_The_ Angler _and the_ Painter _take a pleasant walk to the source of
the_ Dove.
_Angler._
How now! brave Gentleman, how fares it with you this morning?
_Painter._ Trust me, I am full of joyful expectations.
_Angler._ Then you do not repent your sudden challenge to walk across
the moors to the Dove Head?
_Painter._ Oh, Sir, never fear me.
‘Hark! the lark at Heaven’s gate sings
‘And Phœbus ‘gins to arise,
‘His steeds to water at those springs
‘On chalic’d flowers that lies.’
The air of these mountains hath a wholesome freshness that gives wings
to the spirit.
_Angler._ Very true; and I have the authority of learned Sir William
Temple to declare, that health and long life are to be found on the Peak
of Derbyshire, and the heaths of Staffordshire. Are you for breakfast?
_Painter._ Ay! and look, our host has provided for us in this arbour in
his garden; see, how it is grown over with jessamines and honeysuckles.
_Angler._ And here is a hedge of sweet-briers—it all breathes fragrancy.
_Painter._ It is very pleasant; and now let us discuss our breakfast
with all freedom, as honest anglers ought to do: here’s new baked bread,
and milk and honey; and here’s a bowl of curds and whey, with nutmeg and
ginger. Are you for that?
_Angler._ With all my heart.
_Painter._ What say you, brother; is not here a most fresh and
unmatchable morning for travellers? Do but look over those hills; and
there are the blue moors, backed by the burnished light of the sun
rising behind them. What can be more glorious?
_Painter._ Nothing, nothing—see how he ‘_cometh forth as a bridegroom
from his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race_.’—
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good morrow.
Wings from the wind, to please the mind,
Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;
Bird, plume thy wing, nightingales, sing,
To give my love good morrow,
To give my love good morrow.
Notes from them both I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill,
Give my fair love good morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock sparrow,
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.
_Angler._ Excellent well!—it is a song of Mr. Thomas Heywood?
_Painter._ The same; and now it is your turn.
_Angler._ Let me consider a while; I’ll give you a ballad of John
Welbye. Or stay—now, I have one:
In pride of May,
The fields are gay,
The birds do sing, so sweetly sing—
So nature would
That all things could,
With joy, begin the spring.
Then, lady dear,
Do you appear
In beauty, like the spring;
I dare to say,
The birds that day
More cheerfully will sing.[63]
And now we have done breakfast, and I am ready to attend you.
_Painter._ Well, then, let us be going. I am with you, lead on. You
remember how the host told us there were two roads to Beresford: let us
take the coach road by the left for a change; and now we are at the top
look before you, for there again is Beresford Hall.
_Angler._ Oh! that Mr. Charles Cotton were now there! and we might be
invited to receive some instructions in fly-fishing!
_Painter._ And my master, honest Izaak, with his bottom fishing,—so
please you, brother.
_Angler._ That I heartily wish too.—But see we are once more arrived at
the brink of the river.
_Painter._ Do we cross over this fordable place?
_Angler._ Nay—that would be roundabout to Hartington; and mine host
advised us rather to turn underneath those rocks which are close to Pike
Pool; for there we may pass the river, and have a pleasant prospect of
the fishing-house; and then by a nearer path across some fields to
Hartington, and after that I can find my way.
_Painter._ With all my heart; so here we are again: see the turfy bank
where we had the enjoyment of Mr. Walton’s book; and the cobbling stones
across the Dove.
_Angler._ The same; and so take care, or you may have an unlucky tumble
into the river.
_Painter._ Over with you, Sir!—I am an angler now, and fear not ‘the
element I trade in.’
_Angler._ Bravely, Mr. Pictor, you have a dexterous management with your
heels. Now to the right by this high bank: and look how the river winds
through the meadows, above the fishing-house; and there you see before
you Hartington Church; if you please, we may pass to the left of the
town; and now, for a little while, we must bid farewell to the Dale.
_Painter._ I am sorry to hear it; our pleasures are all too short-lived:
methinks I could spend all the month of May near to Mr. Cotton’s
fishing-grounds.
_Angler._ That we might do with great contentment; but for to-day we
must rove among the moorlands; and if some of them are barren and bleak,
yet they will be set off to advantage by fresh streams, and valleys, and
flocks, and herds. Then remember, though we are on pilgrimage, we may
sit down on turf cushions when we are weary, and sing merry songs, in
despite of care, ay, and of fortune too, that ‘rackets with man as with
her tennis ball.’
_Painter._ And I am resolved to take a pleasure in all I see; but what
is yonder hill?
_Angler._ That is Banktop; and there is Carderlow Hill, in
Staffordshire. But now prepare yourself; for you are come to a busy
watermill, and yonder you may see Ludwell Spring, that within a few
yards of its rising, falls into the Dove.
_Painter._ How say you? is this the very source of a river gushing with
so sudden a force, and leaping out of a cavern in a considerable stream
from underneath the ground?
_Angler._ This ought to be noted in your blank book; for it confirms an
observation of Mr. Cotton, that ‘_the Dove from its head for a mile or
two is a black water, because it springs from the moss; but in a few
miles travel is so clarified by the addition of several clear and very
great springs bigger than itself which gush out of the lime-stone rocks,
that before it comes to my house, which is but six or seven miles from
its source, you will find it one of the purest crystalline streams you
have seen_.’
_Painter._ That is true; for, look, before these waters are joined, the
Dove is a darkish colour. But here she comes away, rejoicing in the
clearness of Ludwell Brook: and so they hurry themselves in company to
the mill with a mutual alacrity.
_Angler._ There let them go, and to-morrow we shall meet them by Hanson
Toot.—But who comes here?
_Painter._ It is a little country damsel.
_Angler._ Good morning, pretty maiden. What are you come for?
_Maiden of the Mill._ To fetch some water, Sir.
_Painter._ I pray you be civil, and let me taste some of this clear
spring of the Ludwell from your pitcher.
_Maiden._ You are welcome, Sir. I’ll dip it in.
_Painter._ Thank you, gentle maid; ’tis as cold as an icicle; and what
is your name?
_Maiden._ Margery, so please you, Sir.
_Angler._ Well, my pretty Margery; we are greatly beholden to you; and
here is a half Sevil piece to buy ribands for Sundays and holidays; and
so farewell.
