Painter. Why, Sir, your faithful memory is like a casket, well stored with curious gems, that you unlock at will to embellish your discourse withal: and now here is my picture of Spittle Hill.

Angler. It is an obvious copy of nature, and a sweet view over Ashbourne.

Painter. The brow of such a hill gives the advantage of a large prospect.

Angler. And now, if you please, we may follow the steps of these gentlemen riders, and descend into Ashbourne.—See, we are come to the town, and here is the River Henmore, that runs under this stone bridge; and this is the way to the market-place.

Painter. What is there? methinks I see an ivy bush; and the sign of an inn.

Angler. That is the Talbot, and a very decent hostelry; so let us ‘drink a glass of barley wine at the Talbot, and away,’ after the example of Mr. Cotton and his new friend.

Painter. With all my heart. Was this Mr. Cotton’s Inn?

Angler. Aye, truly. What, oh! good man, will you please to bring us a cup of ale?

Painter. Come, brother, here’s to Mr. Walton, and his adopted son, Mr. Charles Cotton?

Angler. I thank you for that pledge; and here is my loving service to you.

Painter. And now let us be gone; for since we are come into this valley, I am all impatience to find your River Dove, which, methinks, should be hereabouts.

Angler. Not so fast, Sir; we must climb that steep hill on the other side of the town; and after that we have some hours before we shall see the most pleasant river in England.

Painter. How! methought Ashbourne was close upon the margin of the Dove!

Angler. It is but a furlong or two off; nevertheless we have to make a circuit before we come to that most delightful of rivers; for trust me the road to Beresford Hall is over ‘an odd country.’

Painter. It was but now you promised I should see ‘such alluring scenes, decked by Nature’s hand as to be little spots of enchantment;’ and now you tell me I must be satisfied to see an odd country!

Angler. Nay, good brother; remember how you are to exercise the meekness and patience of an angler; and you shall confess, when you see my Dove, that it ‘covers the faults of the road;’ and so let me persuade you to breast the hill.

Painter. Well, Sir, lead on; and I shall endeavour to be even with you.—Heigho! at last we are clambered up.

Angler. It was done with a gamesome spirit, worthy of an angler.

Painter. But it has made me pant: and here’s a shady ash tree, so let us rest awhile, that I may recover myself.

Angler. With all my heart; and stretch our limbs on this green bank: and I may tell you, this pretty spot is Sandy Brook.——And now, if you are rested, let us not loiter, but hither away to the left, down by this green lane.

Painter. I am with you; but what have we here? another swift bubbling stream, that flows over a rocky bed, and is scarce a foot deep.

Angler. ’Tis Bentley Brook, that whirls hastily along to meet her playmate, the Dove.

Painter. And, by my word, a very pretty rivulet it is.

Angler. I have Mr. Cotton’s authority to say, ‘it is full of good trouts and graylings, but so encumbered with wood in many places as is troublesome to an angler.’

Painter. Whereabouts does it rise?

Angler. That I cannot resolve you; but you are not to wonder if the stream comes to us, as you now see it, like to transparent crystal: for the flowering wells of Tissington empty themselves, with a constant freshness, into Bentley Brook.

Painter. Those Tissington Wells, which are flowered on holydays by the country folk?

Angler. The same; and of a singular clearness; nay, they are more transparent than the silvery waters of famed Sabrina, where

and, indeed, I have sometimes seen on Holy Thursday such dainty devices of flowers wrought by rustical artists at Tissington, in roses, and violets, and marygolds, and lady-smocks, as I could not but admire how it was all contrived; and for this the country folks and shepherds scatter themselves, some days before, in busy cheerful companies, like bees, over the hills and down the dales, to cull their stores of wild flowers; and every one willingly robs his garden, for a contribution to the bowers and arbours that overhang the wells: and there they weave them into curious inventions of mottoes and scripture texts. And when the happy holy morning breaks, they come together to church; and after service they walk, with their loved and loving parson at their head, in a procession round about their ornamental wells, with music and singing of psalms: and so they pass the rest of the day in innocent mirth and country sports. And I may tell you, the many-coloured flowers of Dove Dale are offered for a tribute to this calendar festival.

