THE
RIVER DOVE
WITH SOME QUIET THOUGHTS ON THE HAPPY PRACTICE OF ANGLING
[Illustration: Black-and-white woodcut showing a dolphin wrapped around
a vertical anchor shaft, with the Latin words ‘Aldi,’ ‘Discip.,’ and
‘Anglvs’ arranged around the image.]
LONDON
WILLIAM PICKERING
1847
Ἐρασμίν ΠἝΛΕΙΑ,
Πόθεν πόθεν μέτασσαι;
Πόθεν μύρων τοσούτων
Πνέεις τε καὶ ψεκάζεις;
Anacreon, Ode IX.
[Illustration]
TO THE READER.
_Sir_,
_The book I here present to you was put into the Printer’s hands for the
entertainment of a few Gentlemen Fishers; and I hope you take a pleasure
in the harmless recreation of Angling, otherwise I may not hope you will
overlook its defects. I heartily wish it were a more worthy tribute to
the memory of those best masters of our art_, Mr. Izaak Walton, and Mr.
Charles Cotton:
‘ALAS, THAT THEY ARE DEAD!’
_But I beseech you to be civil, and moderate in your censures; for I
undertook those pleasant walks, to which I here invite you, by the banks
of the_ DOVE (_now ten years are past_) _to unbend my mind from some
serious cares. And that I may not detain you from the perusal, I have
only this further to desire,—that we may all have a south wind when we
go a-fishing,—and be blest with a virtuous cheerful spirit, a peaceful
conscience, and at last eternal rejoicings in the kingdom of angels._
_Your loving friend
and humble servant,_
_J. L. A._
_From my House at ——
Festival of St._ Peter, 1687.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. A Meeting at Derby, between an Angler and a Painter.
CHAPTER II. A Conference at Supper between the Angler, the Painter,
and the Host.
CHAPTER III. The Host conducts the Angler and Painter to Beresford
Hall and Mr. Cotton’s Fishing House on the River Dove.
CHAPTER IV. The Angler and the Painter take a pleasant walk to the
source of the Dove.
CHAPTER V. The return of the Angler and Painter to Ashbourne,
through Dove Dale.
[Illustration]
THE RIVER DOVE;
WITH SOME QUIET THOUGHTS ON THE HAPPY PRACTICE OF ANGLING.
CHAPTER I.
_A Meeting at_ Derby, _between an_ Angler _and a_ Painter.
_Painter._
Welcome, Mr. Gentleman Angler: welcome to Derby.
_Angler._ Good morrow, brother, I am glad to see you look so cheering
and courteous; for I must confess I am later than our fix’t appointment.
_Painter._ Sir, now I possess you, I’m too glad-hearted to chide your
lagging: yet, to say the truth, I expected you this hour agone; for
methought your sprightful anglers were apt to prevent the sun’s rising
on a delicate May morning.
_Angler._ Give me your pardon this turn, and doubt not to find me
stirring with the lark every day that you and I purpose to walk in each
other’s company by the banks of the Dove.
_Painter._ My pardon you shall have the more willingly, if you fail not
a traveller’s good stomach for breakfast.
_Angler._ You may trust me. I am as keenly set as a moss trooper.
_Painter._ I am glad to hear it, for I have told the civil hostess to
treat us well.
_Angler._ You are worthy to be a brother of the angle; and this I am
resolved you shall be when we are come to the river that I love so
well:—but let us see what we may have for our breakfast, and fall to it
merrily.
_Painter._ Here it is, and all of the best; so let us say grace, and
begin.
_Angler._ With all my heart;—and that will give it a relish.
_Painter._ How now, brave Sir! What say you?
_Angler._ By pick and pie ’tis all excellent. When I am Lord Great
Chamberlain you shall be my caterer. Come, Sir, for a glass of ale; my
service to you. Now I envy not the daintiest court gallants in the land,
that are asleep on their beds of down.
_Painter._ I am amazed how some sluggards will lie a-bed almost till
dinner time.
_Angler._ They know none of the ingenuous delights of fishermen. So let
us bless God, that we have not only a mind to rise with the sun, but the
power to it, for that is still better. And, as plain-hearted Mr. Walton
says, ‘that our present happiness may appear to be greater, and we the
more thankful for it, I will beg you to consider with me, how many do,
even at this very time, lie under the torment of the stone, the gout,
and the tooth ache, and this we are free from; and every misery that I
miss is a new mercy.’
_Painter._ And how many are now languishing in the sad captivity of
dungeons, ‘feeding on bread of affliction, and water of
affliction.’——But, come; tell me how it has fared with you, since we
parted from each other’s company, now two days agone, when you resolved
to entertain yourself with some hours fishing in the lower parts of the
River Dove, near to the town of Uttoxeter.
_Angler._ That I will relate to you by and by, as we journey towards
Ashbourne; and because the morning wears apace, let us take another cup
of barley wine and be gone; for we have some hours, and many more miles,
on this side Alstonfields, where you and I must lodge to-night.
_Painter._ It is well thought; so Mistress Hostess here is payment for
your choice breakfast, and thanks for your civility, and so we wish you
good morrow.——And now, brother, seeing we are past Derby Bridge, and are
come out of the town, look forth on the freshness of the landscape, and
the dewdrops that hang on every blade and bush, sparkling in the beams
of the sun.
_Angler._ What happy thoughts possess a man’s mind when he breathes the
air of the morning, and contemplates the bounties of nature!
_Painter._ Aye; then the heart is full of unspeakable thoughts that soar
upward from earth to heaven, and so higher still on the spiritual wings
of reverential love unto HIM, who is above this vault so beautiful, so
vast, and is the Creator and Sustainer of all.
_Angler._ And listen to the very song-birds chirping their untaught
morning harmony to God, who ‘_causeth the day-spring from on high to
know his place_.’
_Painter._ This simple feathered choir teaches mankind to be cheerful,
and to sing joyful psalms, and to make melody in their heart to the
Lord: nay, what can be pleasanter than to do this, ‘_when the very
morning stars sing together_.’ And what says even the learned heathen,
Epictetus?[1]—‘If we have any wisdom, what is more becoming in public
and in private, than to sing hymns to the Deity? If I were a
nightingale, I should do as the nightingales do—if a swan, as the swans;
but because I am a reasonable creature, I must the rather praise God. So
I will never leave that practice myself, and I do exhort all others to
it.’—And now give me leave to put you in mind to tell me something of
your lonely walks round about Uttoxeter, that we may beguile the way
with cheerful conversation between this and Ashbourne.
_Angler._ That I shall willingly do: and first, you are to know, I
passed by the great forest of Needwood, that has some of the pleasantest
chases and parks in all England, and is so full of marvellous big oaks
and fat bucks; then, after Needwood I came to Tutbury.
_Painter._ Indeed!
‘The battle was fought near Titbury town,
‘When the bagpipes baited the bull?’[2]
_Angler._ Come, Sir, if you have that choice ballad by memory, pr’ythee
let us hear it.
‘Kind gentlemen, will ye be patient awhile?
‘Aye, and then you shall hear anon,
‘A very good ballad of bold Robin Hood,
‘And of his man, brave little John.’
_Painter._ Some parts I could repeat; but rather let me hear of your
walk from Tutbury: and pr’ythee when thou wast thereabouts, didst
‘=demaunde one bacon flyke, hanging in the Halle of the Lord of
Whichenovre?=’[3]
_Angler._ Nay—do you take me for a Benedick? Let the flyke be claimed by
the wondrous wight that ‘=would not chaunge his wife for none other,
farer ne fowler, rycher ne pourer of alle the wymen of the worlde=.’
_Painter._ And how is his highness, the ‘king of the minstrels?’[4]
_Angler._ Gone to his rest, with brave John of Gaunt, and the Prior of
Tutbury. Alas! since the roundheads once kept watch and ward in Tutbury
Castle, the merry minstrelsy is hushed in the hall. But now you may
consider me to be arrived in the town of Uttoxeter, full of composed
thoughts, and there I found a tidy house of refreshment, and put myself
to bed betimes, that I might be away before the day dawn; and so I was,
and let me tell you my first waking thoughts, after remembering my
prayers, were of the River Dove, and my happy practice of angling.
