So, brother, you are ‘stirring with the lark.’
Angler. Aye, Sir, I have been wakeful this hour and past; and because I heard you were a-bed, I sauntered out awhile, that I might have the enjoyment of the fresh morning.
Painter. And I’ll warrant, you wandered down to the banks of the river, like a crane, to look after fishes.
Angler. You have made a wrong guess for this turn: because after a while I chanced to find myself in the church-yard, and quietly walked up and down.
Painter. Surely that was a sad employment!
Angler. Pensive, so please you, but not sad: and there I met the sexton,—not ‘an ill willer to human nature,’ but an honest good man, who had the key of the church: and I have seldom seen a country church more embellished with rare carving and joiners’ work:—you may believe me, it is quite unmatchable.
Painter. Indeed!
Angler. And Mr. Cotton’s family seat is carved with delicate ornaments; and his armorial bearings chiselled in oak, with a canopy over head, in rich tracery work. Indeed, the whole church, as the baptismal font, and chancel, the pulpit and altar, and a lofty organ, all worthy of those earlier and better ages, when the same spirit pervaded the Church as possessed the heart of Mary Magdalene, who bestowed upon her loved Master that alabaster box of ointment of spikenard, as the most precious testimony of her reverence and affection. For then mankind were of opinion that the houses of God, dedicated to His service and worship, were deserving of all the honour they could pay to them, as being His temples who hath consecrated the Church by His own blood.
Painter. They were better times indeed.—Alas! the day when the separatists of this nation like the heathen of old, ‘raged, and the people imagined a vain thing!’ when ‘the rulers took counsel together against the Lord and against His anointed’—sad workers of pillage, who defaced the sanctuary, stripped the altars, overturned the holy fonts, broke the ornamental paintings of the windows, and rich tracery work in stone, made free booty of the sacramental plate, and stabled their troopers even beneath the holy vaulted roofs, which had wont to resound to the voices of the choirs,—chaunting the praises of God; but then, alas! made to re-echo their unhallowed imprecations against all ordinances and government.
Angler. But fear not, brother.—God is ever with His Church; and hath He not said, ‘I will restore to you the years that the locust and the cankerworm hath eaten?’[33] Believe me, a bright day of joy shall come, when our village churches, and those fair stately ministers throughout the land, and especially their daily services and the appointed festivals, shall be restored as in ancient times.——What! did not God stir up the spirit of the heathen king of Persia to cause His holy temple to be rebuilt after the long captivity of His people in Babylon? ‘Then Joshua and Jerubbabel, and their brethren builded the altar of the God of Israel, and offered the DAILY OFFERINGS, according to the custom, as the duty of every day required, and afterward the continual services of all the SET FEASTS THAT WERE CONSECRATED.’[34] Did the Spirit of God thus kindle the affections of the Israelites ‘as one man?’ And is His arm shortened that He cannot deliver? Then I may never believe that our kings, and the nobles and people of this christian land, and her ‘merchants and traffickers, who are princes and the honourable of the earth,’[35] will ornament their own ceiled houses and tables with the pride of gold and precious things, and leave the temples of their master, who died for them, ‘as a cottage in a vineyard, as a lodge in a garden of cucumbers.’[36]
Painter. I declare, dear brother, your fond hopes make my heart burn within me; and I will believe and pray that our altars and fonts, and the holy sacraments, shall be established in the affections of the people of England: and this branch of the Catholic Church spread her shadowing influence far and near, and carry forth our name and religion to the most distant regions. Then may we see that oneness of the church restored, which holy Ignatius speaks of, when ‘the Presbytery was so fitted together into the Bishop as strings into a harp, and when Jesus Christ was sung in unity of mind, and the ancient one-voiced hymn of love was sung, the people, man by man, being the harmonious chorus.’[37] But no more of this.
Angler. Well then, tell me how you slept.
Painter. To be honest, I was so weary after our walk from Derby, I could not rouse myself till mine host entered my chamber, and told me you were up and drest.
Angler. Well! do not mock at me, if I confess I had many dreams glided into my mind, concerning the Dove and that meek master of angling, Mr. Izaak Walton. And such was the confusion of my thoughts, I was deluded into a belief that I went a-fishing with him.
Painter. Went a-fishing in your dreams, with Mr. Izaak Walton! that’s brave! an excellent conceit!
Angler. It is a truth; and yet by a strange perversity I was ever detained on the opposite side of the river from him; and as he looked upon me with a benevolent aspect, his very garb and gesture were full of primitive composure.
