So because Mr. Cotton has no austerity of behaviour towards the lowest and poorest man that speaks to him civilly, he enquired what his meaning was, and then the truth came out. ‘Well, well, honest man,’ he replied, ‘go to your work, and I’ll presently see to it.’ And so he walked home to the Hall, and there he made a rout at the cook, and ordered a servant to take down provisions enough, and plenty; and in the afternoon he found his rascals hard at work, bending lustily over their scythes. Then he goes and looks at them; and then out steps the poet with his hat in his hand as before, and says to him,

meaning the grass should be cut smooth and fine. So Mr. Cotton laughed at his rustical wit, and said ‘go to—go to, thou art a wag;’ and so he turned away, and took his recreation a-fishing, and I am sure he was more entertained than he chose to tell them.

Angler. They are happy servants to be under a master who is so accostable and sweet tempered.——But here comes the gentleman from the fishing-house.

Painter. So, brother, what sport?

Angler. Excellent good. And how have you sped?

Painter. Those paintings in the fishing-house have detained me longer than I thought; but I have done them with all the correctness I am master of.

Angler. A thousand thanks to you. But look ye, a large fish has come to me: I have him fast; now do you take the rod, and you shall have the praise to kill this trout within view of Mr. Cotton’s fishing-house.

Painter. It may be the ill luck to lose one; for I shall but bungle at him.

Angler. Come, be persuaded, and quickly.

Painter. Well, then, I’ll try a bout with him. Ah me! what an unmannerly glutton it is.

Angler. Point your rod high—keep him with a steady hand; so—it is well done.

Painter. Ah me! how he struggles—there! saw you that tumble he made? Shall I jerk him out?

Angler. Oh, by no means; but have patience: give him his play, and a little more line—so-ho! that’s enough—hold up your rod—there, now wind him up with a discretion, and we shall bring him to land presently.

Painter. Where is the net?

Angler. I have it ready; fetch him round hither.

Painter. There was a tug he gave: I shall lose him—beseech you take the rod again.

Angler. Pardon me, you shall have your sport: worry him a bit: see how he lies on the water—this way, and now you have him, as you well deserve.

Painter. That was exceeding fine sport; I never thought the pleasures of angling were so great. I’m quite hot and confused. He is a handsome fish, spotted red all over. How many have you taken?

Angler. Three trouts; but this last you have so handled like a skilful ‘prentice in the art is worth them all: it is a heavy fish, and see what fine condition he’s in. You shall make another trial lower down the stream, where the water is in rapids. But before we go let me see your paintings.

Painter. There they are; and I was never more in love with my employment, than when I sat in the fishing-house, and saw Mr. Walton and Mr. Cotton looking upon me from the doors of the beaufet. I have endeavoured all I could, (but in vain) to delineate honest Izaak, who looks so meekly.

Angler. Nay; it is an exact copy of yonder portrait: what can be more winning than to see his mute calmness, which only happy anglers know! And Mr. Cotton, whose native disposition shines in that mirthful countenance, which can be no other than his own. What say you, mine host, to this limning; hath my brother caught Mr. Cotton’s look?

Host. Aye, Sir, to the life:—indeed I confess myself surprised how this gentleman hath handled it. And so for Mr. Walton,—you may now declare yourself to be acquainted with his person,—and garb, and gesture.

Painter. I hope you speak freely as you think, and then I am satisfied; and here is the external of the fishing-house, at a near view.

Angler. It is all exceeding good; the lights and shades of this inviting spot painted with a perceptible truth.

Painter. And here is one more which is the fishing-house within doors; and that, I must say, is the best of all.

Angler. I protest this is even beyond yourself. ‘Give me leave to embrace you.’ Why, Sir, it is a matchless piece of art. Look you, Mr. Marsh, there we all are, as like as possible, talking in the fishing-house.

Host. I have never seen such a natural painting.

Painter. Come, come, Sirs;—you so enhance my poor deserts, you make me blush,—indeed you do.

Angler. I speak nothing more than the truth: the colours are admirable, and the whole is breathing with life—and there is the beaufet in small—and the rocks and river, and contented anglers sitting beside them:—every touch of Mr. Rolston glowing with an equal vivacity. I cannot thank you enough.