_Painter._ That indeed was natural, and I make bold to think you caught
some brace of trouts before breakfast?
_Angler._ Not so, brother; for you are to note every angler must needs
be blest with a hopeful and patient disposition, since he may sometimes
look to come home as he went forth, that is to say, with an empty
pannier—
_Painter._ As the reward of his patience! Well, patience is an herb,
they say, makes a ‘good boiled sallad:’ why, Sir, an angler need to be
‘Patience on a monument,’ that he may sit silently by the river, and
look down at nothing but his float.
_Angler._ Well! I give you leave to censure, since you know none of
those sweet pleasures that attend on angling: and I remit you to Mr.
Izaak Walton, ‘that dear lover and frequent practicer of my art,’ for
many clear reasons and examples to prove that it may be esteemed one of
the most honest and commendable recreations a gentleman can practise.
_Painter._ A hopeful entertainment, truly! Nevertheless, I cannot but
smile at your dumpish anglers that wait so meekly for their fortunes, as
to seem fixed with all the gravity of sculptured images on the margin of
their streams.
_Angler._ So, so! good brother, you may smile and wonder too; nay, I
will laugh with you, and after that will not be ashamed to confess how I
am possessed with a constant love of my gentle craft. But for the
present let me bring your thoughts towards the Dove, near to Uttoxeter.
_Painter._ Aye, let us hear more of that; then you made some
contemplative trial of the trouts?
_Angler._ But it was all in vain; for the wind was contrary, and they
took no liking to my flies, and so I missed my sport: but I hope for
better acceptance the next time I go a-courting that way.
_Painter._ Then I beseech you, gentle Mr. Angler, how did you pass the
hours, since the trouts, out of their coyness, declined from your
acquaintance? If I might conjecture, you straightway fell into a
consideration of Master Izaak Walton’s praise of fishes and fishing.
_Angler._ And if I did? Give me leave to tell you, he hath set forth the
delights of this recreation with such refined and ingenuous arguments,
as to persuade many a man to become a fisher, who was before very averse
to it. Nay, I shall hope to make you put on new thoughts of angling
before we part company; for, of all men, limners have most cause to love
my art, seeing they may recline by the side of a lake or river, and
leave their angle rods ‘to fish for themselves,’ and this Mr. Walton
declares, and truly, to be ‘like putting money to use; for then these
angle rods work for the owners when they do nothing but sleep, or eat,
or rejoice’—
_Painter._ Or paint pictures!
_Angler._ Even so: and I may declare to you I have seen such pleasant
prospects of woodlands, and rivers, and streams, that have flowed along
the valleys and through many a mead in England, when I have been
a-fishing, as the best limner might desire to look at; and yet not be
able to imitate with all his daintiness of hand. And some of these I
made a discovery of, within a little mile or two round Uttoxeter, by the
banks of the Dove; for seeing I was not like to fish to profit, I
considered within myself what I should do; and after a while I resolved
to examine into those parts of the river, and so be admitted into a more
familiar acquaintance with its landskips.
_Painter._ Well thought; and I declare to you I am ready to esteem it my
loss that I was not in your company.
_Angler._ There are many parts thereabouts would have touched you
mightily: for nature, that is so excellent an artificer, hath contrived
her works on either side the river with a most unimitable disposition
and skilfulness. And you are to note, the river I speak of is the Dove;
‘Whose dainty grasse,
‘That grows upon her banks, all other doth surpasse,’
as old Michael Drayton[5] declares: and thereabouts I found the Churnet,
that gives her the contribution of its streams, and is contented to
receive nothing from her in exchange but her speckled trouts,—and this
for the sweet satisfaction of an attendance upon her, till her espousals
with the Trent below Eggington. Then I may not omit to mention that
pleasant river the Blythe, whose fountains spring up near to the
‘ancient castel’ of Caverswall, gathering strength as she flows along by
the Earl of Derby’s great park and Castle of Chartley, and then
‘Bears easey down tow’rds her deere soveraign Trent.’
_Painter._ Blythe! the very name is full of promise; and I doubt not her
banks are lined with prospects of mountains and vales.
_Angler._ All variegated with moorlands and woodlands;—such alluring
scenes for an angler or a painter, and so decked by nature’s hand as to
be little spots of enchantment, which caused me a double sorrow that you
were not my fellow traveller: and I resolved I would some time or other
see those landskips again, if it should please God to let me live long
enough, and give me the diversion of some leisurable days.
_Painter._ Your commendations of the Dove inflame my desires to make
acquaintance with her streams; and I rejoice that I am now like to do
this in your company; and I beseech you tell me something more of the
Churnet, that joins itself thereabouts to the Dove.
_Angler._ That would I willingly, if time might serve; but we are come
within sight of Brailsford.
_Painter._ Then make me this promise, that we may beguile some future
hours together by those lower passages of the Dove, and see where she
discharges herself into the Trent.
_Angler._ Let that be a match between us; and I promise you nothing can
be pleasanter for an artist than the lights and shadows of their
umbrageous banks, and the pastures, and lowing herds by the river, and
the native cascades and rocks, and the peaceful villages with antient
churches, that lend their aid to the composure of those retired
prospects.
_Painter._ How did you call this pleasant looking place we are come to?
_Angler._ Now you are arrived at Brailsford; and there is the Saracen’s
Head, that is kept by honest John Bembridge; this way, so please you;
and look, here is a well of water, called St. Bernard’s Well, so like to
chrystal, that almost a blind beggar may see the pebble stones at the
bottom.
_Painter._ It is surprisingly clear.
_Angler._ Then, I beseech you, take your pencil, and give me a design,
in remembrance of this pleasant walk we have undertaken together.
_Painter._ I cannot deny any request of yours, for I have left my home
for no other end than the satisfaction of your company and civil
discourse, and to give you in return all the contentment that my poor
art is capable of.
_Angler._ Why that’s heartily and kindly spoken; and I will be so bold
to promise you some entertainment on our journey; for, look you, here is
the newest impression of Mr. Walton’s COMPLETE ANGLER, and here is _Part
the Second_, that is lately printed for a companion to it.
_Painter._ Indeed! another volume from the fertile pen of Mr. Izaak
Walton! what more that is new can he have to say on Angling?
_Angler._ Stay a while; for this is a Treatise of Fly Fishing, ‘_being
Instructions how to angle for a Trout or Grayling in a clear Stream_,’
writ by Mr. Charles Cotton, of Beresford Hall, his adopted son; so they
are printed together in testimony of their mutual affection. It is a
cheerful dialogue between _Piscator Junior_, that is, Mr. Charles Cotton
himself, and _Viator_, who was a gentleman-traveller he overtook on
horseback, between Derby and Ashbourne, half a mile from this place. And
if these two treatises together do not kindle in your mind a love for
the art, I am certain you will at least gather from the perusal a
charitable disposition towards anglers.
_Painter._ It would be uncivil to deny Mr. Cotton’s merits before I have
read his treatise; and for Mr. Walton, I may confess he has a singular
vein of wit and affability, and some parts of his other works, that I
have dipped into, are writ with so happy a pen, and are so full of
judicious discourse, as testify to his modest disposition, and exact
diligence and discernment.
_Angler._ I’m glad you think so.
_Painter._ But surely it cannot be denied, that he hath sometimes spun a
long line for the readers of his discourse on fishing?
_Angler._ Yet are his lines spun with a curious magical contexture of
learning and wit, to allure his readers no less than to deceive all
kinds of fishes; for his book extremely abounds with innocent mirth, and
what is better than all, you may not deny that in every part he
discourses sweetly on the unseen world, and things after death.