Painter. Worthy disciple of a benevolent master! And there you could peruse the very dress and bearing of Piscator, as you went a-fishing with him. Oh! the mysteries of this craft of angling! And did you converse nothing with the serene old gentleman?
Angler. Sometimes I essayed to speak with him, but he placed his finger on his lip, in token of a mutual silence. Then I dreamed that he caught a basket full of fishes with his worms, and I meanwhile was not able to take one. Whereupon methought I climbed a rock to come at him, that I might have a part in his recreation on the other side the river; but when I would have struggled to go over the rock, I was hindered by an invisible check; and being in danger of falling, I attempted to call out to him for assistance; but then my voice faulted, and I could not persuade him to give me an answer; for he would only beckon me to silence by placing his finger on his lip.
Painter. Ah! ha! ha! And all the while this meek master of anglers went on to ply his art, and catch fishes, and now and then was so condescending as to look upon you with a benevolent aspect?
Angler. Nevertheless methought it uncivil in him not to be more troubled to see me dangling on the rock.
Painter. It was all because of his sweetness and serenity; for doubt not he felt a pity for your unpleasantness: and what other accidents befell you in this pleasant dream of yours?
Angler. I was all in a confusion of thoughts; sometimes I tangled my fishing-harness on the branches of the trees; and after that a great fish carried it all away with the top joint of my rod, just as I thought to land him; then again I found myself on the slippery sides of Hanson Toot; and just as——but here comes the host.
Host. Gentlemen, your servant. I hope you slept soundly, and found the beds to your liking?
Painter. Excellent well: and pleasant dreams to boot: for this gentleman——
Angler. Hush! hush!——your ‘finger on your lip.’
Painter. I understand:—come, Mr. Marsh, let us have a light breakfast, a morning cup of barley wine, with a manchet or two, or an oaten cake, and then for Beresford Hall, and Mr. Cotton’s fishing-house. What are you for, brother?
Angler. I care not if it be ale, or sweet whey fresh from the cheese-vat, so you give me such an oaten cake as we had yesterday.
Host. Gentlemen, here they are at your service.—And now, if it please you, I’ll be your willing guide to Beresford Hall.
Angler. If you are in earnest and your own business will permit, we shall be greatly beholden to you.
Host. I have occasion towards Hartington; and the Hall stands by the road.
Painter. I’m glad to hear it: so, by your leave, we’ll light our pipes, and whiff a counterblast[38] to King James, of peaceable memory. Now, brother, ‘en avant;’ I am ready for as many measures of Derbyshire miles as a reasonable, courteous gentleman may challenge.
Angler. You are mettlesome betimes; and we may chance to put you to the trial.
Host. Sir, two miles will suffice to bring us to the Hall; but I should first tell you there are two ways; one is the coach road, and the other a bridle-way through the Narrow Dale; and this last is the shortest.
Angler. I incline to whichsoever Mr. Cotton travels by, when he is on horseback, because that was the road he took with Viator, when he pointed to the house, and said, ‘This is now like to be your inn for want of a better.’
Painter. If I may choose, let it be whichever will give us the best prospect over Beresford Hall.
Angler. You are in the right, brother: I yield me to your better opinion.
Host. Well, then, Gentlemen, you shall both have your desires, if you will take to the right hand path, which leads to Narrow Dale.
Angler. Now we are out upon the hills, what a spacious prospect is before us! and here’s a sweet-scented morning, fit for honest anglers.
Painter. But what a rocky barren place! and what lines of stone walls, that have cost more money to build than the land is worth!
Host. Give me leave to tell you, Sir, the pasturage hereabouts is very fertile; and you may remember how Mr. Cotton declares ‘these hills breed and feed good beef and mutton.’
Angler. Aye, and make the best cheese that goes to Derby market.
Painter. But you will not deny this to be a lone country of moorish mountains, and no ornament of woods to give them a relief?
Host. Very true, Sir, when you are upon the hills; but down in the dales and glens, and by the banks of our trouty streams, I may undertake to find you some rich landskips, so grown over with shady sycamore, and all kinds of trees, that you will not think it tedious to walk along them.
Angler. And forget not, brother, these are the very scenes, where the two great masters of my art have loved to wile away their cheerful hours, in the most excellent of all recreations, and have been possessed with those happy thoughts which they have recorded in the first and second parts of the Complete Angler. And so long as truth and virtuous inclinations have any power to move the affections, their book shall continue to be embalmed in the judgments of men. Who that has read those pages can wander on the banks of never-ceasing Dove, where they have whispered their silent joys, or tread the paths they have trod, linked in a generous friendship, without some touch of a mutual feeling! But come, Mr. Marsh, we are ready to follow you.