Painter. Well, brother, the pleasure you express is a full reward for all my pains. So, if you please let us return towards those rocks we passed in our way from the Prospect Tower.

Angler. Most willingly; and there it was I had a purpose in my mind, to put you in the way to catch another trout.

Painter. But what have we yonder, opposite to this bend of the stream? It seems a fantastical place.

Host. That, Sirs, is a green recess, built up by my master, where he will sometimes have his friends to dine in summer, and now and then give them a game of bowls for their entertainment in the cool of the evening. You may see the shelving sides are of soft mossy turf, and made to lean upon at your length. I have often been a witness to the innocent mirth of Mr. Cotton when he has entertained his guests underneath those trees;—as Mr. Alexander Brome,^[47] and Mr. Flatman, of the Inner Temple, in London, and others. And I remember, it is many years now past, (indeed it was that memorable joyful year of the king’s return from his forced exile,) Mr. Walton sent my master word, that he and their mutual friend, Mr. Brome, chancing together to be in Stafford, had challenged one the other to walk on pilgrimage to Beresford, and make free with the trouts in his river Dove. Well do I remember the joy of my master, when he received the letter: alas! methinks those happy days shall never return.

Painter. Nay, Mr. Marsh: it is the permitted liberty of an honest reason to ‘hope all things;’ fortune will sometimes flout the best of men, and lead them forcibly through all sorts of contrary meanders and labyrinths; but she can never deject the spirits of brave christian men.^[48] I beseech you entertain more cheerful thoughts: and did the introduction of Mr. Brome follow this self-invitation of the Stafford pilgrims?

Host. Aye, Sir: and Mr. Thomas Flatman chanced at the time to be a guest at the Hall, a most ingenious and alluring companion, who, as I have heard my master jocosely say, was the happy accepted lover of two mistresses.

Angler. And yet, methinks, in his younger days, he wrote a ballad against the peaceable joys of matrimony.

Painter. Mr. Cotton jested merrily with his friend, well knowing how at once he woo’d the sister arts of Poesy and Painting:^[49] and, indeed, so evenly divided his affections between them, that it may be doubted to which he paid most successful courtship.

Host. Well, Sir, when the message came from Mr. Walton, my master and Mr. Flatman could scarce express the happy thoughts that possessed them; only this I may say, every hour seemed to be an age till the arrival of their friends; and the servants in the house participated in the busy expectation of their coming; and Mr. Walton’s lodging chamber, and one for Mr. Brome were prepared. Then at length these friends had the happiness to embrace each other; and seeing it was in the heat of summer, Mr. Cotton brought them, after dinner, to this recess, and there entertained them with pipes, and fruits, and wine; and because it was soon after the king’s happy and glorious recovery of his throne, they sung some loyal songs, and drank the king’s health in old Canary.

Angler. It was worthy of honest cavaliers; and who is there would not gladly have joined in such a merry-making?

Think, what a happy concurrence of four poets! Methinks I now see them, seated round this stone table, beneath the shadowy sycamore-trees and elms.

Painter. Four poets, say you? Thou hast a creative fancy; for Mr. Walton was but a writer of prose; notwithstanding, I am ready to grant his images of rural life are as poetical as any in our language, and his Compleat Angler a continued pastoral, abounding in natural refinement—nay, equal to those of Phineas Fletcher^[50] or Michael Drayton.^[51]

Angler. Doubt not, Sir, that Mr. Walton may claim his niche in the Temple of the Muses: and indeed, of all those who sung joyful quartettos that day within this recess, he had as clear a title as any to be crowned with the bays of Parnassus: for when you read, as I hope you will do, the ingenious poems of loyal Mr. Brome, you will find in the prefix of friendly encomiums bestowed upon it, a most joyous eclogue of Damon and Dorus, and writ by Mr. Walton that very day of the King’s Majestie’s restoration; indeed, I cannot give it a higher testimony of praise than that it is worthy of his fertile pen; and thus it begins;

Painter. I say Amen: and may we always ‘have our laws and have our King!’ and now let us walk higher up the stream, which may vie with the poetic Castalia as the happy resort of the Muses.

Host. Gentlemen, you will find the river very pleasant below, and when you are across the bridge by that rock, not many steps past the fishing-house, you will suddenly find yourselves in Derbyshire.