_Maiden._ Your servant, kind Gentlemen, and I thank you both.
_Angler._ God speed you, pretty Margery; and may you live as harmless
and happy as you now appear to be, and some day or other walk to church
on flowers. Come, brother, let us be forward; for you and I must up to
Wheeldon Hill, that towers to the skies yonder.
_Painter._ With all my heart: farewell, Margery.——What a secret charm is
in a youthful innocency, that hath not put off the white garments washed
in the fountain of baptism! I have heard it said, a child’s mind gives a
pattern of a church temper; it looks to have come fresh from heaven, and
to be the only thing fit to re-ascend to the celestial presence.
_Angler._ And that, we may believe, was the reason of our Redeemer
exhorting mankind to have the mind of children. And did he not openly
declare that their angels do always behold the face of their Heavenly
Father? meaning their guardian angels.
_Painter._ Are you of that opinion?
_Angler._ I would not take upon myself to pry into the vast secrets of
celestial intelligences: but, because the church declares that God hath
‘_ordained and constituted the services of angels in a wonderful
order_,’ and prays that ‘_they may succour and defend us on earth_,’ I
am not denied the consolation to think how those etherial choirs have a
sweet ministration on our behalf, as channels of grace; else why doth
St. Chrysostom exhort us to pray for the angel of peace, if they are not
able to keep us out of heart-aching sins? And if I could fix in my mind
the assured image of one such angelic presence as my secret companion,
this vale of tears would become a delightful Eden—this desert a near
approach to heaven: for then it would be my most pleasant and glorious
employment to lift up my feeble voice in the cherubic hymn; my soul
would be faithful and devout,—all things would become pure,—all things
holy,—all things peaceful and lovely. And thus following my unseen
guide, I should have a blessed fore-intimation of the realms of light,
and my earthly services be a preparation for the awful presence of the
Highest. Methinks I could never defile my body, which is the temple of
God, nor permit a bad thought, or a sordid desire to taint the sanctuary
of my immortal spirit,—If I knew that would put to flight my angel, and
compel its winged sorrowful retreat back to the courts of heaven,—not
with triumphant Hosannas for a victory over sin and death, but to make a
record of my fatal discomfiture to its weeping companions of the skies.
Therefore, do not deny me the liberty to believe that God’s bright
angels throng invisibly through the universe, and ‘_encamp about them
that fear Him_.’
_Painter._ Nay, I wish to be of your opinion, and that we have an
interest in the prayers of ministering spirits, and so may attain unto
some likeness to them: yet remember that they themselves are kept by the
grace of ONE that is above all principalities and powers in heaven or in
earth. And we have this surpassing relish of hope, that as His divine
unerring eye beholds us with the love of a Mediator, and His Spirit is
within and over us as a Comforter, infusing an immortal power into the
inmost soul, we have the confirmation of a continual grace, that
imprints a more sublime virtue than the presence of angels or
archangels—yea, or of cherubim and seraphim, who veil their faces before
Him. Oh! wherefore is it that we cannot attune our thoughts to the high
employment of the invisible Church, who with loud voices sound forth
joyful hallelujahs to GOD?
_Angler._ Because, brother, through our want of faith our eyes are
blinded, that we cannot realize the presence of the heavenly world,
which, nevertheless, is around and about us, as surely as these
mountains and these skies. Give me leave to tell you, the Church always
has, and, notwithstanding the decay of piety, does now acknowledge the
‘_communion of saints_,’—to wit, that the saints now on earth have
spiritual fellowship with ‘_the general assembly and Church of the
first-born, which are written in Heaven_.’[64]
_Painter._ How mean you? with the saints departed and admitted into the
presence of Christ?
_Angler._ So it is. I speak not now of the dignity that is wrought in
holy persons by the permitted communion with God, according to the last
prayer of our Saviour, that they might be one with Himself, (_as thou,
Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be one in
us_,)[65]—nor of the fulfilment of His rich promise, that His Father and
Himself would _love them, and come unto them, and make their abode with
them_,[66] nor of the inestimable gift of the Comforter, which should
_abide with them for ever_, (_for he dwelleth with you, and shall be in
you_:)[67]—neither will I now further insist on the blessed assurance in
Scripture of the spiritual communion of saints on earth with God’s
angels, who are _ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them
who shall be heirs of salvation_,[68] yea, and rejoice over them, yea,
and wait for their souls, to carry them triumphantly into Abraham’s
bosom.—But, blessed be God! besides all this, we have assurance of the
love of that innumerable company who wait in hope of the bright morning
of the resurrection, who whilst on earth were renewed in the image of
our God, and endued with the spirit of Christ,—even those successive
generations that have departed this life in faith, and now made perfect,
and inhabiters of the supernal City. Blessed be God! they are secret
witnesses to our desires, our penitential tears, our fastings, our
inward struggles, our outward crosses,—are present with us in the Holy
Church, joining in those very sacraments and prayers which were their
own comfort and support in _their_ day of probation. Nay, death itself
hath no power to accomplish the separation of those we have most dearly
loved:—the grave hath closed over their mortality, they have escaped
from their outward perishable frame, and have winged their way to
unimaginable joys; but it may be they are with us in unseen
communion.—What if their spirits mingle with ours in a wonderful order?
and although we presume not to fathom the mystery beyond what is
revealed in Scripture, may we not join with them and with the ten
thousand times ten thousand hosts of heaven, in praise of the eternal
unity of the Godhead, that hath given us this earnest of a glorious
immortality?
_Painter._ Oh! the unsearchable riches that are even now within our
grasp, if we knew to put forth our hand and reach them!
_Angler._ But alas! because of the natural averseness of our souls from
heavenly contemplations, and our too intense fixedness on the unreal
pleasures of the world, we cannot be warmed and affected with the
kindlings of holy desires.
_Painter._ ’Tis true, yet strange,——for a religious spirit is the
highest gift of God; it is an incense that rises perfumed to His lofty
throne, from whence it flows, and gives peace of soul which setteth at
naught all the chances of fortune.
_Angler._ True, for to be spiritually minded _is peace_, and by the bond
of peace we are kept in the unity of the Spirit.
_Painter._ And that peace is nowhere else to be found but only in the
Church, as witness those choice verses of Mr. George Herbert, who
dedicated his muse to the Divine Majesty, and his life to a christian
holiness.