Painter. You have made we wish and resolve to see this well-flowering, come next Holy Thursday; and I shall love those sacred springs the better, since they help to crystallize the waters of Bentley; for I have not seen a more inviting brook.

Angler. I will not say we shall come to clearer streams; nevertheless, I hope we may walk and angle by some others that are as good: but thither she hurries on her way, rejoicing and being rejoiced; and I warrant she will find the Dove before you and I may do so. But come, here is another hill before us, hard by Thorpe Cloud; and I’ll requite your patience by a vernal prospect. Follow me but a step to the left, and now what say you?

Painter. Bless me, what an unusual landskip.

Angler. There before you are the mountains in Staffordshire over against Ilam; and yonder the Dove, which glides far off through the valley by Oakover Bridge,—and after that meanders as far as Mayfield. There you may see hill and dale, and green pastures, with their thronging flocks and herds. Now tell me, Sir, is not merry England a place most fit for free-hearted gentlemen to live in? And he that makes a journey throughout the different regions of our land shall meet a thousand vales as pleasant as this we now see: nay, some I could name are better, where you may look on all the diversity of golden corn fields, and pastures, and vallies and hills, rivers and plains; and round about many fine country mansion-houses, and bright steeples, gleaming through village-woods; and in the cities high cathedrals and collegiate churches, more venerable and sacred by reason of their daily appointed services and chaunts.

Painter. But a man may travel some miles ere he shall light on a finer champagne than this before us. It calls to my mind how the prophet, from the top of Mount Pisgah, in the field of Zophim, lifted up his eyes, and saw Israel abiding in his tents according to their tribes, and said, ‘How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob! and thy tabernacles, O Israel! as the valleys are they spread forth, as gardens by the river’s side, as the trees of lign-aloes which the Lord hath planted, and as cedar-trees beside the waters.’ Long may the people of Britain be holy and stedfast in the church, and loyal to their king! then shall they resemble the tribes of Israel, having, as it were, ‘the strength of an unicorn; they shall eat up the nations, their enemies, and shall break their bones, and pierce them through with their arrows.’ Then they shall ‘couch, they shall lie down like a lion, and as a great lion; who shall stir them up?’ Then ‘blessed is he that blesseth thee, and cursed is he that curseth thee.’ But what have we here, that is like a huge conical barrow? Let us climb to the top, that we may get a wider prospect of the landskip.

Angler. The same Thorpe Cloud you saw so towering in the distance from Spittle Hill; but he now appears under another aspect, and before you could scale the height you must needs descend into a deep valley which lies between us.

Painter. Say you so? I can scarce believe it; for the distance looks to be less than a bow-shoot.

Angler. It is, nevertheless, true; and yonder, to the left, is Bunster Hill, in Staffordshire, that is like the back of a gigantic elephant: and between these two mountains flow the happy streams of the Dove; and that to the right hand is Black Moor: we have but two miles hence, and then our Dove.

Painter. If so, let us mend our pace; but tell me, is this the way Mr. Cotton brought his friend?

Angler. The same; and all the while he entertained him with a discourse of the trouty rivers of his county of Derby, as, namely, the Dove, the Wye, the Derwent, and the great Trent, that wanders through many rich towns and forests, until it loses its name and waters in the sea.

Painter. And is all Mr. Charles Cotton’s treatise of fly-fishing in the form of a dialogue?

Angler. Aye; and full of pertinent observations and exceeding plausibleness.

Painter. Although I am willing to confess Mr. Walton’s Angler to be a most persuasive book, because he knows how to qualify his discourse with all kinds of graceful changes and descriptions; yet methinks Mr. Cotton had no need to model his writings after the unusual example of a dialogue.