Angler. I am ready for any thing, where all is so full of pleasure.

Host. And now that we are come to it, so please you, I’ll take my leave, for I have business at Hartington: and here is the wallet with a store of provisions for dinner; and so, Gentlemen, my humble service to you; I wish you good luck a-fishing.

Angler. Farewell.—Now, Brother, let us cross to the other side into Derbyshire, for so Mr. Cotton did with his friend Viator, and promised ‘a good fish should fall to his share.’

Painter. I pray you stay yet a moment within this prospect, for I am wholly possessed with some peaceful thoughts, that I would not drive away for any recreation you can promise me. There is a murmur of the waters over that ledge of rock, which keeps time with a musical measure, and invites us to linger on the margin.—Think how many thousand years the Dove has flowed along this rocky dale, and shall flow for ages yet to come. So God provides for the sustaining of His works;—‘He sendeth the springs into the valleys—He watereth the hills from His chambers.’^[53] And as the River is to the natural world, so is the Church to God’s spiritual people on earth. In the first beginnings flowing from the fountain of the precious blood of His own eternal Son:—alas! a little despised stream that burst forth from Calvary; but destined by His mysterious will to flow through the world, gathering into herself and purifying all the tributary branches to swell her into an unknown dignity and grandeur.

Angler. And who can express the blessings she hath imparted to the nations by her administration of holy sacraments, and united worship, according to the inspired oracles, moulding her children, after the pattern of their Saviour, in innocency and love. Think of the happy multitudes who have been warned in her sacramental element, as the appointed laver of regeneration! Think how her ordinances and harmonious doctrines, her ministry and her creeds, founded by the holy apostles, have been the sufficient cure of all heartaches and corroding cares, the refuge of all unquietness, and the very bond of unity to all Catholic Christians scattered over the world!

Painter. And as she hath proceeded onwards from the distant apostolic ages, bearing the image of Christ, so she will continue to be the mother of all, who are baptized into His death.

Angler. And notwithstanding profane seceders, turning to their own inventions, shall fall away, and vainly hope to stop her course, and sully the purity of her streams; still the promise is sure, and she shall flow on with her unceasing tide, until at last she shall pour all her collected waters into the boundless ocean of eternity.——But come, let us pursue our quiet walks; for I verily believe there is nothing in all this to forbid poor creatures of the earth taking their innocent enjoyment. Indeed, all these visible beauties of nature are but sweet expressions of the divine mind, that we should rejoice in Him who hath created them. But remember, when the wisest of men says, ‘go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart,’^[54] he adds, ‘it is the gift of God,’ whereof we shall one day give an account. And now I am ready to accompany you.

Painter. Come, then, for I have a great desire to make my large trout a brace, so let us to our angles.

Angler. Look you, Brother, here I have a second angle rod, that we may both fish in company; now say, whether it shall be a fly or a worm? You are at liberty to make a choice.

Painter. Not a doubt, but a worm and a quill for me.

Angler. Nay, nay, let me persuade you to be a fly-fisher; assure yourself it is a delicate sport, worthy of an ingenious artist as you are; and all anglers are agreed that it is the pleasantest and most skilful way to deceive trouts.

Painter. I will not lose time in arguments; but remit you to honest Izaak Walton, that is henceforth my master of angling.

Angler. As you will: here is your tackling; and now you are fitted; so let us go over the bridge, that we may follow Mr. Cotton’s footsteps; for be sure he must know the likeliest holes in his own river. And he said to his companion, ‘You shall now go downward to some streams between the rocks, below the little foot bridge you see there, and try your fortune. Take heed of slipping into the water as you follow me under the rock.’ That is the very spot where you now stand.

Painter. He must be an unhandy clown, that should slip, for there is room enough, and to spare.

Angler. Well, this is the spot where he advised Viator to throw in; to which the other replied: ‘This is a fine stream indeed! There is one—I have him.’

‘And a precious catch you have of him,’ answered Mr. Cotton, ‘pull him out! I see you have a tender hand. This is a diminutive gentleman, even throw him in again and let him grow till he be more worthy your anger.’

‘Pardon me, Sir,’ (then said Viator) ‘all’s fish that comes to the hook with me now.’

