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:

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.

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;

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.

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:

‘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,

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.