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And ask’d if Peace were there.
A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:
Go seek elsewhere.
I did; and going did a rainbow note;
Surely, thought I,
This is the Lace of Peace’s Coat:
I will search out the matter.
But while I lookt, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.
Then went I to a garden, and did spie
A gallant flower,
The crown Imperial: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.
But when I digg’d, I saw a worm devour
What show’d so well.
At length I met a rev’rend good old man;
Whom when for Peace
I did demand, he thus began:
There was a Prince of old
At _Salem_ dwelt, who lived with good encrease
Of Flock and Fold.
He sweetly liv’d; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.
But after death out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;
Which many wondering at, got some of those
To plant and set.
It prosper’d strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:
For they that taste it do rehearse
That vertue lies therein;
A secret vertue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sin.
Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;
Make bread of it, and that repose
And peace, which every where
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there.[69]
_Angler._ You are in the right: the meaning of Mr. George Herbert was,
that peace may only be found in the unity of the Holy Church, which is
_built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ
being the chief corner stone_; and St. Chrysostom hath said the name
CHURCH is a name of harmony;—and truly,—for he declares it to be a place
of angels and of archangels, a palace of God, heaven itself;—and her
anointed ministers are the bearers of God’s faithful message;—baptizing
all people into her one communion, dispensing to all the eucharistic
Body and Blood of Christ their Redeemer, and catechizing all, young and
old, in the holy mysteries of the Scriptures, which display the glory of
God in the government and redemption of the world.
_Painter._ ‘_How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that
bringeth good tidings, that publisheth Peace._’
_Angler._ And when the prophet would raise up the heart of the afflicted
Church, ‘_tossed with tempest and not comforted_,’ he saith, ‘_Behold, I
will lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with
sapphires, and I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of
carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones. And all thy children
shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the Peace of thy
people._’——But we grow too serious—let us be forward, or we shall scarce
reach the end of our walk.
_Painter._ I am with you: and what big mountains are they, so dark in
the distance? they must be ten miles off. I hope we shall have nothing
to say to them.
_Angler._ Trust me, brother,—and something beyond them too, if you would
see Dove Head to-day; but they are not so far as you think, and when you
come to them, you’ll like them none the worse for their steepness. But
now we are arrived at Pilsbury, you may see Broad Meadow—that is a
handsome mansion-house on the other side of the stream; and this is
Wheeldon Hill.
_Painter._ Well, to be sure, he is not so difficult and tedious as he
looked to be from Ludwell.
_Angler._ I declare no man living can trudge better than you do. And now
you may find Crowdey Cote Bridge in the bottom, and a spring that
contributes all its clearness to the Dove; and thus I have brought you
to Sterndale; and so let us pass to the right.
_Painter._ Stay awhile, brother; methinks we are leaving our Dove, and
that I have no mind to do.
_Angler._ Let me persuade you, for it is only to bring you back to her
again with greater contentment; so you may leave her to her own careless
pleasures in those flowery meads, whilst you and I pass through Glutton
Dale; and here we have dipped into the valley, and are come to the base
of the hill, that looked so towering some miles off.
_Painter._ Indeed! we are arrived at it quickly. Has this mountain a
name hereabouts?
_Angler._ Ay, and a well known one—with its elder brother, that is twice
as high; they are the Great and Little Cromes; and there you may now see
them before you, with cattle feeding on the very pinnacle.
_Painter._ That is a strange sight; I wonder how they clambered up such
a steepy crag.
_Angler._ And see, I am as good as my word, for here we are come again
to the Dove;—so follow me over this wooden bridge into Staffordshire.
_Painter._ Is this your River Dove? She is not grown bigger since last
we parted.
_Angler._ You are in the right; she is less and less,—and darker than we
remember her: for her path has been through some boggy mountainous ways;
but like the eyes of a Moorish beauty, she is clear and sparkling, and
is now hurrying on to the sweet prospects about Mr. Cotton’s
fishing-house that we so lately passed: and do you mark how she declines
the invitations of these little rocks and glades, and waterdocks, and
shaly banks that hope to detain her, breaking away from them with a
disdainful murmur.
_Painter._ And not without reason, for the prospects hereabouts are
middling.
_Angler._ Nay—turn yourself, and look at those high mountains: the two
Cromes are now behind us, where the flocks and cattle still browse on
the summits.
_Painter._ How, say you? Not those Cromes you spoke of an hour ago?
_Angler._ The same; but now they present themselves in a bold profile,
and are broken into sharper edges.
_Painter._ Sharp indeed,—for the crags on the top are of such a
narrowness, that I would not believe the cattle might stand there, if I
did not see them do it: and, for my own part, I would not go over those
rocks ‘_for a thousand pounds_.’
_Angler._ ‘_Nor tumble off them for two._’
_Painter._ It is ‘an odd country indeed:’—but halt, brother, what is
that I see?
_Angler._ Having past by Winterside, that looked so cold and rocky, we
are come to Washgate; and tell me what you think of the landskip before
you?
_Painter._ You have taken me quite by a surprise, for here is a
prodigious passage in the mountains that for rudeness of nature cannot
be exceeded: methinks we are come to the world’s end.
_Angler._ See how the Dove is suddenly forced down these rocky ledges,
and is then joined by another and as rapid a stream,—Calshaw Brook, that
is scarce deserving of a name,—yet gushes down with a merry loud noise.
_Painter._ I am enchanted with this wilderness: but I will confess your
mountainous ways have put my metal to the proof, and I begin to be
weary; so I beseech you let us sit awhile, that I may do my best to make
a picture of these high rocks; and I shall ask you to read me some
passages from my master’s Book of Angling; and I remember how, because
his happy companion, VENATOR, promised to dedicate two days to angling
in his company, it was agreed they should first bestow the next day to
hunt the Otter.
_Angler._ You shall hear what they did after they met the next morning,
just as the sun was rising. For you are to know, as they came to Amwell
Hill, the dogs had just put down an Otter. Then, after a short greeting,
Mr. VENATOR told him to ‘look down at the bottom of the hill there, in
that meadow, chequered with water-lilies and lady-smocks, there you may
see what work they make. Look! look! all busy; men and dogs, dogs and
men—all busy.’ Then PISCATOR declared; ‘he was glad to see so many dogs,
and more men, all in pursuit of the Otter: let us compliment no longer,
but join unto them. Come, honest VENATOR, let us be gone, let us make
haste; I long to be doing—no reasonable hedge or ditch shall hold me.’