Host. Gentlemen, so please you to turn down this lane; and now we are come to the top of Narrow Dale, look through the opening of the hills, and there is Beresford before you.
Angler. There, Sir, there! what say you now?
Painter. Indeed, a goodly mansion in the distance: and those mountains which bound the prospect rise up with a natural variety, and blend themselves into an harmonious landskip.
Angler. And does not ‘the house stand prettily?’
Painter. Aye, truly: and now, brother, as we approach so near to the object of our happy pilgrimage, I glow with a part of your zeal.—Forgive me that I have been merry against anglers, and couched my doubtful meaning beneath some quips and quibbles. But now I open my heart to you, that I may participate in all your pleasures, and therefore do you guide and govern me, for I am wholly yours.
Angler. And there’s my hand in testimony that I return all your friendly thoughts: and I doubt not you will be better entertained on a nearer acquaintance with Beresford Hall.
Painter. But, methinks, there is something of a Tower.
Angler. Nay, I see it not.
Painter. There, above the woods, to the right of the mansion.
Angler. At the top of the hill?
Host. The same; and it is called the Flambeaux Tower.
Painter. It is all a choice subject, therefore give me leave to make a hasty design.
Angler. In this, brother, you show your love for me. And pr’ythee, mine host, is the Tower of Mr. Cotton’s building?
Host. Aye, Sir, and of free-stone, brought from the quarry that lies a few miles off. But I shall not here enlarge to particulars, because a closer view will testify how it is done by the clearest rules of order.
Angler. But wherefore the name of the Flambeaux Tower?
Host. Sir, I am to tell you that is a fancy of Mr. Cotton’s; for he will often ride a distance from home, to visit the Earl of Devonshire at Chatsworth, or to Haddon Hall, and other great houses, that he may take the pastime of hunting the red deer, and hawking, and such like diversions, as gentlemen in England love to exercise themselves in: so you may believe he will sometimes return to the Hall by night.
Painter. Methinks he should be a skilful rider to trust his neck over these precipices and hills in the dark.
Host. Sir, you may trust my master’s well-bred steeds, and if you could but once see him on horseback, you would have no fears about him: for he has learned to ride the great horse in the schools; and no bounds or faults can move him. And when he is mounted for the field, in his close doublet and large round hosen, with his high boots, he is like a part of his horse, and you would presently ask, ‘what noble cavalier is yonder?’ and I have but this more to say, when I was once in attendance upon him at the Earl of Derby’s with his cast of hawks, I heard the ‘loyal Duke’ of Newcastle,[39] that excellent judge of horsemanship, declare before a great company of gallants that he knew no gentleman who carried himself more gracefully in the manage of a horse than Mr. Cotton. And thus it is, when he is expected home o’ dark nights, my lady will cause the beacon to be lighted at the top of the Tower, that he may have a sure guide across the hills, and an early distant welcome to cheer him.
Painter. A brave thought, and like the beautiful Hero, in ancient story, when she waited impatiently on the rocks for her Leander to swim across the Hellespont, at a great hazard, and only for the sweet short joy of breathing out his love;—then she set up a blazing torch, to be his guiding star through the darkness of the night and the deep waves.
Host. Indeed? now I see why Mr. Cotton will sometimes call it his ‘Hero’s Tower!’[40] and I was too unlearned to understand the reason of it before; but this I know, there is none within the Hall but is ready to bid the master welcome when he comes.
Angler. That I believe; and I remember how Viator says to Mr. Cotton; ‘that your meal is so soon ready is a sign your servants know your certain hours.’ No doubt, they attend upon him with alacrity.
Host. It were strange else; and I would you might see the gladness of the commonalty and poorer sorts that live hereabouts, to have him amongst them;—as on Sundays, when they expect him at the church-door in Alstonfields, at the fix’t hour of service; or on festivals and holidays, when the young men and maidens look for him to be a witness of their country pastimes, and think their May-day games, and Lamb-ale at sheep-shearing feasts, want half their joyfulness, if any accident hinders him;—such is their natural affection for his person. But now, Gentlemen, we are to take this side of the Narrow Dale, for in some parts it is boggy and moory; you may see the path winds by a moderate declivity; and now we are come to the bottom, and here is Beresford Lane; so we may pass under this row of ash trees to the outer gate:——will you be pleased to enter?
Angler. Surely this steep road was cut out of the rock, and here is a young wood about it, which seems to be of Mr. Cotton’s own planting.