_Painter._ There is not a doubt he hath a thankful and reverential
heart.
_Angler._ Aye, and is an orthodox christian, that loves our dear mother
THE CHURCH, her primitive orders of apostolic ministry and government,
her holy sacraments and her service book, which are even now a mark for
the butt-shafts of unquiet carking separatists, who dispute against the
laws both ecclesiastical and civil.
_Painter._ Oh! I am grieved to think how those censurers be so full of
their own whimsies, and unconformable to discipline, that if you spoke
to them with angels’ tongues they would not be persuaded to hold to the
Catholic Church in England, which learned Lord Bacon declares to be as
sound and orthodox in the doctrine thereof as any church in the world.
_Angler._ True,—and Mr. Walton is of the same opinion: and some of his
writings are choice pieces of christian philosophy; and a life of
innocency, and his modest peaceableness of mind have endeared him to
many of our most grave and pious prelates now living.
_Painter._ Nevertheless for his COMPLETE ANGLER it is pleasant to see
with what seriousness he dilates on the antiquity and other qualities of
his art. He is like Master Shakespeare’s dauphin in a panegyric on his
palfrey. ‘When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air;
the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more
musical than the pipe of Hermes—’
_Angler._ ‘No more, cousin,’ I beseech you.
_Painter._ ‘Nay, the man hath no wit, that cannot, from the rising of
the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey:
it is a theme as fluent as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent
tongues, and my horse is argument for them all: ’tis a subject for a
sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign’s sovereign to ride on, and
for the world to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at
him.’[6]
_Angler._ Ha—ha—ha! would my dear master were by to defend his poor
jennet.
_Painter._ Well, well; I would not deny him the privilege of riding
astride on his hobby horse, seeing how the greatest scholar of the last
age composed a panegyric on Folly, and made a dedication of it to Sir
Thomas More, that wise Chancellor of England.
_Angler._ Since I perceive how you are resolved to run at tilt against
poor, civil, honest anglers, I will forbear, and ‘_study to be quiet_,’
after the example of my master, who, if he has not the meekness of
Moses, (and that I will not declare,) yet is the meekest man I know of
in this disputing age.
_Painter._ Nay, brother, I did but jest: and doubtless Mr. Walton is a
man of primitive piety, for his lives of Dr. Donne, Sir Henry Wotton,
venerable Mr. Richard Hooker, and Mr. George Herbert, could only be
composed by one of like religious affections with those memorable men.
_Angler._ And call to mind that picture he has drawn of Dr. Donne’s last
sickness that ended in his death.
_Painter._ I remember the words, how he declares that good man was at
length ‘so happy as to have nothing to do but to die;’ and how ‘he lay
fifteen days earnestly expecting his hourly change, and in the last hour
of his last day, as his body melted away and vapoured into spirit, his
soul having, I verily believe, some revelation of the beatifical vision,
he said, “_I were miserable if I might not die_;” and how afterward,
being speechless, and seeing heaven by that illumination by which he saw
it, he did, as St. Stephen, look steadfastly into it, till he saw the
Son of Man standing at the right hand of God his Father, and being
satisfied with this blessed sight, his soul ascended, and his last
breath departed from him.’ For he was so rooted and grounded in
celestial love, he shook the king of terrors, and disarmed him of his
sting, and the dark grave was shorn of his victory.
_Angler._ True; for he had long had his blameless conversation in
heaven: he was a spiritual soldier that had quenched all the fiery darts
of the mysterious wicked one by the shield of faith, and now, like holy
Paul, he yearned to be released from things below, and to take part in
the invisible harmonious choirs in heavenly places. And what a natural
picture of primitive manners Mr. Walton hath drawn in his life of the
ever-memorable Mr. Hooker, who, when he was in his eighteenth year, and
as soon as he was perfectly recovered from a dangerous sickness at
Corpus Christi College in Oxford, took a journey to Exeter, to satisfy
and see his good mother, who in all that time of his sickness had ‘in
her hourly prayers as earnestly begged his life of God, as Monica, the
mother of St. Augustine, did, that he might become a true Christian.’
_Painter._ I have never read, or have forgot that journey of his.
_Angler._ Well then, I may tell you, he walked from Oxford unto Exeter,
‘with a companion of his own college, and both on foot; which was then
either more in fashion, or want of money, or their humility, made it so:
but on foot they went, and took Salisbury in their way, purposely to see
the good bishop’ (that was Bishop Jewel, his constant and dear patron
and the bestower of an annual pension for his comfortable subsistence;)
‘and the good bishop made Mr. Hooker and his companion dine with him at
his own table: and at his parting the bishop gave him good counsel and
his benediction, but forgot to give him money; which, when the bishop
had considered, he sent a servant in all haste to call Richard back to
him: and at Richard’s return, the bishop delivered into his hand a
walking-staff, with which he professed he had travelled through many
parts of Germany,’ and he called it ‘_his horse which had carried him
many a mile with much ease_.’ And he said, ‘Richard, _I do not give but
lend you my horse: be sure you be honest, and bring my horse back to me
at your return this way to Oxford. And I do now give ten groats to bear
your charges to Exeter: and here is ten groats more, which I charge you
to deliver to your mother, and tell her I send her a bishop’s
benediction with it, and beg the continuance of her prayers for me. And
if you bring my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more to
carry you on foot to the college; and so God bless you, good_ Richard.’
_Painter._ I may promise you I shall remember that pilgrimage on foot of
‘good Richard,’ to his poor mother’s house at Exeter, and the bishop’s
walking-staff and his blessing, and his so nigh-forgotten groats.
_Angler._ And so in Mr. Walton’s COMPLETE ANGLER you will find many
passages that exhibit his own serenity of mind, and such touches of
rural life as will requite you for the pains of reading: but now let me
see the picture you have drawn of Brailsford Well.
_Painter._ Here it is.
_Angler._ I declare ’tis simply and clearly designed.
_Painter._ I perceive you are resolved to be gentle with my first
essaye; but I am glad it contents you, and now let us be going.
_Angler._ With all my heart.
_Painter._ How now! here is a cheerful rivulet, that I see running from
the meadows into the road.
_Angler._ This is Brailsford Brook, and look you, here is a bridge.
_Painter._ And yonder is a handsome church and tower. I must, with your
leave, step into these meadows and draw the landskip.
_Angler._ Aye, I beseech you; for here is the spot of ground where the
pleasant conference began between Mr. Charles Cotton and his new friend,
that he accosted on the road as they were both going to Ashbourne.
‘_You are happily overtaken, Sir_,’ said he; ‘_may a man be so bold as
to inquire how far you travel this way?_’
_Painter._ They were strangers, then?
_Angler._ Nevertheless they so affected one another, after that
salutation and other pleasant discourse, as not to part company till
they had enjoyed some days’ innocent recreation a-fishing at Beresford
Hall. Nay more, Viator declared, on the second day, that he was ‘_so far
in love with_ Piscator _and his country, and pretty moorland seat, as to
resolve to stay with him long enough, by intervals, to hear all he had
to say of his art_.’
_Painter._ And pr’ythee, how did Mr. Cotton reply to this familiar
declaration?
_Angler._ How did he reply! with all the politeness of an angler;—‘_Sir,
you cannot oblige me more than by such a promise._’
_Painter._ Well said! Then here they made their first acquaintance?
_Angler._ And here is one of those little sparkling brooks that you
shall meet every where in this country; nay, Mr. Cotton declares, ‘_they
are full of trouts, and some of them the best (it is said) by many
degrees in England_.’
_Painter._ Trouts! and in so mean a stream as this?
_Angler._ But I do not say they shall be all big trouts; for, as Mr.