_Painter._ Was it Mr. Izaak said that?
_Angler._ Ay, ay; quiet Mr. Walton, that carries himself with so
singular a sweetness and temper—but he hath a cheerful spirit, and
withal a sweet instinct towards innocent recreations: and so he was
suddenly transported, and ‘longed to be doing.’ Think how the meek
angler promised ‘no reasonable hedge or ditch should hold him.’ I can
almost think I see him now with his staff, hasting to the bottom of the
hill, where ‘the men and dogs, dogs and men, were all busy.’
_Painter._ And tell me what they saw when they got there?
_Angler._ They met a Gentleman Huntsman, that was cheering on his dogs
to take the Otter; so they enquired where he found this Otter; and he
replied, ‘Marry, Sir, we found her a mile from this place a-fishing: she
has this morning eaten the greatest part of this trout; she has only
left thus much of it, as you see, and was fishing for more; when we came
we found her just at it: but we were here very early, we were here an
hour before sun-rise, and have given her no rest since we came; surely
she will hardly escape all these dogs and men.’ Then, after a short
conversation, he bade them follow him, for he saw the ‘Otter above water
at vent, and the dogs close with him; I now see, he will not last
long—follow, therefore, my masters, follow; for Sweetlips was like to
have him at this last vent.’ Then you may be sure they followed, and
with a great eagerness: then VENATOR cried out: ‘Oh me! all the horses
are got over the river, what shall we do now? shall we follow them over
the water?’ ‘No, Sir, no;’ (said the Otter-huntsman) ‘be not so eager;
stay a little, and follow me, for both they and the dogs will be
suddenly on this side again, I warrant you, and the otter too, it may
be. Now have at him with Killbuck, for he vents again.’ Then VENATOR,
having a natural propensity to all kinds of sports with dogs, heartily
exclaimed, ‘Marry! so he does: for, look! he vents in that corner. Now,
now, Ringwood has him: now he is gone again, and has bit the poor dog.
Now, Sweetlips has her; hold her, Sweetlips! now all the dogs have her;
some above, and some under water: but now, now she is tired, and past
losing. Come, bring her to me, Sweetlips. Look! It is a Bitch-otter, and
she has lately whelped. Let’s go to the place where she was put down;
and not far from it you will find all her young ones, I dare warrant
you, and kill them all too.’
_Painter._ Excellent! What a joyful and natural confusion of the
huntsmen! ‘_men and dogs, dogs and men, all busy_.’
_Angler._ And after that they went to an honest alehouse, where they had
a cup of good barley wine, and sang _Old Rose_, and so they rejoiced
together, and then bade farewell with mutual good thoughts and wishes;
and so honest Mr. Walton and his scholar went to their sport of angling.
_Painter._ Very pleasant! what a natural sprightliness of manner in
handling his subject! and such masterly touches of art, that it is all
like an excellent piece of painting. But now I have done my poor draught
of the landskip, so let us forward; methinks Dove-head is never to come.
_Angler._ Patience, brother, for you have, ere long, something more to
see: and now we are passed over the bridge back again into the county of
Derby, what do you think of this sudden change in the river? There are
high rocks and crags on either side: some have been tumbled down to the
bottom in confused heaps, and threaten they will block up the passage.
_Painter._ This makes the Dove more fretful and noisy, and rather than
she will be detained in this stony wilderness, she vaults over the
crags, and throws herself into a cascade underneath the bridge.—But look
to your feet; for I like not this edge of the cliffs, that stand so
high. How now! there is another glen joins itself; and, I declare, a
rapid stream, as big, or may be bigger than the Dove, and to say the
truth, I know not which is our own river.
_Angler._ Then make some guess before I declare it to you.
_Painter._ I cannot resolve you. Methinks that to the right is more like
to come from Derbyshire.
_Angler._ Nay, the left hand is our course; the other water, that gushes
in her channel with so singular a steepness, is Cooper-Brook; and if you
listen, you may hear with what a sweet harmony she welcomes the approach
of her future playmate, and pays her willing tribute into the streams of
the Dove, and is happy to change her own name for another and a better,
that is in so great esteem with all anglers.
_Painter._ Here is one of those spots of nature that I love to behold.
This is the noblest architecture imaginable; for here are mountains, and
rocks, and valleys disposed in a wild order, that is more excellent than
the richest ornaments of all Greece: nay, I will not make an exception
of the Parthenon at Athens, or the great Colosseum in Rome;—nor the very
pillars of the gate, which was called Beautiful, in the Temple at
Jerusalem, nor all the once glorious Palmyra are able to contend for
nobleness against these works of nature.
_Angler._ Which is not to be wondered at, since those were builded by
man; but the hills have God for their founder: it is HE that ‘_weighs
the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance_.’ HE it is that can
make them break forth into singing, or cause them to be desolate; that
can remove them into the depths of the sea, as easily as He caused their
highest tops to be covered with the flood, when He opened the gates of
heaven.
_Painter._ And for that beautiful structure of the Temple of Zion which
was ornamented with so many thousand talents of gold, and refined silver
and brass, and a number of all manner of precious stones, that
Honourable Mr. Robert Boyle says, was capable of impoverishing the
Indies,—and those cherubims overlaid with gold within the oracle that
stretched forth their wings, so that the wing of the one touched the one
wall, and the wing of the other cherub touched the other wall—where are
they now?—they are dispersed as a dream: but these mountains shall
remain till that hour, when ‘_the heavens shall pass away with a great
noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat_.’
_Angler._ And hath not HE declared, (whose ‘_coming_’ shall then be)
that Solomon himself, the builder of the first Temple, in all his glory,
was not arrayed like one even of those heathy flowers you have in your
hand? I beseech you give me that bunch you have plucked, and when I go
home, I’ll dry them in a book, that I may sometimes call back again to
my mind this happy day’s journey, and these sweet thoughts amidst the
springs of the Dove.
_Painter._ Do so; and I am glad to think that in this manner I shall
live the better in your memory.
_Angler._ Trust me for that, brother. But we must not tarry; we must be
away for Dove Head.