Host. Aye, Sir: for he loves the ornamental art of planting gardens and orchards; nay, he hath writ a book of instructions for the same, and caused it to be printed in London.[41]
Painter. Indeed! I knew not he was author of any book, save his Complete Angler.
Host. Sir, Mr. Cotton has produced various compositions: and to say the truth, I know not if angling or books have the greater charms for his vacant hours. Some of his writings are of a poetic cast, and there is one writ in praise of His present Majesty;[42] and, as I have heard, some useful histories have been Englished by his pen out of the French tongue.[43]
Angler. And I cannot doubt his writings reflect the image of his ingenuous disposition, and show his reverence for virtue.
Painter. I hope they do. If they could be opposite to this—which I will not believe, unless you can tell me of your own knowledge,—I should wish that he had not composed them.
Host. And now, Gentlemen, this is Beresford Hall before you.
Angler. On my word, a handsome mansion.
Painter. I did not think to find such a fair house, so adorned with architecture: and what a spacious garden, full of contrivances to please the eye and plantations growing upon the rocks, and those open shady groves and vistos!
Host. Well, Sirs, I am proud to think it is not behind your expectations.
Painter. It hath a choice mixture of natural and composed beauties that I have not often seen surpassed.
Host. And within you will find every thing to be worthy of so honourable a gentleman as my master. By your leave, I’ll go and warn the servants of your coming.
Angler.——Well, brother, what say you to all this? I pray you look at the peaceful walks underneath those yew trees and chesnuts.
Painter. And the structure and workmanship of the house are deserving of note: see you the bear rampant carved in stone over the doorway?——but the host returns.
Host. Gentlemen, you have the liberty to make yourselves welcome: will you please to walk in, and a servant will attend you.
Angler. What a noble hall is here, wainscotted and pannelled in oak, with handsome furniture! Observe this mantel with the Cotton arms carved in oak: and here the family quarterings let into the lattice in ancient coloured glass: and these high chairs and ebony coffers.
Painter. Above all, some exceeding good limnings, and doubtless portraitures?
Host. Sir, they are pictures of the family.
Painter. I pray you, whose is this of so noble a mien?
Host. That is my master’s late father, Mr. Charles Cotton the elder, of Ovingden, in the county of Sussex, who died twenty years are now past. And here is the portraiture of my late mistress: she brought the mansion-house and lands to the Cottons, in right of her mother, who was a descendant of the noble family of Beresford.
Angler. What a sweet modesty of disposition shines in every lineament of her face!
Host. You may believe me her look is but the mirror of her mind; for such was the native meekness, discretion, and innocence of Mistress Olive Cotton, she was a pattern of women, and loved by the poor and rich.
Painter. It is the very image of candour: and the effects of the colours are so true to life, and the lights and shadows disposed with such a knowledge of the art, it is plain they are done by no less a hand than Sir Anthony Vandyke’s. And who is this gentleman with his hunting-dogs beside him, and a hooded hawk on his wrist?
Host. That, Sir, is another of this honourable family, and one who loved hunting and fowling; he it was brought those antlers you see on either side of the mantel-piece, from some distant place in Ireland.
Painter. It is painted in the manner of that noted limner of Queen Elizabeth, Frederico Zuchero; and I incline to believe it represents the queen’s falconer in Ireland, when she commanded Sir Henry Sydney, her deputie of that Realm, to provide the Marquis of Savia, a nobleman of Spaine, ‘with hawkes, doggs, and other such pleasures in exchange for certayne perfumed gloves he presented to her Majesty, much to her lyking and contentation.’
Angler. And mark these ancient spurs, hunting-horns, and bits for bridles, and all kinds of implements for the chase, hanging up by the sides of the windows; and here a bundle of falcons’ hoods, bells, and jesses.
Servant. Sir, next to the diversion of angling, my master loves falconry; and I have seen him cast and reclaim his hawks as skilfully as the best gentleman in the county. He entertained a noble large company of falconers, it is now three months past, and there were so many hounds and horses they could scarcely be provided withal. Nevertheless, my master rather applies himself to the practice of angling.
Angler. That I believe: and here is every kind of harness for fishing: fly rods and nets, and spears for eels.
Servant. So please you, Sir, on those two pegs yonder you may see an old angle rod, that my master lays great store by: it is roughly made, but has killed a huge quantity of trouts in its time; for it belongs to a worthy gentleman, Mr. Izaak Walton.
Angler. Say you so?