Walton hath it, ‘some rivers, by reason of the ground over which they
run, breed larger trouts, like as some pastures breed larger sheep;’ and
some streams there are, not many times broader than Brailsford Brook,
that breed trouts three and four pounds in weight: but you may not think
to find the biggest trouts at all times the best meat. And he that
studies the nature and seasons of fishes may observe how sometimes the
trouts will change their haunts, and travel up a stream for many miles,
in their natural desire after the fresh waters; nay, to the very
fountain-head of some brook, and there wade among the clear sandy
shallows; indeed, I have seen trouts taken out of the dark springs that
rise in the caverns of the Great Peak underneath Castleton.
_Painter._ After what you say, I doubt not but Brailsford Brook may
breed good trouts; and I care not whence they come, so we have a brace
for supper.
_Angler._ That I promise you, and skilfully drest too:
‘For mark well, good brother, what now I doe say,
‘Sauce made of anchoves is an excellent way,
‘With oysters, and lemon, clove, nutmeg and mace,
‘When the brave spotted trout hath been boyled apace,
‘With many sweet herbs.’
And this was the fashion of an experienced angler, that hath discovered
‘_many rare secrets, very necessary to be known by all that delight in
the recreation both of catching the fish, and dressing thereof_.’[7]
_Painter._ Aye, aye; your meditative fishers have always some singular
discoveries to enhance the practice of their art. I remember one honest
gentleman,[8] of a most fertile wit, called angling the ‘_Pleasure of
Princes, or Goodmen’s Recreation_.’
_Angler._ In that he did no more than was both reasonable and true.
_Painter._ And the same notable gentleman unravelled this mystery, ‘that
the angler’s apparell should by no means be garish, light coloured, or
shining, for whatsoever hath a glittering hue reflecteth upon the water,
and immediately it affrighteth the fish.’
_Angler._ And this, before you and I have done walking, you may prove to
your cost, with your gaysome doublet and jerkin.
_Painter._ So, Master Piscator, ‘let your apparell be plaine and comely,
of darke colour, as russett, tawney, or such like, close to your body,
without any new fashioned slashes or hanging sleeves waving loose like
sayles about you.’[9]
_Angler._ Well, well; in every art ’tis good to have a master; and that
this is one of our ‘_Secrets_,’ these verses of a happy angler may
declare:
‘And let your garments russet be or gray,
‘Of colour darke and hardest to descry,
‘That with the raine or weather will away,
‘And least offend the fearful fishes’ eye.
‘For neither scarlet, nor rich cloth of ray,
‘Nor colours dipt of fresh Assyrean dye,
‘Nor tender silkes of purple, paule of gold,
‘Will serve so well to keepe off wet or cold.’[10]
And pr’ythee look to your own tooles; for you will do well, if you have
one of honest Gervase Markham’s _Twelve Virtues of an Angler_—to wit: ‘A
knowledge in proportions of all sorts, to give a geographical
description of the angles and channels of rivers, how they fall from
their heads, and what compasses they fetch in their several
windings.’[11]
_Painter._ You shall see—you shall see—but I am ready to attend you, for
I have drawn this careless picture; and so let us towards
Ashbourne.——Why, how is this? We are scarce two miles from Brailsford,
and here we have another rivulet rustling through the grass.
_Angler._ This brook before us, at the foot of yon sandy hill, has been
noticed by Mr. Cotton to have ‘_scarce any name amongst us, and to be
too woody for the recreation of fishing_.’
_Painter._ That I may easily believe, for it seems but a narrow thread
of water, winding along the meadows, and almost hid beneath those ash
trees.
_Angler._ Yet, you may take a store of trouts in this nameless rivulet
by Longford Mill, which is not far from where we stand; and I have the
undoubted authority of Mr. John Davors to say, ‘the trout makes the
angler most gentlemanlie and readiest sport of all other fishes.’[12]
But look before you, for we are now come to the top of Spittle Hill,
over against Ashbourne.
_Painter._ Indeed! and there the town lies in a bottom; and I declare—a
goodly church! and beyond it, on the other side, I see some stately
mountains, and one that lifts his top as high as the clouds.
_Angler._ And therefore called Thorpe Cloud; and you are to note the
Dove winds round the base, through her rugged channel of rocks. Would I
were there! But I am so bold as to request a sketch of this chequered
prospect before us from your lively pencil.
_Painter._ It shall be done; for it is, indeed, a fine and spacious
landskip; and I shall be happy if my poor drawings can give you
satisfaction.
_Angler._ They do, indeed; so I pray you begin, and forget not yonder
hills that are behind the town, for we may hope ‘to stretch our legs up’
some of them by and by. But how will you draw the natural perspective of
the road, which now drops with so great a steepness from before us?
_Painter._ Thus it is—here _Viator_ and _Piscator_ discourse together.
You may see them in outline, both on horseback, and there is the fall in
the ground.
_Angler._ It is ingeniously contrived!—But I must tell you Mr. Cotton
travelled with his serving man—therefore, so please you, let us have a
third rider that should follow behind the other two, for they were all
mounted on horseback.—So! that is admirable; and I can now see before me
the polite angler that allured his companion to visit his ‘_pretty
moorland seat_’ in Staffordshire. Oh, how the hours do lag ere we come
to that ‘_marvellous pretty place_.’
_Painter._ Was that the Beresford Hall you spoke of?
_Angler._ The same: but if you desire to know how they conversed
together as they arrived at Spittle Hill, I will read it to you in Mr.
Cotton’s own words, whiles you are to finish the landskip.
_Painter._ I am ready to hear it, and what is more, to take a pleasure
in listening.
_Angler._ Well, you may note _Piscator_ was so pleased with his
companion, that he had earnestly and honestly invited him to his house,
and promised he would be extremely welcome; then _Viator_ felt a
surprise, ‘_with so friendly an invitation upon so short acquaintance_,’
and said ‘_he could not in modesty accept his offer, and must therefore
beg his pardon_;’ but Mr. Cotton would not be denied; and at length, as
they drew near to Spittle Hill, where you and I at this moment stand, he
repeated his invitation, and said, ‘_Now, Sir, if I am not mistaken, I
have half overcome you; and that I may wholly conquer that modesty of
your’s, I will take upon me to be so familiar as to say, you must accept
my invitation, which that you may be the more easily persuaded to do, I
will tell you, that my house stands upon the margin of one of the finest
rivers for trout and grayling in England_,’ (which you are to observe
was the Dove,) ‘_and that I have lately built a little fishing-house
upon it, dedicated to anglers, over the door of which you will see the
two first letters of my father Walton’s name and mine twisted in cypher;
that you shall lie in the same bed he has sometimes been contented with,
and have such country entertainment as my friends sometimes accept, and
be welcome, too, as the best of them all._’
_Painter._ Mr. Cotton has a cheerful natural way with him; and what a
delight he takes in his river Dove above all others, and his little
fishing-house upon the margin.
_Angler._ As witness these verses he addressed to his adopted father,
Mr. Izaak Walton:
‘Such streams, Rome’s yellow Tiber cannot show,
‘The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po;
‘The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine
‘Are puddle water all, compared with thine:
‘And Loire’s pure streams yet too polluted are
‘With thine much purer to compare:
‘The rapid Garonne, and the winding Seine,
‘Are both too mean,
‘Beloved Dove, with thee
‘To vie priority;
‘Nay, Thame and Isis when conjoin’d, submit,
‘And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.’[13]
And we shall find it as pleasant as he has represented it. And all this
benevolence between _Piscator_ and _Viator_ was, because they both
affected the person of Mr. Izaak Walton and his art of angling.
_Painter._ How love will temper the spirits of men! Surely it is a spark
of the divine mind,—a secret charm implanted in our nature to mould us
to the image of the Highest.—But how came it to pass that _Viator_
participated in Mr. Cotton’s happy disinterested friendship for Mr.
Walton?