_Painter._ I am with you:—but here are more ups and downs than I
expected; how long will they last? for I begin to flag.
_Angler._ Cheer up, heart, and follow me; and that I may beguile the
length of the way along these mossy slopes that are so soft under
foot,—and because you are won to the love of angling,—I will perform my
promise, and read you that epistle of Mr. Cotton to Mr. Izaak Walton.
_Painter._ I shall be charmed to hear it.
_Angler._ Then listen,—
‘Feb: y^e. 13. 1676.
‘My deare and worthy Father,
‘Supposing you (who are ever so constant to your resolutions) to bee
by this time return’d to London, I venture to give you the trouble of
a letter to enquire how you doe, and whether I may hope to see you
here this approaching summer: in truth I long for nothing more than to
see you, and therefore if your affaires either invite you this way; or
will permitt you to bestow some time upon your friends that love you,
itt will, without complement, bee as great a satisfaction to mee, as I
could allmost wish. In the next place, give mee leave to enquire how
my Lords Grace of Canterbury does, and my Lord of Winton. The last of
which was every where in these parts so confidently reported for dead;
that in earnest, I concluded him so, till I received your last letter,
which, though you did not mention him in itt, assured mee
neverthelesse hee was still living, otherwise I suppose you had had no
businesse at Farnham: your owne famyly I need not so strictly to
enquire after, because I know you will tell me without asking, so that
till I shall againe heare from you, I have little more to say,
excepting to tell you y^t I have here enclosed sent you a ridiculous
song I made one day by the River side; that my Lady of Ardglass is
your servant, and joins with mee in the request of seeing you here,
together with that old and constant truth, that I am, and must ever
bee, whilst wee two live,
‘Dear Father, Your most affectionate friend,
‘Sonne and Servant,
‘CHARLES COTTON.’
‘We are all here very well, that is now wee begin to thaw again: for
so nipping a winter has not been for these many years, and yett when
the water was frozen up almost, and only a small gullet open in the
sharp of the streams, I then killed several Graylings, 16, 17, 18, and
20 inches long with an Ash grub, and no more than one single hayre, as
severall can witnesse; and that in their full vigour and best season.
My service I pray to Mr. Daniell Sheldon; to whom by the next returne
of the carrier I will send some flies and direct them to Sir Joseph
Sheldon.’
_Painter._ A very pleasant cheerful letter, and a sure witness to the
love these two familiar masters of angling bear to each other’s person.
_Angler._ I would we had that ‘_ridiculous poem made one day by the
River side_;’ which was enclosed in it: but that was not in the
possession of my _Aldine Scholar_; and I am only permitted to hope Mr.
Walton hath treasured it up with some others to be hereafter put forth
to the world in print.
_Painter._ In a handsome ‘litel boke’—and because you have shewn me how
my master will sometimes court the favour of the muses, it may come to
pass some May morning, when they are angling together, the two poets
shall resolve to ask Mr. Richard Marriott[70] to print their verses in a
happy conjunction.
_Angler._ That would be as worthy of our perusal as the SHEPHERD’S
GARLAND _fashioned in Eglogs_, by Mr. Walton’s honest old friend Michael
Drayton: and doubtless my Lord’s Grace of Canterbury, who loves Mr.
Walton and his art of fishing, will have a pleasure to affix his
IMPRIMATUR _ex Ædibus Lambethanis_.
_Painter._ And methinks Mr. Cotton, when he commanded his service to Mr.
Daniel Sheldon and promised to send some flies to Sir Joseph Sheldon,
knew that Mr. Walton was on a short visit to the Archbishop at Lambeth.
_Angler._ Or it might be at his palace in Croydon?—but look you, there
is the Dove, down in the deep glen beneath; and though she grows more
diminutive, yet there are bright rills that silently glide out of the
mountains to swell her little eddies and cascades——And now, here is
another turn in the path, and so I have brought you to Dove-head.
_Painter._ Indeed! I’m rejoiced to hear it, but how! I see no
‘_contemptible fountain that I can cover with my hat_,’ but a tolerable
stream.
_Angler._ Patience, good brother—it is true we are here come to the
hamlet of Dove-head; but for the source of the stream, you are to mount
with me the side of this broad mountain, that is called AXE EDGE.
_Painter._ Alas the day! up this great mountain, which is as high as
Mont Blanc in Switzerland? but much darker, I warrant you. Well, Sir, if
it must be so,—but I’m almost exhausted.
_Angler._ Come, let me give you a helping hand.
_Painter._ I thank you, but I’m too big-hearted to yield me—so put on
your manhood, and stalk along; I’ll stem Broad Axe Edge with ‘heart of
controversy.’ Heigh ho! now we are up, and here is nothing I can see in
the likeness of a river.
_Angler._ Pardon me, for I may now wish you joy; look to this side of
you; here is the ‘contemptible little fountain.’
_Painter._ Indeed! and so there is—what a marvellous little fountain!
but it is a most clear and pellucid stream.
_Angler._ And yet Mr. Cotton declares this river ‘_from its head, for a
mile or two, is a black water, as all the rest of the Derbyshire rivers
of note originally are; for they all spring from the mosses_.’
_Painter._ Well, I see no mosses hereabouts, but a highland downy turf,
and it is a pure and transparent rill.
_Angler._ Well, well; we may leave these nice questions; only this is
for certain, here is the source of the river Dove—so let us sit and rest
ourselves.
_Painter._ With all my heart, for I was never so tired in my life,
scrambling up and down these moorlands:—I scarce thought my legs would
carry me so far.
‘Here down my wearyed limbs I’ll lay,
‘My pilgrim’s staffe, my weeds of grey.’
_Angler._ It is a good angler’s walk, I grant you; and by the sun we are
eight hours from Alstonfields!
_Painter._ Come, then—where is the knack of provisions?
_Angler._ Here it is, and I profess to you I am both hungry and thirsty.
There is a slab of stone that covers the fountain will serve for a
table—and here is the well of water to cool our Rhenish.
_Painter._ So, so; it is all delightful: indeed it all breathes of
pleasure; let’s open the wallet, and make ourselves joyful at the head
of the Dove. By the word of an angler, I mean to throw away all cares
and be light-hearted. Come, Sir, your appetite is squeamish.
_Angler._ Trust me, I’m quite hearty; and here’s my service to you in a
cup of wine.