Servant. And I have many times seen him with that spliced rod and a little bag of brandlings, with a line and a float for bottom fishing, fill a good sized pannier within a little distance from this, up and down Dove Dale.—Indeed, it is wonderful to see his artful methods.
Angler. I perceive you are well acquainted with his person.
Servant. Sir! he is the most familiar of my master’s friends: I have oftentimes waited upon him a-fishing, when he has visited the Hall, and hope to do so again; for there is none of my master’s guests we are all so pleased to serve; he is so condescending, and always thinks himself obliged. We have a chamber that my master calls ‘Mr. Walton’s own chamber.’
Angler. Indeed! I must tell you I profess myself to be a scholar of his, and we call him the father of anglers: may we, therefore, have permission to see that apartment?
Servant. With pleasure, Sir.
Angler. Come, brother, have you done with your admiration of those limnings? If you please, we may pass on to see Mr. Walton’s bed-chamber.
Painter. I am ready to attend you.
Servant. This way, Gentlemen, to the great staircase.
Angler. Lead on, and we will follow.
Servant. Sirs, here is the chamber I told you of.
Painter. I declare, a goodly apartment; and his bed with handsome coverlid and hangings: and I observe three angels’ heads stamped on the ceiling in relief.
Angler. A fit emblem of the peaceful slumbers of the innocent; and so, I am sure, are Mr. Walton’s. And whose picture is that over the mantel?
Servant. That is my master, Sir; it was painted at Court, and brought last summer from London.
Angler. What a lively expression of eye, and a great sweetness in the lips!
Servant. It is the very look of my master; and I have heard say it was done by the king’s painter, after the expressed desire of Mr. Walton.
Painter. Aye, methought it was the touch of Lely, who hath been so deservedly honoured by his Majesty with the dignity of knighthood.
Angler. And is celebrated by the best poets[44] and wits of the age.
Painter. This portraiture is so delicately limned, and the colours so admirable, it could only be of a master’s hand.
Angler. Beseech you, brother, may not this chamber deserve to be highly esteemed of all anglers; think—here it was Viator had his lodgings, when Mr. Cotton brought him to his house.
Host. There is the very bed where he was promised ‘sheets laid up in lavender,’ and you may be sure he had them.
Painter. And see the pannels of oak-wood in figured patterns over the chimney.
Angler. It is a rich work, and falls in with the rest of the chamber: look at this fine cabinet chiselled in oak and inlaid with paintings.
Host. And here again the lattice windows set with the arms of Beresford and Cotton.
Painter. And whose crest is that? An eagle with wings expanded, argent beaked and legged, and holding in his dexter a belt azure!
Host. That is my master’s crest, and you may see three cotton hanks for arms; that agrees with the name.
Angler. With a chevron azure between.
Painter. And a bear salient, sable armed gules, muzzled and chain’d or.
Host. These are the Beresford arms: and here the quarterings of the noble family of the Stanhopes.
Painter. Stanhope, say you?—Quarterly ermine and gules—How is that?
Host. Sir, you are to note, my late mistress Olive, the mother of Mr. Cotton, was the daughter of Sir John Stanhope, Knt. by the heiress of Beresford.
Angler. I thank you; it is all of a piece, and excellently finished.
Host. Gentlemen, if I may be so bold to remind you, we have many other things which will entertain you for some hours—as the Flambeaux Tower, and the Fishing House, and the River.
Angler. True; our present pleasing thoughts had made us forgetful: but we are ready to follow you.
Host. Then, if you please, we may descend once more to the hall, and so into the garden.——And now I will lead you by this rising ground to the Tower.
Angler. What is here?—a handsome terrace of grass, set round with a double row of trees.
Host. This is the bowling green: if you will take the trouble to look over this parapet, you may see a precipice some hundred feet deep.
Angler. It is quite a gulph, but overgrown with trees and briars. Here is a smooth ground for bowls; and I remember Piscator speaks of this bowling green, and declares himself to be ‘no very great bowler;’ but he says, ‘I am not so totally devoted to my own pleasure, but that I have also some regard to other men’s.’
Host. That was but his modest opinion of himself; for I have seen him play and win great matches at bowls and quoits, both here and on Wolfscote Hill, which is a little distance on the other side of the Dove. But here we have the Prospect Tower: you may see how it stands on the highest top of the rock, and within is an ornamented summer room.
Painter. It is a costly building, and in due proportions of architecture.
Angler. Then I beseech you deny me not a picture, if it be but an outline,—only a memento.
Painter. I am free to do your bidding. And would you have those handsome stone steps and ballusters leading to the porch, and that stone seat near the door?