Angler. By your leave, not so unusual; for have you forgot the many patterns that almost every age hath produced, of treatises, both learned and witty, in the form of colloquies? Let me bring to your mind that most subtle and philosophic dialogue, the ‘Symposiac, or Banquet’ of Plato, the most learned of the Grecians, wherein his master, Socrates, is made to discourse with a wisdom that seemed to be a scintillation of divine truth. And not only Plato’s ‘Banquet,’ but his ‘Alcibiades,’ and others, so full of invincible arguments in support of virtue, as charmed the understanding of that age.

Painter. Well, if you will go back to ancient times, there are Tully’s five days’ disputations at his retired Tusculan villa with Marcus Brutus, where he persuades his hearers by the most notable arguments to the contempt of death.

Angler. And what say you of that banquet of Xenophon, at the Athenian festival of Minerva? for he gives us to understand how, after the show was finished, as he walked out of the city, he fell in with Socrates and others, discoursing together, and invited them civilly to supper; which they accepted, and went with him to his house at Piræus.

Painter. I remember; and there they entertained each other with learned and profitable conversation.

Angler. But neither the philosophy of Socrates and Plato, nor the eloquence of Tully, could match with that exalted wisdom of the apostolic fathers and doctors, who have delivered to the Church the most clear interpretations of holy writ. And some of them unlocked the boundless treasures of celestial truth, and pointed the way to heaven, through the shadowings and darkness of error, by the medium of colloquies. As Hermas (who was the friend of St. Paul, that great apostle of the Gentiles) in his ‘Pastor or Shepherd.’

Painter. Have not some learned men of our times, and, indeed, of the ancient fathers, questioned the authority of that book of Hermas?

Angler. I may not deny that the cautious judgments of some are yet divided upon it: but Irenæus, Origen, and others, have pronounced it to be ‘a very profitable book,’ and it was appointed to be read in many of the earliest christian churches.

Painter. I believe it is true, that Hermas was the friend of St. Paul, and is thought to have sealed his holy life by a glorious martyrdom.

Angler. And it is certain his book was composed in the form of a dialogue: for he declares how, when he had prayed at home, and was sat down upon the bed, an old man came to him in the habit of a shepherd, clothed with a white cloak, having his bag upon his back, and his staff in his hand, and saluted him; and thereupon they most lovingly conversed together: for the shepherd instructed him what things he was to avoid, and what good works to perform, that he might be saved.

Painter. And what followed?

Angler. Then Hermas, from time to time, questioned the holy shepherd with a modest confidence, and asked an explanation of many sublime points of our belief, that were then to him an incomprehensible mystery, all which the accostable stranger revealed to him, speaking with authority and wisdom: and so they continued to discourse, until the pastor rose up and departed.^[15]

Again I will put you in mind how, in a later age of the church, holy Justin Martyr records a most learned and spiritual dialogue, which he held at Ephesus with one Trypho, a Jew, wherein he sets forth his own first blessed conversion to Christianity. For, having in vain sought after the knowledge of the true God in the schools of the Stoics and Peripatetics, and found them to be unsatisfying to the high desires of his soul, he gave himself up to solitude and meditation: and, in one of his retired walks on the sea-shore, meeting with an aged person of a mild and reverend aspect, he entered into a conversation with him. Then he told the stranger how fervent a zeal was kindled in his breast to come to a perfect intelligence of the nature of God, and so fell to a commendation of the study of philosophy. Whereupon the venerable Trypho endeavoured to cure him of his ignorant admiration of Plato and Pythagoras, and exhorted him to an examination of the writings of the Hebrew prophets, as being more ancient than any of those heathen philosophers; and by his admonitions and clear arguments he opened to him the joyful knowledge of the sacred mysteries of Christianity. Above all things, he persuaded him to pray that the beams of heavenly light might shine on his benighted soul; for that the truths of the Gospel must be spiritually discerned through the power of God.