_Painter._ The same to you, and is not our host a good caterer? with
hunger for sauce, this provision is fit for a king!—and I am now able,
on this wild moor, to be as happy as any prince in Christendom.
_Angler._ And why not, if we have grateful and contented hearts?
‘Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content,
‘The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
‘Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;
‘The poor estate scorns Fortune’s angry frown.
‘Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
‘Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss!’—
But come, Sir,—it is your turn for a song; so please you begin.
_Painter._ Well, then, I’ll try my voice at a song of George Withers:
‘Lordly gallants, tell me this,
‘Though my safe content ye weigh not,
‘In your greatness, what one bliss
‘Have you gained that I enjoy not?
‘You have honours, you have wealth
‘I have peace, and I have health,
‘All the day I merry make,
‘And at night no care I take.
‘Bound to none my fortunes be,
‘This or that man’s fall I care not;
‘Him I love that loveth me;
‘For the rest a pin I care not.
‘You are mad when others chafe,
‘And grow merry when they laugh;
‘I that hate it, and am free,
‘Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.’
And now we’ll drink a health to our masters in angling.
_Angler._ And let it be in a sip of clear water from this fountain-head
of the Dove, by way of memorial.
_Painter._ Well, well, only a sip, and—after that we’ll drink to them in
better Rhenish.
_Angler._ With all my heart.
_Painter._ Here’s to Mr. Walton and Mr. Cotton.
_Angler._ To Mr. Walton and Mr. Cotton! And now, by your leave, I’ll
grave the two first letters of their names in cipher on this very stone
that is over the fountain.
_Painter._ How mean you?
_Angler._ Here are tools, I borrowed from our host, for I had bethought
me of this, and must confess I purposed it in my mind, the last time I
travelled this way. So do you be busy in a picture, and I’ll make a rude
copy of the cipher which is over the door of the fishing-house.
_Painter._ It is an excellent conceit; and I hope Mr. Cotton may one day
chance to hear of this, and wonder at the unknown travellers that hold
him in so high esteem; and would he might now see our mutual labours!
Come, Sir, lend me your steel, and I’ll light a pipe—so! and now do you
tell me something of this Axe Edge which is as dark as a thunder-cloud,
but no more like an axe than I’m like a tree. Are we now in the county
of Derby or Stafford?
_Angler._ Which you please: for here you may now stand with one foot on
the county of Stafford, and the other in Derbyshire; look you, or I will
rather say, listen; for you will scarce hear, and cannot see the puny
Dove that now trickles out of the well under our feet, and goes rustling
through the long grass down the side of the mountain; and nevertheless I
may tell you, she is big enough to divide the counties one from another
for many a long mile. There: ‘_go thy way, little Dove_,’ and make glad
the thousand meadows that you have a mind to visit in your rambles.
_Painter._ And, trust me, she shall receive the applauses of many meek
and happy anglers in return for the pleasures she bestows on them. But
tell me something further, honest Piscator, of this great mountain.
_Angler._ Well, then, you are to note, Axe Edge gives birth to many a
trouty stream: and if we had time to come at them, I could show you some
clear fountains, as the Goit and others; but next to the Dove is the
river Wye, that flows down this mountain, till it comes to the hot wells
at Buxton, and after that, to Bakewell and the noble hall at Haddon; and
is thereabouts made brighter than before by the Lathkill. But see, here
we have Mr. Walton and Mr. Cotton’s initial letters twisted together in
cipher, and graved on the stone. I hope no uncivil hand will untie the
knot that joins them.
[Illustration: “Black-and-white woodcut of a carved stone fragment
bearing the intertwined letters IW and CC.]
_Painter._ I hope so too, for it is excellently well graved, and a
worthy tribute to our masters at the very fountain-head of their
favoured Dove.
_Angler._ And now for a song. Nay we must be stirring, or we shall not
find our way to Alstonfields before dark.
_Painter._ Ah me! I had almost forgot: did you say all the way back to
Alstonfields? and must it be? I know not if my legs will carry me so
far.
_Angler._ Then you may use your best arguments to persuade them; for I
can tell you, Axe Edge is a cold bed for travellers, and you’ll find no
house of entertainment by the way. But, come, another cup, and then let
us pack up, and away with a good will. Sir, I pledge you.
_Painter._ Well, well! that’s a refreshing draught, and I am with you,
so do you lead on.
_Angler._ And I have something to tell you for your comfort. I shall
bring you by a near path across these mountains to the other side of the
Great Crome; it is not half the distance and for the greater part down
hill.
_Painter._ That’s pleasant news; but now I’m unconquerable; I’m fit for
any thing.
_Angler._ Come, then, bear away to the left; and what say you to these
ridges that are piled up one after the other?
_Painter._ It is all exceeding wild. These mountains have a noble solemn
look.
_Angler._ But let me think awhile: I have some misgivings. I cannot
resolve me which is our nearest way; let us try this wild path to the
left.
_Painter._ Nay, Master, if you have lost your reck’ning over these Alps,
we shall chance to sleep under this ‘most excellent canopy, the air.’
But stay; what is yonder?—a lonely cottage on the next brow. So fortune
has helped us at a pinch.
_Angler._ ’Tis some poor peaceful shepherd’s cottage; let us go forward
and knock! Holloa! within there!
_Shepherd._ Who’s there? how now, my lads!
_Angler._ Good even, master: can you tell us the way to Hartington?
_Shepherd._ To Hartington, good gentlemen? marry can I, ’twere strange
else: old Racing Harrison might bring you across these mountains
blindfolded, if need were.
_Angler._ Pr’ythee tell us, if we are to take to the left hand?
_Shepherd._ Ay, to the left, through yon slipstyle; and mind to keep the
Crome on your right: but stay awhile; I’ll fetch my staff, and go along
with you.
_Painter._ We thank you: but first let us offer you a cup of good wine;
and if it please you, I’ll put this cold pie on the settle at the door,
for supper, when you come back. And now who’s for a pipe?
_Angler._ I—and all. Come, Master Shepherd, try my Virginia.
_Shepherd._ I thank you, gentlemen travellers; and now this way, for the
evening comes on.
_Painter._ You seem to have a hearty old age; you step like a yonker.