Angler. Aye, so please you; and do not forget some of those shady trees: but above all, the beacon on the top, which has served his beloved Hero to bring her Leander home, and recalls the olden times of our forefathers: for learned Mr. Lambarde,[45] in his Perambulation of Kent, brings this word from the ‘Saxon Bechnian, which is to call by signe, or beck-on, when they were made of great stakkes of wood, but were ordained by King Edward the Third to be highe standards with their pitch-pots,’ in the fashion you here see it.
Painter. ’Tis worthy of all my little skill: an enchanting spot, and nothing neglected for its adorning.
Angler. Was it built by merry Mr. Rolston?
Host. The same; and those smooth stones were brought from the quarries of Sheen, some miles off; and my master told him to do his utmost; because his resolution was to have a little apartment for his own especial privateness, where he might feast his eye with these prospects, and so retired from the world, that no one might interpose between him and the vein of his thoughts. For he is so inclinable to be in love with books, that he will sometimes pass his day in a continual study.
Angler. I remember, in that poem prefixed to his Complete Angler, he says,
Painter. Well, it is a place, of all others, where a man may create a phantastic world around him, free from all the accidents of fortune. And how tempered in our thoughts and wishes should we all be, if we could oftener regale ourselves with such spiritual repasts of study and contemplation! But come, I have designed the tower in black and white; and now let us within.
Host. This way, Sirs,—and so to the top. Here is the beacon and the marks of the torchlights, that have many a night guided my master on his return to the Hall.
Angler. Look over this mirador, and see the garden below embroidered with roses, and other choicest plants and flowers.
Painter. It is a little paradise: there is such a concealed artfulness in these contrivances, as makes them like a cultivated nature.
Host. This we use to call the garden of the tower, and every flower and shrub hath been planted and watered by the hand of his Countess.[46]
Angler. And here Mr. Cotton occupies many hours with great pleasantness to himself, in writing those histories you spoke of?
Painter. It is not to be wondered at; for so peaceful a spot might well kindle the thoughts of a less cheerful writer.
Angler. But look! what is yonder? a house by the side of the river, in the shade of some trees!
Host. That, Sir, is the Fishing-house.
Angler. And the Dove, ‘that winds through the vale like a snake?’
Host. The same.
Angler. What a sylvan prospect is here! I am transported with the desire of a nearer view.
Painter. Say you so? then let us proceed towards it; for I am no less impatient.
Host. Well, Sirs, now you are come down from the tower, I will bring you to the river, along a by-path.
Angler. Aye, here it is, by the side of that bench of stone underneath the chesnut trees: but have a care, brother, or you may stumble down.
Host. This way, so please you, Gentlemen; by this unorderly path under the ash trees; but look to your heels; for here are high rocks, and somewhat difficult.
Painter. So-ho! Mr. Marsh, I cannot hold pace with you.
Angler. Why what’s the matter, Brother?
Painter. Not so fast; I am like to tip over.
Host. Here, Sir, take my hand, and put your foot on this root; so, you are safely down.
Angler. And here is the Dove! as limpid as the Heliconian springs!
Painter. Come, master, give over your ecstatics, or clothe your thoughts in some poetic lines.
Angler. Stay a while: for I see a little temple before us, fit for the shrine of the muses.
Host. It is the Fishing-house; and I have brought the key, that you may go in and look about you.
Angler. Then I beseech you unlock at once; for I have a passionate desire to put my foot into this retreat ‘dedicated to anglers!’ What do you think of this, brother? ‘is it not prettily contrived?’ mark the cipher carved in the front, on the keystone of the door, which represents the first letters of Mr. Walton’s and Mr. Cotton’s names, underneath those inviting words, Piscatoribus Sacrum, 1674.
Painter. Indeed a choice spot for a-fishing-house!
Angler. Aye, you see ‘it stands in a kind of peninsula.’ And you may remember how Mr. Cotton promised Viator, he should see his fishing-house ‘upon the margin of one of the finest rivers for trouts and grayling in England.’ Mr. Walton’s name and his twisted in cipher declare the near affinity of love between those happy anglers.
Painter. By and by I must make a draught of this, for the neat building, and this grove of trees, and the Dove, make it all a most engaging landskip.
Angler. And now we could only desire one thing more;—to enjoy the company of those loving fishermen, and see them take their recreation, and hear them sing together some choice songs. But come, I am full of expectation for what we may find within.
Host. Gentlemen, the door is open!