_Angler._ It is most certain he did; for when they discoursed on
fishing, and accidental mention was made of Mr. Walton’s Complete
Angler, _Piscator_ asked, ‘_what is your opinion of that book?_’ to
which Mr. Cotton replied, ‘_my opinion of Mr. Walton’s book is the same
with every man’s that understands any thing of the art of angling, that
it is an excellent good one_;’ and he then added, ‘_but I must tell you
further, that I have the happiness to know his person, and to be
intimately acquainted with him, and in him to know the worthiest man,
and to enjoy the best and the truest friend any man ever had; nay, I
shall yet acquaint you that he gives me leave to call him father, and I
hope is not yet ashamed to own me for his Adopted Son_.’ Whereupon
_Viator_ replied, ‘_In earnest, Sir! I am ravished to meet with a friend
of Mr. Izaak Walton’s, and one that does him so much right in a good and
true character, for I must boast to you that I have the good fortune to
know him too, and came acquainted with him in the same manner I do with
you; that he was my master who first taught me to love angling, and thus
to become an angler; and to be plain with you, I am the very man
decyphered in his book under the name of_ Venator.’
_Painter._ Excellent! that was a pleasant surprise to him!
_Angler._ ‘_For_,’ (he continues) ‘_I was wholly addicted to the chase,
until he taught me as good—a more quiet, innocent, and less dangerous
diversion._’ And this also Mr. Roger Jackson declares, who undertook the
printing of the SECRETS OF ANGLING, ‘out of a virtuous desire to give
his countrie satisfaction;’ for he declared, in his dedication of that
book to his much respected friend Mr. John Harborne, of Tackley, in the
county of Oxford, Esquire, that, ‘the art of angling is much more worthy
practice and approbation than hunting and hawking; for it is a sport
every way as pleasant, less chargeable, more profitable, and nothing so
much subject to choller and impatience as those are.’ And now listen to
the answer of _Piscator_, for he said, ‘_Sir, I think myself happy in
your acquaintance, and before we part, shall entreat leave to embrace
you. You have said enough to recommend you to my best opinion, for my
father Walton will be seen twice in no man’s company he does not like;
and likes none but such as he believes to be very honest men._’ Thus you
may note how the declaration of _Viator_, that he was acquainted with
Mr. Walton, touched a chord which vibrated to the other’s affections,
and harmonized their spirits to a most innocent friendship.
_Painter._ What an engaging encounter of the two strangers, who thus
discovered to each other their affection for pious and peaceable Mr.
Walton! With what a grace doth holiness encircle him that wears it!
surely ’tis a crown without thorns or cares, decked with spiritual
jewels. I declare to you, I am moved to a better acquaintance with all
three: notwithstanding I have always looked upon angling to be a
solitary recreation, not worthy so much as our vacant hours.
_Angler._ I hope before we part company you will be undeceived, and
learn how we anglers can recreate our spirits, when the sun rises over
the hills; and this I promise in reward for your sudden resolve to come
on your travels with me, only to the intent that by your art and
sociable conversation you might give me pleasure.
_Painter._ I now thank you heartily, because you moved me to this
journey; nay more, if I might believe my present thoughts, I shall be
surprised into a desire to try and angle in the river Dove, that you
take so great a delight in.
_Angler._ That were strange indeed,—to see your leisure divided between
the pencil and the angle rod!—yet if I could once inveigle you to the
practice of our harmless sport, so full of hopes and composure, you
would soon confess to its excellency, and say with the unknown poet,[14]
‘Oh let me rather on the pleasant brink
‘Of Tyne and Trent possess some dwelling place,
‘Where I may see my quill and cork down sink
‘With eager bite of barbel, bleik, or dace.
‘Let other men their pastimes, then, pursue,
‘And on their pleasing fancies feed their fill:
‘So I the fields and meadows green may view,
‘And by the rivers fresh may walk at will,
‘Among the daisies and the violets blue,
‘Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil,
‘Purple narcissus like the morning rays,
‘Pale ganderglass and azure culverkayes.
‘The lofty woods; the forests wide and long,
‘Adorn’d with leaves and branches fresh and green,
‘In whose cool bow’rs the birds with chaunting song
‘Do welcome with their quire the summer’s queen,
‘The meadows fair, where Flora’s gifts among
‘Are intermix’d the verdant grass between.
‘The silver scaled fish that softly swim
‘Within the brooks and crystal wat’ry brim.
‘All these and many more of His creation
‘That made the heavens, the angler oft doth see,
‘And takes therein no little delectation
‘To think how strange and wonderful they be.’
_Painter._ Why, Sir, your faithful memory is like a casket, well stored
with curious gems, that you unlock at will to embellish your discourse
withal: and now here is my picture of Spittle Hill.
_Angler._ It is an obvious copy of nature, and a sweet view over
Ashbourne.
_Painter._ The brow of such a hill gives the advantage of a large
prospect.
_Angler._ And now, if you please, we may follow the steps of these
gentlemen riders, and descend into Ashbourne.—See, we are come to the
town, and here is the River Henmore, that runs under this stone bridge;
and this is the way to the market-place.
_Painter._ What is there? methinks I see an ivy bush; and the sign of an
inn.
_Angler._ That is the Talbot, and a very decent hostelry; so let us
‘_drink a glass of barley wine at the Talbot, and away_,’ after the
example of Mr. Cotton and his new friend.
_Painter._ With all my heart. Was this Mr. Cotton’s Inn?
_Angler._ Aye, truly. What, oh! good man, will you please to bring us a
cup of ale?
_Painter._ Come, brother, here’s to Mr. Walton, and his adopted son, Mr.
Charles Cotton?
_Angler._ I thank you for that pledge; and here is my loving service to
you.
_Painter._ And now let us be gone; for since we are come into this
valley, I am all impatience to find your River Dove, which, methinks,
should be hereabouts.
_Angler._ Not so fast, Sir; we must climb that steep hill on the other
side of the town; and after that we have some hours before we shall see
the most pleasant river in England.
_Painter._ How! methought Ashbourne was close upon the margin of the
Dove!
_Angler._ It is but a furlong or two off; nevertheless we have to make a
circuit before we come to that most delightful of rivers; for trust me
the road to Beresford Hall is over ‘_an odd country_.’
_Painter._ It was but now you promised I should see ‘such alluring
scenes, decked by Nature’s hand as to be little spots of enchantment;’
and now you tell me I must be satisfied to see an odd country!
_Angler._ Nay, good brother; remember how you are to exercise the
meekness and patience of an angler; and you shall confess, when you see
my Dove, that it ‘_covers the faults of the road_;’ and so let me
persuade you to breast the hill.
_Painter._ Well, Sir, lead on; and I shall endeavour to be even with
you.—Heigho! at last we are clambered up.
_Angler._ It was done with a gamesome spirit, worthy of an angler.
_Painter._ But it has made me pant: and here’s a shady ash tree, so let
us rest awhile, that I may recover myself.
_Angler._ With all my heart; and stretch our limbs on this green bank:
and I may tell you, this pretty spot is Sandy Brook.——And now, if you
are rested, let us not loiter, but hither away to the left, down by this
green lane.
_Painter._ I am with you; but what have we here? another swift bubbling
stream, that flows over a rocky bed, and is scarce a foot deep.
_Angler._ ’Tis Bentley Brook, that whirls hastily along to meet her
playmate, the Dove.
_Painter._ And, by my word, a very pretty rivulet it is.
_Angler._ I have Mr. Cotton’s authority to say, ‘_it is full of good
trouts and graylings, but so encumbered with wood in many places as is
troublesome to an angler_.’
_Painter._ Whereabouts does it rise?
_Angler._ That I cannot resolve you; but you are not to wonder if the
stream comes to us, as you now see it, like to transparent crystal: for
the flowering wells of Tissington empty themselves, with a constant
freshness, into Bentley Brook.
_Painter._ Those Tissington Wells, which are flowered on holydays by the
country folk?