_Shepherd._ Ay, Sir; the time has been, when I was huntsman’s groom to
the noble Earl’s father, I could scale these hills from morning till
sunset, and tire down the stoutest buck.
_Angler._ Then you have served the great family of Cavendish?
_Shepherd._ That, Sir, has been my pride these many a year, in peace and
war. I followed the Earl’s noble brother, General Charles, to Grantham,
and was close to him at the battle of Gainsborough, when the rebel Noll
forced him and his unbroken Lincoln troop into a quagmire. I myself
heard him refuse quarter from so seditious a crew, and saw him cast his
blood that flowed from his wounds into their faces, and so he died as he
lived, one of the most loyal cavaliers and servants of the late king.
After that I was made ranger hereabouts: but now I am three-score years,
and some of the ailments of age have come upon me; so I tend my little
flock of sheep, and pay my honourable Lord a peppercorn for rent.
_Painter._ Are these lands hereabouts the Earl of Devonshire’s?
_Shepherd._ That are they for miles and miles. He’s a little king in all
this country, and a right royal master to old Racing Harrison. Now look
ye, Gentlemen, the path lies between these two hills; and when you come
to another slipstyle at the bottom, you are to hold right on, till you
see stars twinkle through the hole in the top crag of the Crome.
_Angler._ Ay, now I remember. Thanks, honest Shepherd, and good even to
you.
_Shepherd._ Good even, young Gentlemen; and will you please give an old
man his license? Ah! memory tells us youth is a slippery time; and every
step you take shall bring you nearer or wider the way of heaven. We
shall not meet again on these hills; but when the last trump shall
sound, may we all be found with the mark on our foreheads.
_Painter._ Amen to that pious wish. And now a hearty farewell, and
thanks for your safe conduct. Trust me, we shall remember honest _Racing
Harrison_ of the hills.
_Shepherd._ I thank you, good Gentlemen; and may peace be with you.
Away! for night draws apace.
_Angler._ Brother, there was something touching in that old Shepherd’s
parting words. But see, we are now come behind the Great Crome.
_Painter._ Is it possible? and so soon! You promised to make the way
shorter, and well it is so; for those golden lights from the setting sun
bid good even to the landskip, and the valleys are thrown into an
opposition of deepening shadows.
_Angler._ ‘_En avant_’ is the word, seeing how the evening closes around
us.
_Painter._ Why, what a conjuror are you! Sure we are come again to
Glutton Dale, or I’m mistaken?
_Angler._ The same; and here you will pass into Stern Dale, and then by
Crowdey Cote, and Ludwell, where we are now arrived; and so you are
within a mile of Hartington.
_Painter._ Why, this is excellent! and now methinks I see Hartington
Church. Ho! ho! I’m off my legs.
_Angler._ Come, Sir, one more stretch, and then we’re at home; so be a
man;
‘Jog on, jog on the footpath way,
‘And merrily hent the style a,
‘Your merry heart goes all the day,
‘Your sad one tires in a mile a.’[71]
_Painter._ Trust me, never was pilgrim gladder to see the goal of his
journey, than I shall be to find myself at Alstonfields.
_Angler._ Well, my good companion, we have had a lusty walk, that’s
true; and now give me thine hand, for here we are come to our inn.
_Host._ Gentlemen, my humble service to you both. You must be weary.
_Painter._ Let me tell you, I’m nigh exhausted, for I have never made
such a march till now; but every thing I have seen hath exceeded my
hopes; indeed, I am transported with love towards your moorlands, and
the River Dove.
_Host._ I am happy to hear you say so.
_Painter._ And now let us take a light supper, and then to bed; for I
see Mr. Marsh has prepared a dish of trouts for us, so let me serve you.
_Angler._ I’m quite willing: for, to speak the truth, I’m no less weary
than yourself; and, moreover, we have a long day before us to-morrow;
for our purpose is to sleep at Ashbourne.
_Host._ Gentlemen, I shall be sorry to lose your company. I wish I could
detain you by the Dove till Mr. Cotton’s return; and he’ll be grieved to
hear how he has missed the pleasant acquaintance with such lovers of the
angle.
_Angler._ And, I pray you, let him understand ‘_how we fished his stream
by inches_,’ and do not forget our thanks to him for this liberty in his
absence.
_Painter._ And how we were enchanted with the sylvan prospects about his
house and grounds, and all the ornaments in that temple of his,
dedicated to anglers.
_Host._ Sirs, you may depend I shall.
_Angler._ And, moreover, do you tell him how we walked to Dove-head, and
there graved on a flat stone that covers the fountain, the first letters
of his and Mr. Walton’s names, in honour of their mutual friendship.
_Host._ Indeed!
_Painter._ Ay, as like as possible to the cipher that is over the
fishing-house.
_Angler._ And this out of respect to him and Mr. Walton; and so he may
find that inscription any day he is willing to travel thither.
_Host._ Sirs, I am not able to express my thanks for all your kind
thoughts of my dear and honourable master: and because you hold him in
this esteem, give me leave to present you some serious verses he
composed in the last days of a cold winter; they are writ with his own
hand, and have never been in print.
_Angler._ Nay, Mr. Marsh, is it possible you are in earnest?
_Host._ Sir, wait but a moment, and I’ll go fetch them.——
And here they are at your service.
_Angler._ Indeed I may not rob you of such a treasure.
_Host._ Sir, my heart is overpowered. Here I have preserved them for two
years past; but you are welcome, and none so worthy to receive them as a
gentleman that entertains such thoughts of the writer. They will be safe
in your good keeping, and I beseech you to take them.
_Angler._ I know not what I should answer.
_Host._ Sir, they are freely yours.
_Angler._ A thousand thanks, most kind and worthy Mr. Marsh, for so
precious a gift: it shall be preserved as a memento of these happy hours
we have spent about Beresford Hall. Look you, brother.
_Painter._ I wish you joy.
_Angler._ I am in haste to read them.
_Painter._ Pray do so. I long to hear them.
_Angler._ I perceive they are verses on
OLD AGE.
Why should fond man to his owne wrong,
A weary life seeke to prolong
By those detected cheats of art,
That only add unto the smart,
The growing malady and paine
Of life, of which wee so complaine?
As if there could bee a new way
To make things prosper by decay;
As if a tree showld wider spread,
By loosing sap, its graceful head;
Or higher towards heaven shoot,
For being hollow att y^e root.