Angler. This is marvellously contrived: what a delight for fishers! all the wainscoting covered with landscapes, and cheerful anglers on the banks of the river, sitting in the shade of rocks, or casting their flies into the stream.
Painter. And fishes most delicately painted on the oak wainscoting.
Angler. Aye, spotted trouts, and graylings done to the life.
Host. And here are the portraits of Mr. Walton and Mr. Cotton, on the pannels of the beaufet.
Angler. And indeed very handsome and becoming figures.
Host. Nor could they be more resembling; there is Mr. Walton in his ‘sad coloured suit,’ leaning against a rock, who is now going to bait his hooks; and Mr. Cotton has his fly rod in his hand, and a waiting boy behind with his landing net.
Angler. Is this the portrait of Mr. Walton, designed by the gentleman architect from Nottingham?
Host. The same; then Mr. Rolston undertook to paint this of Mr. Cotton, to be a companion picture to him he loves so dearly.
Painter. I declare I have never seen any thing to please me more. They are worthy of each other.
Angler. Dear brother! I dare not ask you for what I now desire.
Painter. You may dare ask anything I can pleasure you in.
Angler. If you could make me a true copy of all we see here, I would be the happiest man alive.
Painter. I shall do it willingly.
Angler. It is kindly spoke, and that I may entice you to the work, I will read to you that passage in Mr. Cotton’s book, where he brought hither his happy companion.
Painter. Pr’ythee begin, and I’ll prepare the while.
Angler. Well then, you are to understand, Mr. Cotton and his guest being up and drest early the next morning, after their journey from Derby, Piscator said to his boy, ‘Take the key of my fishing-house and carry down these two angle rods in the hall window thither with my fish pannier, pouch, and landing net, and stay you there till we come.’ And then down they went cheerily together, and a delicate morning it was; and when they were arrived at the door, Piscator invited the other to walk in, and there sit and talk as long as he pleased. And Viator declared he was ‘more pleased with this little house than any thing he ever saw: it stands in a kind of peninsula too, with a delicate clear river about it. I dare hardly go in, lest I should not like it so well within as without, but, by your leave, I’ll try. Why, this is better and better, fine lights, fine wainscoted, and all exceeding neat, with a marble table and all in the middle.’
Painter. Here is the very table made out of fine black marble.
Host. Taken from our Derbyshire pits, and as you see, clearly polished, and all rounded at the corners.
Angler. And these chairs, carved in oak, with the handsome pavement in black and white, are all of a piece with the other ornaments.
Painter. He was an exceeding skilful limner, and worthy of Mr. Cotton’s friendship, that painted these prospects and figures; for the hills and rocks are to the very nature, and for the portraits, they are not inferior to any artist of this day; and it was a clear discerning taste imagined all those ornamental fittings.
Angler. And so thought his happy guest, Viator; but Mr. Cotton civilly interrupted his praises, and said, ‘Enough, Sir, enough; I have laid open to you the part where I can worst defend myself, and now you attack me there. Come, boy! set two chairs, and whilst I am taking a pipe of tobacco, which is always my breakfast, we will, if you please, talk of something else;’ and so these affable gentlemen agreed to converse together about fly-fishing in clear rivers: but first of all Viator said to Mr. Cotton, ‘If you will lend me your steel, I will light a pipe the while, for that is commonly my breakfast in a morning too:’ and then down they sat, and Piscator gave him some instructions in making of artificial flies, which I have read attentively, and I may declare them to be worthy of all remembrance and practice by every hopeful angler. And after that away they went to the river for their amusement, and to try the flies they had themselves twisted after nature.
Painter. And what then?
Angler. I think you need not be told that they had good sport of trouts; and the stranger proved himself to deserve the character Mr. Walton gave of him in his first part of the Complete Angler.
Painter. And pray what was that?
Angler. Why, Mr. Walton declared that he was so suitable to his own humour, which is to be free and pleasant, and civilly merry, that his resolution was to hide nothing that he knew from him. And I have no doubt Mr. Cotton entertained the same opinion of him; and so they fished the stream till the servant came to tell them it was dinner time. And Mr. Viator was so allured with the sport, that the next morning he longed to be at the river again; and when he heard the wind sing in his chamber window, could forbear no longer, but leapt out of bed, and had just made an end of dressing himself as Mr. Cotton came in to call him up.——And now I will leave you to yourself; only, I beseech you, as far as your patience will allow you, represent all you see: yet I would not be unreasonable.
Painter. I am so in love with the place, that I hope to satisfy you in every particular; so do you go and catch me a brace or two of trouts.