_Angler._ The same; and of a singular clearness; nay, they are more
transparent than the silvery waters of famed Sabrina, where
‘The shepherds, at their festivals,
‘Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,
‘And throw sweet garland-wreaths into her stream,
‘Of pancies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils;’
and, indeed, I have sometimes seen on Holy Thursday such dainty devices
of flowers wrought by rustical artists at Tissington, in roses, and
violets, and marygolds, and lady-smocks, as I could not but admire how
it was all contrived; and for this the country folks and shepherds
scatter themselves, some days before, in busy cheerful companies, like
bees, over the hills and down the dales, to cull their stores of wild
flowers; and every one willingly robs his garden, for a contribution to
the bowers and arbours that overhang the wells: and there they weave
them into curious inventions of mottoes and scripture texts. And when
the happy holy morning breaks, they come together to church; and after
service they walk, with their loved and loving parson at their head, in
a procession round about their ornamental wells, with music and singing
of psalms: and so they pass the rest of the day in innocent mirth and
country sports. And I may tell you, the many-coloured flowers of Dove
Dale are offered for a tribute to this calendar festival.
_Painter._ You have made we wish and resolve to see this well-flowering,
come next Holy Thursday; and I shall love those sacred springs the
better, since they help to crystallize the waters of Bentley; for I have
not seen a more inviting brook.
_Angler._ I will not say we shall come to clearer streams; nevertheless,
I hope we may walk and angle by some others that are as good: but
thither she hurries on her way, rejoicing and being rejoiced; and I
warrant she will find the Dove before you and I may do so. But come,
here is another hill before us, hard by Thorpe Cloud; and I’ll requite
your patience by a vernal prospect. Follow me but a step to the left,
and now what say you?
_Painter._ Bless me, what an unusual landskip.
_Angler._ There before you are the mountains in Staffordshire over
against Ilam; and yonder the Dove, which glides far off through the
valley by Oakover Bridge,—and after that meanders as far as Mayfield.
There you may see hill and dale, and green pastures, with their
thronging flocks and herds. Now tell me, Sir, is not merry England a
place most fit for free-hearted gentlemen to live in? And he that makes
a journey throughout the different regions of our land shall meet a
thousand vales as pleasant as this we now see: nay, some I could name
are better, where you may look on all the diversity of golden corn
fields, and pastures, and vallies and hills, rivers and plains; and
round about many fine country mansion-houses, and bright steeples,
gleaming through village-woods; and in the cities high cathedrals and
collegiate churches, more venerable and sacred by reason of their daily
appointed services and chaunts.
_Painter._ But a man may travel some miles ere he shall light on a finer
champagne than this before us. It calls to my mind how the prophet, from
the top of Mount Pisgah, in the field of Zophim, lifted up his eyes, and
saw Israel abiding in his tents according to their tribes, and said,
‘_How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob! and thy tabernacles, O Israel! as
the valleys are they spread forth, as gardens by the river’s side, as
the trees of lign-aloes which the Lord hath planted, and as cedar-trees
beside the waters._’ Long may the people of Britain be holy and stedfast
in the church, and loyal to their king! then shall they resemble the
tribes of Israel, having, as it were, ‘_the strength of an unicorn; they
shall eat up the nations, their enemies, and shall break their bones,
and pierce them through with their arrows_.’ Then they shall ‘_couch,
they shall lie down like a lion, and as a great lion; who shall stir
them up_?’ Then ‘_blessed is he that blesseth thee, and cursed is he
that curseth thee_.’ But what have we here, that is like a huge conical
barrow? Let us climb to the top, that we may get a wider prospect of the
landskip.
_Angler._ The same Thorpe Cloud you saw so towering in the distance from
Spittle Hill; but he now appears under another aspect, and before you
could scale the height you must needs descend into a deep valley which
lies between us.
_Painter._ Say you so? I can scarce believe it; for the distance looks
to be less than a bow-shoot.
_Angler._ It is, nevertheless, true; and yonder, to the left, is Bunster
Hill, in Staffordshire, that is like the back of a gigantic elephant:
and between these two mountains flow the happy streams of the Dove; and
that to the right hand is Black Moor: we have but two miles hence, and
then our Dove.
_Painter._ If so, let us mend our pace; but tell me, is this the way Mr.
Cotton brought his friend?
_Angler._ The same; and all the while he entertained him with a
discourse of the trouty rivers of his county of Derby, as, namely, the
Dove, the Wye, the Derwent, and the great Trent, that wanders through
many rich towns and forests, until it loses its name and waters in the
sea.
_Painter._ And is all Mr. Charles Cotton’s treatise of fly-fishing in
the form of a dialogue?
_Angler._ Aye; and full of pertinent observations and exceeding
plausibleness.
_Painter._ Although I am willing to confess Mr. Walton’s Angler to be a
most persuasive book, because he knows how to qualify his discourse with
all kinds of graceful changes and descriptions; yet methinks Mr. Cotton
had no need to model his writings after the unusual example of a
dialogue.
_Angler._ By your leave, not so unusual; for have you forgot the many
patterns that almost every age hath produced, of treatises, both learned
and witty, in the form of colloquies? Let me bring to your mind that
most subtle and philosophic dialogue, the ‘Symposiac, or Banquet’ of
_Plato_, the most learned of the Grecians, wherein his master,
_Socrates_, is made to discourse with a wisdom that seemed to be a
scintillation of divine truth. And not only Plato’s ‘Banquet,’ but his
‘Alcibiades,’ and others, so full of invincible arguments in support of
virtue, as charmed the understanding of that age.
_Painter._ Well, if you will go back to ancient times, there are Tully’s
five days’ disputations at his retired Tusculan villa with Marcus
Brutus, where he persuades his hearers by the most notable arguments to
the contempt of death.
_Angler._ And what say you of that banquet of _Xenophon_, at the
Athenian festival of Minerva? for he gives us to understand how, after
the show was finished, as he walked out of the city, he fell in with
_Socrates_ and others, discoursing together, and invited them civilly to
supper; which they accepted, and went with him to his house at Piræus.
_Painter._ I remember; and there they entertained each other with
learned and profitable conversation.
_Angler._ But neither the philosophy of _Socrates_ and _Plato_, nor the
eloquence of _Tully_, could match with that exalted wisdom of the
apostolic fathers and doctors, who have delivered to the Church the most
clear interpretations of holy writ. And some of them unlocked the
boundless treasures of celestial truth, and pointed the way to heaven,
through the shadowings and darkness of error, by the medium of
colloquies. As Hermas (who was the friend of St. Paul, that great
apostle of the Gentiles) in his ‘Pastor or Shepherd.’
_Painter._ Have not some learned men of our times, and, indeed, of the
ancient fathers, questioned the authority of that book of Hermas?
_Angler._ I may not deny that the cautious judgments of some are yet
divided upon it: but Irenæus, Origen, and others, have pronounced it to
be ‘a very profitable book,’ and it was appointed to be read in many of
the earliest christian churches.
_Painter._ I believe it is true, that Hermas was the friend of St. Paul,
and is thought to have sealed his holy life by a glorious martyrdom.
_Angler._ And it is certain his book was composed in the form of a
dialogue: for he declares how, when he had prayed at home, and was sat
down upon the bed, an old man came to him in the habit of a shepherd,
clothed with a white cloak, having his bag upon his back, and his staff
in his hand, and saluted him; and thereupon they most lovingly conversed
together: for the shepherd instructed him what things he was to avoid,
and what good works to perform, that he might be saved.
_Painter._ And what followed?