Med’cine helps old men only so,
As burnings are allay’d by snow,
Which often makes us worse endure,
Cheating the paine itt cannot cure;
And to death only mends our pace,
As painting sooner spoiles a face.
But say wee could, when once grown old,
Our ruines by such props uphold,
Who would, to his own peace untrue,
His lease of misery renew?
The young, who in soft pleasures live,
May well solicite a reprieve,
When death does threaten, since they doe
Nothing but life and pleasure know.
But they to whom living alone
Is hourely execution,
Should not evade methincks the cure
Of all the doloures they endure.
What, when cold cramps our limbs invade,
When nature’s visibly decay’d,
When all our youthful vigour’s gone,
Sight, hearing, taste, complexion
Are fled, and faded, when all sence,
Nay worse, when all intelligence
(Which only human life does blesse)
Is turn’d into forgettfulnesse,
Or sees but in a magic glasse,
The ayery fine young thing it was,
What is there then, O then I say,
Should make us longer wish to stay?
’Tis not the palsey, nor the gout,
The tissick, nor the numerous rout
Of ling’ring paines old men best name,
Which we can rationally blame.
Old age itself is the disease,
Whose wretched traine consists of these.
For as health, vigour, beauty, grace,
Gayetie, and disposednesse,
Make up its spritely equipage
T’ our morning and meridian age;
So is old age attended by
All sorts of paine and misery,
More faithful followers by farre
Than th’ other briske attendants are,
Who falsely with our fortunes fly:
These never leave us ‘till we dye.
Age is th’ effect: of time, and course,
In which, alasse, there’s no ressource;
Art, that is so ador’d, and great,
Can here but little glory gett,
Who, where faint nature does refuse
T’ assist, must needs her credit loose.
Physic itself, that sowv’raigne friende,
To humane kind must misse her end,
And short in her endeavour falls
With all her herbs and mineralls,
And but afflicts y^e patient more,
In weak’ning what shee can’t restore.
Cease then, old man, thy fate t’eschew,
As youth has had, give age itt’s due,
Lye downe, and dye, and so make roome
For him whose turne ’tis next to come.
CHARLES COTTON.
_Painter._ They are excellent verses; but of a melancholy cast.
_Angler._ The best of us will sometimes be oppressed with sad
forebodings. Mr. Marsh, you have laid a lasting obligation on me.
_Host._ Sir, not another word, I beseech you; but if I might make so
bold, I have one request to make of this gentleman who is so skilful a
limner.
_Painter._ What is it? for trust me it is already granted, if it’s
within my poor ability.
_Host._ Sir, it is that I might have a design of my master’s
fishing-house, in black and white, from your pencil.
_Painter._ Most willingly, and I’m happy to make any return for your
civility to my brother.
_Host._ Sir, I thank you; and here is an ancient letter of my late
mistress, Mr. Cotton’s mother, that she once writ to the steward at the
Hall; and perhaps this gentleman will read it aloud: and it is quite at
your service, if you will be pleased to accept it.
_Painter._ Indeed, I am greatly beholden to you. Now, brother, do you
read the letter, and I will draw a copy of the fishing-house out of my
blank book.
_Angler._ With all my heart—here it is:
‘HONEST WILL,
‘I wonder I heard not from you the last weeke. I send you an accompt
of my wants: pray get so much money as you can, and brew the
half-hogshead of strong beare, and put it into the little house’
(_that is the Flambeaux Tower you saw_) ‘and one hogshead of small,
which will require four strikes of mault, 2 for the strong, and 2 for
the small: and I desire your wife to doe me the favoure as to brew
them herselfe; remember to do it speedylie before hott weather comes,
for I shall be verie speedily in the countrie. Send me Jack’s height,
that I may buy his coats fitt, and the height of my owne chambre, that
I may fitt my bed. Desire your wyfe to looke in the trunke where my
work lies, and send mee one that is fully finished, and one that is
not, of the quishions in Irish worke, and the broad peece of quishion
canvis, 2 yards broad that is unwrought; let mee know how my garden
grows, and tell John Gardiner that if I do not finde my gardens in
ample maner when I come, that hee and I shall not bee friends: bid him
send word if he would have any thing sent down for them. Mr. Upton
remembers him to you and your wife, and desires to know whether his
meare bee brought in bed or noe, and I desire to knowe how my black
damsell doth; pray get your own horses in good case, in case I send
for you, or you are to meet mee: remember mee to all my friends, but
especially to John Hayes, John Basset, Dic Ball, and tell him I will
bring his cognizance with mee. Let us get the blew coate where wee
can; desire your nephew to looke in my trunk of books, and there you
shall finde a large booke in writing with a parchment cover, blotied
on one side with inke towards the nooke of it, its of preserving &
conserving, & send it up by this bearer, by whome I think I shall send
you further newes of my coming downe, if Mr. Parker be not the cause;
but however doe what I have desired. Send me word what’s become of
that gratious elfe Pud; so I rest,
‘Your loving M^{ris}
‘OLIVE COTTON.
‘my blessing to the two
comrades that keepe the
rabbits, Jack & Bilburd.
‘Maye the 19^{th}
1650.’
‘For my trustie servant
William Grindon at
Beresford, this with
care & speede
Staffordshere.’
_Painter._ What a primitive kindness of nature there is in every line. I
declare to you, brother, it is more deserving to be treasured up in an
angler’s cabinet than those Latin epistles I have seen of famed Mistress
Anna Maria Shurman.
_Angler._ It is the letter of a careful and benevolent mistress.
_Host._ Ay, Sirs! and that she was indeed. Alas! if she had lived long
enough, it had been happier for Mr. Cotton. But she was snatched away,
like a too delicate flower, as she was.[72] Will it please you, Sir, to
receive this letter? for I have some others by me.
_Painter._ I thank you heartily, Mr. Marsh, and I may not decline a
kindness so freely offered; and here is my copy of the fishing-house,
which is not worthy to be called a return for such a gift.
_Host._ Sir, my humble duty and thanks to you, and if ever you come this
way again, and it please God I live, you shall then find this natural
view of the fishing-house glazed and hanging up over my parlour chimney.
_Angler._ Well, I hope some happy day we may all meet here again: and so
let us to bed, and pleasant dreams to every one.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]