Angler. That I’ll do willingly, and when your work is finished, come to me and you shall try your luck too. And now, Mr. Marsh, you and I will walk forth and look at the river; good bye, brother, and remember this is to be your masterpiece.
Painter. I’ll do my best to give you pleasure: let me but find you with some trouts when I come.
Angler. Doubt me not; farewell.——
Host. Now, Sir, will you please go higher up the stream?
Angler. With all my heart: but let me untie my angle and line, that I may be ready: and now what fly do you recommend? here is a case, full of all sorts of my own making: but I remember, Mr. Cotton says, ‘they who go to Rome, must do as they at Rome do;’ and as I have a certain sort of pride, and have no mind to be laughed at by that satirical gentleman in the fishing-house, I shall be glad to make a good choice; and I dare say you know the likings and dislikings of the trouts in the Dove?
Host. Well, Sir, I will not put on a false modesty in that matter; and if you’ll let me see your case of flies, I may be able to find one or two will make some execution.
Angler. Here they are.
Host. Aye, indeed! Are these of your own twisting? They are very skilfully done: nay, Sir, Mr. Cotton himself could not tie them better, and I am bold to say you are no stranger to our Derbyshire streams?
Angler. It is not my first season in the Dove by many: and I know something of the Wye and Derwent, and the clear Lathkill too.
Host. Then, Sir, if you can fish in the Lathkill, which is beyond all emulation the brightest water in Derbyshire, and perhaps in England, and breeds the reddest trouts, you must be well skilled in the art; and so I might take you to be from these flies, which for a close imitation of the natural fly are quite masterly.
Angler. I see you would encourage me with a little praise: but pr’ythee which do you recommend: it is early in the season for a GREEN DRAKE, but here is the STONE FLY: or would you prefer the DUN CUT?
Host. Sometimes I have known the GREEN DRAKE to appear before this, and you may depend he will be out in a few days, for I have examined the caddis and they are almost come to maturity; but you cannot have a better fly than this DUN CUT, and it is an excellent piece of workmanship.
Angler. I’ll make the trial of it; and now the wind is whistling, and the water curls merrily, so let us begin.
Host. There, Sir, was a rise.
Angler. Nay, he came short; but there he is again. I have him; so, so; now, Mr. Marsh, for the net: ’twas well landed, and a fine fish it is; but I have seen some in better season—ah! there is another; methinks he’s yet bigger: and now I come to look at him, he’s better fed: and there’s a third! Well, this is a gamesome river.
Host. Indeed, Sir, you have a gentle wrist. I wish Mr. Cotton could see you; he would not part with you for some days; but would entertain you with so many pleasures, that you would be contented to remain at the Hall, and almost forget yourself to be a stranger.
Angler. Would he were here!
Host. Alas! I would he were with all my heart.
Angler. I have the greatest desire possible to see a gentleman endowed with so many accomplishments, and of such a generous spirit. But let us move upwards.
Host. Aye, Sir; yonder, where the river makes a bend, ’tis a deep water, and still; but it is ruffled by a good breeze of wind, and you’ll find some large trouts lie there.
Angler. Wherever you recommend. What a green turfy walk is here! I could almost envy Mr. Walton his angling with a float, to sit on such a bank, and recline himself under the shade of these trees: the grass is so well mowed, ’tis as soft under foot as velvet, and fit for a bowling ground.
Host. Sometimes Mr. Cotton and his friends will have their pleasure here at bowls instead of yonder by the Tower.
Angler. Well, it must take the work of some labouring men to keep all this grass plot so smooth, for there is near two acres of it.
Host. Yes, Sir, the gardeners have enough to do: and this brings to my mind a story of Mr. Cotton—but it is not worth your hearing.
Angler. I pray you let me have it whatever it is.
Host. Well, Sir, I need not tell you my master is the farthest possible from an avaricious man, for his hand and purse are open to the poor; and he will always have his servants well provided: but the cook is sometimes a pinch-crust, and then the servants will grumble. Now it chanced one day, in the last summer, as Mr. Cotton walked down this way to fish, the mowers were cutting the grass badly, and so he cried out to them, ‘How now, fellows! what do you call this? a grass plot or a meadow land? I pray you let me see it better done, and smoothly.’ Thereupon they looked at one another doubtingly, and whispered among themselves: at length one that was known to be something of a dry wit among them, after some little persuasive winks and nods of the others, came forward with his hat in his hand to be their spokesman. Then in a very humble tone, and with something of a facetious look, which always takes with Mr. Cotton, he said,