_Angler._ Then Hermas, from time to time, questioned the holy shepherd
with a modest confidence, and asked an explanation of many sublime
points of our belief, that were then to him an incomprehensible mystery,
all which the accostable stranger revealed to him, speaking with
authority and wisdom: and so they continued to discourse, until the
pastor rose up and departed.[15]
Again I will put you in mind how, in a later age of the church, holy
Justin Martyr records a most learned and spiritual dialogue, which he
held at Ephesus with one Trypho, a Jew, wherein he sets forth his own
first blessed conversion to Christianity. For, having in vain sought
after the knowledge of the true God in the schools of the Stoics and
Peripatetics, and found them to be unsatisfying to the high desires of
his soul, he gave himself up to solitude and meditation: and, in one of
his retired walks on the sea-shore, meeting with an aged person of a
mild and reverend aspect, he entered into a conversation with him. Then
he told the stranger how fervent a zeal was kindled in his breast to
come to a perfect intelligence of the nature of God, and so fell to a
commendation of the study of philosophy. Whereupon the venerable Trypho
endeavoured to cure him of his ignorant admiration of _Plato_ and
_Pythagoras_, and exhorted him to an examination of the writings of the
Hebrew prophets, as being more ancient than any of those heathen
philosophers; and by his admonitions and clear arguments he opened to
him the joyful knowledge of the sacred mysteries of Christianity. Above
all things, he persuaded him to pray that the beams of heavenly light
might shine on his benighted soul; for that the truths of the Gospel
must be spiritually discerned through the power of God.
_Painter._ Did Justin continue his acquaintance with the stranger, whose
calm and meek way of discoursing had persuaded him to a better judgment
of divine things?
_Angler._ After that first meeting he never saw him again; but he was
stirred with a holy desire to attain a more familiar knowledge of the
prophets, and his wishes soared up on high; and at last he was convinced
that he had all along wandered in darkness, and that the Holy Scriptures
contained the only true philosophy.
_Painter._ All this brings to my recollection some other examples of
books composed after the form of conversations: as namely, Petrarch’s
imaginary dialogues between himself and Augustine, where the saint
endeavours to withdraw the poet from the willing thraldom of his love
for Laura, and to persuade him to the study of wisdom, as alone capable
to bestow true liberty: and, again, the facetious Colloquia of Erasmus,
so full of wit and biting satire; and the ‘Anatomie of Abuses whipped
and stripped,’ by the precise Mr. Stubbes, proceeding from his own
dogmatical whimsies.
_Angler._ Then, forget not the three books of colloquies, on the art of
shooting in great and small pieces of artillerie, written in Italian by
Nicholas Tartaglia.[16] And again, that royal dialogue of riding the
great horse, composed in the French tongue, by Monsieur Antoine
Pluvinel;[17] and I can declare it to be a most courteous, gentle, and
ingenious conversation between the young King Louis, the Duke of
Bellegarde, and Monsieur Antoine himself. With what a rare eloquence
does he commend and teach the art of making demivoltes, cabrioes, and
courbettes, with all the other graceful motions on horseback, most fit
for gentlemen of quality!
_Painter._ And his book is adorned with excellent copper cuts by Crispin
Pass, the ingenious engraver of those living effigies of the HERÖOLOGIA.
_Angler._ The same: but I forbear all further mention of dialogues,
except a little book I lately saw at the house of an ingenious and
modest friend, dwelling in Chancery-lane, in London, who is a constant
lover of Mr. Walton and his art of angling, and endeared to many of his
professed disciples; and hath been so exact and skilful a promoter of
letters, as to be called ALDI DISCIPULUS ANGLUS, as witness the sign of
the Dolphin and Anchor, engraved on the title of his imprinted books,
after the fashion of Aldus Manutius. And because he has a happy fortune
in the discovery of ancient books, you may find at his house a store of
all kinds. It was a few days before my last departure from London, I
made him a visit, when he conducted me into his parlour, to show me his
little cabinet of rarities: and there, after some cheerful conversation
on fishing, when I told him I purposed my summer travels to the Dove, he
presented me with a letter writ by Mr. Cotton to his ‘_dear and worthy
father_,’ Mr. Izaak Walton.
_Painter._ Indeed! and I dare believe you treasured it up with your many
other written epistles of noted men in your study at home.
_Angler._ Pardon me; I have made it my companion here in my wallet; and
some day I will indulge you with the reading of it, when you are worthy,
and put on better thoughts of anglers. But to return to the book I told
you of; it is an ancient discourse ‘_Of the Nature of_ GOD,’ which the
writer calls ‘a little treatise of a great argument.’
_Painter._ The argument was great indeed, and I beseech you proceed to
your account of it.
_Angler._ The work was writ by the learned, pious and painful Bishop of
Durham (Morton), who made Dr. Donne the offer of his own benefice, if he
would be persuaded to enter into Holy Orders, and so become ‘_an
Ambassador for the God of glory; that God, who, by a vile death opened
the gates of life to mankind_:’ and it is fit to tell you that I set the
greater store by this book, because I am convinced Mr. Walton hath taken
a pleasure in the perusal of it, insomuch as to make the opening chapter
of his COMPLETE ANGLER after that model. It is a conversation betwixt a
gentleman and a scholar, who were travelling on horseback from the
north, by the same road, to the city of York; and thus it begins—
‘_Gentleman._[18] Well overtaken, Sir.
‘_Scholar._ You are welcome, gentleman.
‘_Gentleman._ No great gentleman, Sir, but one that wisheth well to all
that mean well: I pray you how far do you travel this way?
‘_Scholar._ As far as York.
‘_Gentleman._ I would be glad if I might have your company thither.
‘_Scholar._ And I, if my company might stand you in any stead.’
Thereupon ensued a gentle and most ingenious conversation: and they
argued the mysterious matter of the omnipotency and incomprehensible
greatness of God, to their mutual contentment and confirmation in the
truth, until they came to Newcastle, where the scholar’s little nag
would scarce hold foot with the strong gelding of the gentleman; and so
they put up at some honest house where the scholar was acquainted, and
were both heartily welcome, ‘and honestly used for their money.’ And
there we will leave them to their entertainment and rest,—and cross this
meadow of buttercups.
_Painter._ You have angled me on, and beguiled the way with these
colloquies most pleasantly; for we have walked some miles, and I
heartily thank you.
_Angler._ Look, Sir; now you have a view of some rocks before you in a
little distance; there are the steep declivities overhanging the other
side of the Dove, which is at a great depth below. A few steps more,—and
we are come to Hanson Grange.
_Painter._ It is a pretty sequestered spot; and the house stands on the
very brow of the cliff, which is ornamented with wood; and I hope we are
arrived at Dove Dale.
_Angler._ Have patience: not yet, Sir;—this is Nab’s Dale: but turn
again this way to the right, for there is Hanson Toot. And look, yonder
is the church at Alstonfields; and, I beseech you; deny me not the
contrivance of a picture.
_Painter._ I’ll do it cheerfully; and the hills array themselves to an
advantage. What a general harmony is in the works of nature! Here, by a
few lines, with seeming carelessness put together, even those bleak and
craggy hills are made to the congruity and order of beauty; and the
aspect of the church on the hill is pretty for a distance.
_Angler._ And when you are come there, you shall find a retired village,
and a decent house of entertainment; where we may have supper and a
clean bed.
_Painter._ Was it there _Piscator_ cheered his companion after his
journey?
_Angler._ Not so: for Mr. Cotton conducted him to his handsome seat at
Beresford, and there you may believe he made amends, as he promised to
do, for bringing him ‘_an ill mile or two out of his way_;’ for he gave
him a hearty welcome; and after that they made no strangers of each
other, but with good Moorland ale and a pipe of tobacco passed an hour
or two in conversation before they went to bed.
_Painter._ And I am ready to do the same; so let us be going, for there
is my poor copy of Alstonfields church.
_Angler._ It is the church itself, and those distant hills, that stand
behind it with a natural gloom. Come on, Sir.
_Painter._ Gently, so please you; and let me take care of myself down
these slippery stones. How the path winds and turns in a zig-zag! I
shall tumble ere I get to the bottom.
_Angler._ Never fear, Sir! never fear; every slippery stone and every
step of the way has a charm for me; for here it was Mr. Cotton travelled
with his friend, who was in a strange taking as he crept or slided down.
_Painter._ And well he might be, for it is an uncouth precipice: it is
the land of break-neck.
_Angler._ A little steep, I grant you; but come on, for methinks we are
near ‘_the sign of a bridge_,’ which is so narrow, _Viator_ thought it
was fit only for wheelbarrows, and declared he was inclinable to ‘_go
over on all fours_:’ so look out.
