mem­o­ry col­ors his tone. The pages, then, are not just instructions—they are rec­ol­lec­tions. Each cast of the line car­ries a sto­ry, each fish drawn a reminder of shared laugh­ter. He gen­tly sug­gests that even if the prose fails to please, the illustrations—carefully prepared—might still catch the eye. There is pride in their detail, and he hopes they speak to the effort poured into the project. More than that, they reflect his respect for the nat­ur­al world, espe­cial­ly the crea­tures that have long brought joy to those with the patience to seek them.

Antic­i­pat­ing skep­ti­cism, he open­ly address­es those who might dis­agree with his accounts of fish habits or breed­ing sea­sons. He reminds read­ers that rivers vary, and with them, the behav­ior of fish. What is true in one coun­ty might not hold in anoth­er, and so dif­fer­ences should be met with curios­i­ty, not crit­i­cism. He also admits the chal­lenge of teach­ing angling through the writ­ten word. It is a skill not eas­i­ly con­fined to pages, more felt than explained, learned by doing rather than read­ing. Like arith­metic or music, angling has lay­ers of com­plex­i­ty. He can­not promise to cov­er them all, but he offers his obser­va­tions with sin­cer­i­ty. His aim is not to instruct as a mas­ter, but to share as a friend—one who has spent time by the water and hopes oth­ers will too.

He dis­miss­es the idea of lit­er­ary fame or finan­cial reward, clar­i­fy­ing that the book was nev­er meant as a com­mer­cial suc­cess. Its true val­ue lies in con­nec­tion: the gen­tle wis­dom passed between anglers, the peace found in qui­et moments out­doors. He invites read­ers not to see the text as a lec­ture, but as a leisure­ly stroll beside the riv­er. Along the way, they may pause, reflect, and per­haps laugh at the sto­ries and thoughts scat­tered through­out. It’s a com­pan­ion piece, not a manual—its pur­pose to warm the heart more than sharp­en the skill. If that warmth is felt, the author’s goal has been met. His words become more than ink; they become a shared expe­ri­ence between writer and read­er.

Though mod­est in deliv­ery, the epis­tle sub­tly defends the dig­ni­ty of angling itself. It is not a friv­o­lous pur­suit, he implies, but one that fos­ters patience, obser­va­tion, and appre­ci­a­tion for life’s small details. It draws the mind away from anx­i­ety, teach­ing focus with­out force, offer­ing joy with­out extrav­a­gance. In this light, angling becomes more than a hob­by. It becomes a kind of philosophy—a way of liv­ing calm­ly and atten­tive­ly. The author does not preach this direct­ly, but the mes­sage is there, gen­tly thread­ed through his humil­i­ty. He hopes that even a sin­gle read­er may be remind­ed to find mean­ing in sim­ple joys. Such a response would mean more to him than any for­mal praise.

The clos­ing lines car­ry a soft but res­o­nant wish. He does not beg to be liked, nor does he expect applause. Instead, he express­es hope that read­ers will step into the pages with the same open­ness he had in writ­ing them. If they smile, reflect, or feel soothed, the book has done its part. And per­haps, long after the final page is turned, the gen­tle rhythm of angling—and the qui­et joy of thought­ful companionship—will remain with them. That, more than any­thing, is the gift he offers.