Painter. Did Justin continue his acquaintance with the stranger, whose calm and meek way of discoursing had persuaded him to a better judgment of divine things?

Angler. After that first meeting he never saw him again; but he was stirred with a holy desire to attain a more familiar knowledge of the prophets, and his wishes soared up on high; and at last he was convinced that he had all along wandered in darkness, and that the Holy Scriptures contained the only true philosophy.

Painter. All this brings to my recollection some other examples of books composed after the form of conversations: as namely, Petrarch’s imaginary dialogues between himself and Augustine, where the saint endeavours to withdraw the poet from the willing thraldom of his love for Laura, and to persuade him to the study of wisdom, as alone capable to bestow true liberty: and, again, the facetious Colloquia of Erasmus, so full of wit and biting satire; and the ‘Anatomie of Abuses whipped and stripped,’ by the precise Mr. Stubbes, proceeding from his own dogmatical whimsies.

Angler. Then, forget not the three books of colloquies, on the art of shooting in great and small pieces of artillerie, written in Italian by Nicholas Tartaglia.^[16] And again, that royal dialogue of riding the great horse, composed in the French tongue, by Monsieur Antoine Pluvinel;^[17] and I can declare it to be a most courteous, gentle, and ingenious conversation between the young King Louis, the Duke of Bellegarde, and Monsieur Antoine himself. With what a rare eloquence does he commend and teach the art of making demivoltes, cabrioes, and courbettes, with all the other graceful motions on horseback, most fit for gentlemen of quality!

Painter. And his book is adorned with excellent copper cuts by Crispin Pass, the ingenious engraver of those living effigies of the Heröologia.

Angler. The same: but I forbear all further mention of dialogues, except a little book I lately saw at the house of an ingenious and modest friend, dwelling in Chancery-lane, in London, who is a constant lover of Mr. Walton and his art of angling, and endeared to many of his professed disciples; and hath been so exact and skilful a promoter of letters, as to be called Aldi discipulus Anglus, as witness the sign of the Dolphin and Anchor, engraved on the title of his imprinted books, after the fashion of Aldus Manutius. And because he has a happy fortune in the discovery of ancient books, you may find at his house a store of all kinds. It was a few days before my last departure from London, I made him a visit, when he conducted me into his parlour, to show me his little cabinet of rarities: and there, after some cheerful conversation on fishing, when I told him I purposed my summer travels to the Dove, he presented me with a letter writ by Mr. Cotton to his ‘dear and worthy father,’ Mr. Izaak Walton.

Painter. Indeed! and I dare believe you treasured it up with your many other written epistles of noted men in your study at home.

Angler. Pardon me; I have made it my companion here in my wallet; and some day I will indulge you with the reading of it, when you are worthy, and put on better thoughts of anglers. But to return to the book I told you of; it is an ancient discourse ‘Of the Nature of God,’ which the writer calls ‘a little treatise of a great argument.’

Painter. The argument was great indeed, and I beseech you proceed to your account of it.

Angler. The work was writ by the learned, pious and painful Bishop of Durham (Morton), who made Dr. Donne the offer of his own benefice, if he would be persuaded to enter into Holy Orders, and so become ‘an Ambassador for the God of glory; that God, who, by a vile death opened the gates of life to mankind:’ and it is fit to tell you that I set the greater store by this book, because I am convinced Mr. Walton hath taken a pleasure in the perusal of it, insomuch as to make the opening chapter of his Complete Angler after that model. It is a conversation betwixt a gentleman and a scholar, who were travelling on horseback from the north, by the same road, to the city of York; and thus it begins—

‘Gentleman.^[18] Well overtaken, Sir.

‘Scholar. You are welcome, gentleman.

‘Gentleman. No great gentleman, Sir, but one that wisheth well to all that mean well: I pray you how far do you travel this way?

