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.
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.’—
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:
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.
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,—
‘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 yt 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,
‘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.
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?