_Painter._ Nay, Sir; but to look out for any thing beyond my footing, is
more than man can do in such a ribble rabble place as this.
_Angler._ Come, brother, give over this complaining: for, look you,
there is the ‘_wheelbarrow bridge_;’ and listen to the river below. How
the noise of her waters falls on mine ear like the voice of melody!
Welcome, crystal Dove; for we purpose to cast away some innocent hours
in thy cool recesses.
‘Oh my beloved nymph, fair Dove,
‘Princess of rivers, how I love
‘Upon thy flowery banks to lie,
‘And view the silver stream
‘When gilded by a summer’s beam!
‘And in it all thy wanton fry
‘Playing at liberty;
‘And with my angle upon them
‘The all of treachery
‘I ever learn’d industriously to try.’[19]
_Painter._ Now we are safely down; and the river rustles merrily under
the bridge, crisping itself into foam. And what hamlet is yonder, on the
Staffordshire side, with a cheerful mill?
_Angler._ That is Mill Dale, and there lies the road to Alstonfields.
_Painter._ Let us be forward; for the sun sinks down apace,
‘Bidding farewell unto the gloomy sky.’
_Angler._ Stay a while: if you have any affection for me, you will not
pass by this enchanting glen, and leave me no record. Look again—see how
the evening gleams linger over the tops of the mountains. I beseech you,
sit on ‘_this broad stone_,’ and draw me a picture.
_Painter._ This landskip needs a better hand than mine to give the
natural fall of the rocks, and throw that bridge and the mill into a
deep perspective.
_Angler._ You are too modest; so pr’ythee begin, and I’ll sit by your
side, and repeat you some pastoral verses composed by famed Sir Walter
Raleigh.
_Painter._ Come, then, tune your voice to the air.
‘And loudly sing a roundelay of love.’
_Angler._ Shall I give you ‘_Phillida’s love-call to her Coridon, and
his replying_?’
_Painter._ Aye, do so.
_Angler._ [sings.]
‘Coridon, arise my Coridon.’
_Painter._ Sing, I pray you, boldly, that the rocks may answer with an
echo.
_Angler._ I’ll do my best; for the Pastoral is worthy, and full of an
innocent love. Let me see if I can remember me how it runs. [_sings._]—
PHILLIDA’S LOVE-CALL TO HER CORIDON, AND HIS REPLYING.
_Phil._ Coridon, arise, my Coridon,
Titan shineth clear.
_Cor._ Who is it that calleth Coridon?
Who is it that I hear?
_Phil._ Phillida, thy true love calleth thee;
Arise then, arise then;
Arise, and keep thy flock with me.
_Cor._ Phillida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, I come then;
I come to keep my flock with thee.
_Phil._ Here are cherries ripe for my Coridon;
Eat them for my sake.
_Cor._ Here’s my oaten pipe, my lovely one,
Sport for thee to make.
_Phil._ Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk,
To knit thee, to knit thee
A pair of stockings as white as milk.
_Cor._ Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat,
To make thee, to make thee
A bonnet to withstand the heat.
_Phil._ I will gather flowers, my Coridon,
To set in thy cap.
_Cor._ I will gather pears, my lovely one,
To put in thy lap.
_Phil._ I will buy my true love garters gay,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about his legs so tall.
_Cor._ I will buy my true love yellow sey,[20]
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about her middle small.
_Phil._ When my Coridon sits on a hill,
Making melody.
_Cor._ When my lovely goes to her wheel,
Singing cheerily.
_Phil._ Surely, methinks, my true love doth excel,
For sweetness, for sweetness,
Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight.
_Cor._ And, methinks my true love bears the bell,
For clearness, for clearness,
Beyond the nymphs that be so bright.
_Phil._ Had my Coridon, my Coridon,
Been, alack! my swain:
_Cor._ Had my lovely one, my lovely one,
Been in Ida plain:
_Phil._ Cynthia Endymion had refus’d,
Preferring, preferring
My Coridon to play with-all.
_Cor._ The Queen of Love had been excused,
Bequeathing, bequeathing
My Phillida the golden ball.
_Phil._ Yonder comes my mother, Coridon!
Whither shall I fly?
_Cor._ Under yon beach, my lovely one,
While she passeth by.
_Phil._ Say to her thy true love was not here.
Remember, remember,
To-morrow is another day.
_Cor._ Doubt me not, my true love; do not fear:
Farewell, then, farewell then.
Heaven keep our loves alway.
_Painter._ Thank you, thank you; that is a well-tuned gladsome pastoral,
and as well sung as it is composed; and I will now confess, this walk to
the Dove, and the freshness of the Derbyshire hills, and, above all, the
ingenious delight you take in following Mr. Cotton’s footsteps, have put
new thoughts into my mind. There is the best picture I can make for you;
but I am not a limner to fix those intricate lights and shadows that
flit from one rock to another with the passing clouds.
_Angler._ Truly, Sir, it could not be better composed; and now let us
towards Alstonfields, and over the wheelbarrow bridge.
_Painter._ With all my heart: but not ‘_on all fours_.’ Observe how the
water hurries away, rippling over the rocky bed.
_Angler._ Ah! saw you that, Sir?
_Painter._ I saw nothing: what was it?
_Angler._ It was a hungry trout rose at a fly: now, by your leave, I
must have the delight to try my poor skill in the Dove. That trout has
transported me beyond discretion.
_Painter._ You have my permission; so fix your tackling and go to work.
_Angler._ There again: did you not see him rise?
_Painter._ I saw him not.
_Angler._ Well, then, if I have any luck, you shall see him by supper
time at Alstonfields.
_Painter._ I wish you good sport with all my heart, and do you call me
if you chance to hook him; meantime I’ll contrive another sketch of
these glades and rocks.
_Angler._ Do not forget to make the Dove a part of your picture.
_Painter._ And remember, you have promised to requite me with a good
trout for supper.
_Angler._ I said a brace.
_Painter._ Better and better; so farewell, and good luck go with thee.——
_Angler._ ——Halloo!
_Painter._ How now, Brother Piscator?
_Angler._ Hoi! quickly,—that you may partake of the delights of angling:
here is a heavy fish, and my line being slender give me the net.
_Painter._ Nay, I beseech you, let me land him, that I may have the
honour of a helping hand with our first trout in the Dove.
_Angler._ You shall, and welcome too; but manage him with discretion.
_Painter._ Trust me: I’m ready—haul him now to the bank; ah, me! he’s
gone away again: he was desperate.
_Angler._ Fear not, I have him safe: I but play with him; see, he begins
to tire; and now you may take him: gently, gently—so, ’twas bravely
netted.
_Painter._ Do but look how his belly and sides are spotted with bright
red spots.
_Angler._ It is a goodly fish; but I must give you a brace: and there
was another rise under the further bank; wait a moment, and he is mine.
_Painter._ Then I’ll call you a master of your art, and since you have
entertained me with the pleasure of this trout, I’ll go finish my
picture of the Dove, for it is worth all my little skill in
drawing.——So; how is it with you?
_Angler._ Here is the brace of trouts I promised you.
_Painter._ You are as good as your word. And I have not been idle.
_Angler._ I thank you; they are the very rocks and my Dove; and here is
the bridge and, I declare, two anglers landing a trout! So hither away
for Alstonfields with merry hearts;
‘There roast him and baste him with good claret wine,
‘For the calvor’d boyl’d trout will make thee to dine
‘With dainty contentment.’[21]
_Painter._ Step on, brother, for you cannot desire to be at supper more
than I do; and now we have trudged up the hill, and are come to the
church we saw from Hanson Toot, on the other side.
_Angler._ And there is the ‘honest alehouse’ I told you of—and see, mine
host standing under the porch, ready to welcome loyal travellers to the
‘King’s Head.’
_Painter._ Kept by ‘_Herbert Marsh_’—for there’s his name printed in
large underneath.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]