‘Scholar. As far as York.

‘Gentleman. I would be glad if I might have your company thither.

‘Scholar. And I, if my company might stand you in any stead.’

Thereupon ensued a gentle and most ingenious conversation: and they argued the mysterious matter of the omnipotency and incomprehensible greatness of God, to their mutual contentment and confirmation in the truth, until they came to Newcastle, where the scholar’s little nag would scarce hold foot with the strong gelding of the gentleman; and so they put up at some honest house where the scholar was acquainted, and were both heartily welcome, ‘and honestly used for their money.’ And there we will leave them to their entertainment and rest,—and cross this meadow of buttercups.

Painter. You have angled me on, and beguiled the way with these colloquies most pleasantly; for we have walked some miles, and I heartily thank you.

Angler. Look, Sir; now you have a view of some rocks before you in a little distance; there are the steep declivities overhanging the other side of the Dove, which is at a great depth below. A few steps more,—and we are come to Hanson Grange.

Painter. It is a pretty sequestered spot; and the house stands on the very brow of the cliff, which is ornamented with wood; and I hope we are arrived at Dove Dale.

Angler. Have patience: not yet, Sir;—this is Nab’s Dale: but turn again this way to the right, for there is Hanson Toot. And look, yonder is the church at Alstonfields; and, I beseech you; deny me not the contrivance of a picture.

Painter. I’ll do it cheerfully; and the hills array themselves to an advantage. What a general harmony is in the works of nature! Here, by a few lines, with seeming carelessness put together, even those bleak and craggy hills are made to the congruity and order of beauty; and the aspect of the church on the hill is pretty for a distance.

Angler. And when you are come there, you shall find a retired village, and a decent house of entertainment; where we may have supper and a clean bed.

Painter. Was it there Piscator cheered his companion after his journey?

Angler. Not so: for Mr. Cotton conducted him to his handsome seat at Beresford, and there you may believe he made amends, as he promised to do, for bringing him ‘an ill mile or two out of his way;’ for he gave him a hearty welcome; and after that they made no strangers of each other, but with good Moorland ale and a pipe of tobacco passed an hour or two in conversation before they went to bed.

Painter. And I am ready to do the same; so let us be going, for there is my poor copy of Alstonfields church.

Angler. It is the church itself, and those distant hills, that stand behind it with a natural gloom. Come on, Sir.

Painter. Gently, so please you; and let me take care of myself down these slippery stones. How the path winds and turns in a zig-zag! I shall tumble ere I get to the bottom.

Angler. Never fear, Sir! never fear; every slippery stone and every step of the way has a charm for me; for here it was Mr. Cotton travelled with his friend, who was in a strange taking as he crept or slided down.

Painter. And well he might be, for it is an uncouth precipice: it is the land of break-neck.

Angler. A little steep, I grant you; but come on, for methinks we are near ‘the sign of a bridge,’ which is so narrow, Viator thought it was fit only for wheelbarrows, and declared he was inclinable to ‘go over on all fours:’ so look out.

Painter. Nay, Sir; but to look out for any thing beyond my footing, is more than man can do in such a ribble rabble place as this.

Angler. Come, brother, give over this complaining: for, look you, there is the ‘wheelbarrow bridge;’ and listen to the river below. How the noise of her waters falls on mine ear like the voice of melody! Welcome, crystal Dove; for we purpose to cast away some innocent hours in thy cool recesses.

Painter. Now we are safely down; and the river rustles merrily under the bridge, crisping itself into foam. And what hamlet is yonder, on the Staffordshire side, with a cheerful mill?

Angler. That is Mill Dale, and there lies the road to Alstonfields.

Painter. Let us be forward; for the sun sinks down apace,

Angler. Stay a while: if you have any affection for me, you will not pass by this enchanting glen, and leave me no record. Look again—see how the evening gleams linger over the tops of the mountains. I beseech you, sit on ‘this broad stone,’ and draw me a picture.

Painter. This landskip needs a better hand than mine to give the natural fall of the rocks, and throw that bridge and the mill into a deep perspective.

Angler. You are too modest; so pr’ythee begin, and I’ll sit by your side, and repeat you some pastoral verses composed by famed Sir Walter Raleigh.

Painter. Come, then, tune your voice to the air.

Angler. Shall I give you ‘Phillida’s love-call to her Coridon, and his replying?’

Painter. Aye, do so.

Angler. [sings.]

Painter. Sing, I pray you, boldly, that the rocks may answer with an echo.

Angler. I’ll do my best; for the Pastoral is worthy, and full of an innocent love. Let me see if I can remember me how it runs. [sings.]—

Painter. Thank you, thank you; that is a well-tuned gladsome pastoral, and as well sung as it is composed; and I will now confess, this walk to the Dove, and the freshness of the Derbyshire hills, and, above all, the ingenious delight you take in following Mr. Cotton’s footsteps, have put new thoughts into my mind. There is the best picture I can make for you; but I am not a limner to fix those intricate lights and shadows that flit from one rock to another with the passing clouds.

Angler. Truly, Sir, it could not be better composed; and now let us towards Alstonfields, and over the wheelbarrow bridge.

Painter. With all my heart: but not ‘on all fours.’ Observe how the water hurries away, rippling over the rocky bed.

Angler. Ah! saw you that, Sir?

Painter. I saw nothing: what was it?

Angler. It was a hungry trout rose at a fly: now, by your leave, I must have the delight to try my poor skill in the Dove. That trout has transported me beyond discretion.

Painter. You have my permission; so fix your tackling and go to work.

Angler. There again: did you not see him rise?

Painter. I saw him not.

Angler. Well, then, if I have any luck, you shall see him by supper time at Alstonfields.

Painter. I wish you good sport with all my heart, and do you call me if you chance to hook him; meantime I’ll contrive another sketch of these glades and rocks.

Angler. Do not forget to make the Dove a part of your picture.

Painter. And remember, you have promised to requite me with a good trout for supper.

Angler. I said a brace.

Painter. Better and better; so farewell, and good luck go with thee.——

Angler. ——Halloo!

Painter. How now, Brother Piscator?

Angler. Hoi! quickly,—that you may partake of the delights of angling: here is a heavy fish, and my line being slender give me the net.

Painter. Nay, I beseech you, let me land him, that I may have the honour of a helping hand with our first trout in the Dove.

Angler. You shall, and welcome too; but manage him with discretion.

Painter. Trust me: I’m ready—haul him now to the bank; ah, me! he’s gone away again: he was desperate.

Angler. Fear not, I have him safe: I but play with him; see, he begins to tire; and now you may take him: gently, gently—so, ’twas bravely netted.

Painter. Do but look how his belly and sides are spotted with bright red spots.

Angler. It is a goodly fish; but I must give you a brace: and there was another rise under the further bank; wait a moment, and he is mine.

Painter. Then I’ll call you a master of your art, and since you have entertained me with the pleasure of this trout, I’ll go finish my picture of the Dove, for it is worth all my little skill in drawing.——So; how is it with you?

Angler. Here is the brace of trouts I promised you.

Painter. You are as good as your word. And I have not been idle.

Angler. I thank you; they are the very rocks and my Dove; and here is the bridge and, I declare, two anglers landing a trout! So hither away for Alstonfields with merry hearts;

Painter. Step on, brother, for you cannot desire to be at supper more than I do; and now we have trudged up the hill, and are come to the church we saw from Hanson Toot, on the other side.

Angler. And there is the ‘honest alehouse’ I told you of—and see, mine host standing under the porch, ready to welcome loyal travellers to the ‘King’s Head.’

Painter. Kept by ‘Herbert Marsh’—for there’s his name printed in large underneath.