Painter. Bravely resolved; and I declare I mean to follow this example, if I have permission to do so.

Angler. You shall do as you list. Only ‘fish me this stream by inches,’ after Mr. Cotton’s instructions.

Painter. With all my heart, and I am so much in love with his river and his instructions, that I scarce know which to think the best.

Angler. Well then, to make you love them both the more, you are to understand Viator caught another and another. After that Piscator invited him ‘to go down the other side, lower, where you will find finer streams and better sport, I hope, than this;’ so let us do the same.

Painter. Wherever you please.

Angler. Now we are over the bridge and into the Peak of Derbyshire; and here it was the ingenious fishers pleased themselves and each other with a discourse on angling: and thought their recreation was innocent, as being an encourager of cheerfulness, patience, and brotherly kindness. So do you begin; but keep at your distance, lest the fishes see you, before you get a glimpse of them; for you are to remember the Dove is one of the clearest rivers in all England. Now let your quill go with the stream by the bank yonder, for hereabouts it was Piscator assured him, there were very good fish; ‘both trout and grayling lie here; and at that GREAT STONE on the other side, ’tis ten to one a good trout gives you the meeting.’

Painter. Then I’ll offer him all the temptation I can. Ah! saw you that, Mr. Angler, my quill went under the water;—and there again!

Angler. I pray you be quiet:—now strike, but as Mr. Cotton says, ‘with moderation.’

Painter. So, I have him tight.

Angler. Be gentle; he is gone, as I feared.

Painter. ’Twas my hastiness! I incautiously strained at him: but you shall find me manage the next with greater skill.

Angler. Trust me, you have your lesson to learn; for angling is no less an art than a pleasure, and one that requires both patience and skill.

Painter. That I plainly see: but I have baited my hook again: and there is another pulling at my worm. Now, if I do not vex him, call me no fisherman: aye, aye, master, you may plunge and shift as you will; but I hold you now.

Angler. Have a care, for he is a fine one.

Painter. Fear me not; you shall see the manner of my handling: but there! he has thrown off into the middle of the stream; how he dives and plucks about! I hope he will not demolish my tackle.

Angler. Well, then, do not tear him about too much.

Painter. What a rage he is in! so, so—he begins to sicken. Where’s the net?—thank you—we have him. Now, Sirrah: where are you? I declare he is as big as the other I caught up yonder. And now, brother, that I may not hinder you, leave me here alone, with my angle rod; and I beseech you let me have that pleasant book, which Mr. Walton and Mr. Cotton have printed together, with a love so communicable; that while I recline on this bank, I may remember how they have often done the same thing: and it may be I will leave my angle rod for a time, ‘to fish for itself,’ and make a landskip; for look how pleasantly the Prospect Tower hangs over our heads: and I am sure that rock is a hundred feet high; and is crowned with oak and ash trees, that grow in all the crevices.

Angler. There are many passages of rare beauty in all this glade; and since you are so disposed, I will invite you to that rising ground, and there you shall design the fishing-house, and the Tower on the rock, so as I may have a combination of those two with the bridge, and all the river and the craggy sides. It will be a choice prospect!

Painter. You are right, and it shall be done to the best of my abilities; but I’ll lay my angle in the river, near to that ‘great stone’, so that I may have my chance of a trout whilst I’m at work.

Angler. And because you leave your angle for my sake, I will read some passages out of Mr. Walton’s Complete Angler for your entertainment before I begin fishing. Here—is not this a favourable spot?

Painter. Aye: come, let us sit on this grass, that smells so sweetly of wild flowers; and do you make a choice out of Mr. Walton’s book.

Angler. Well, then, you may remember, that on a time, in a cheerful morning in the month of May, Venator, a huntsman, walked out towards Hodsden, (that is a country village not many miles from London,) where he had appointed a friend or two to meet him, that they might bestow a day on hunting the otter. Then, by the way, he fell into the company of a Gentleman Falconer, and as these were come together to Tottenham Cross, in Hertfordshire, Mr. Walton overtook them: so, after his own civil manner he accosted the strangers, and asked of their journey and occasions, saying, ‘You are well overtaken, gentlemen, a good morning to you both. I have stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill to overtake you, hoping your business may occasion you towards Ware, whither I am going this fine fresh May morning.’ Now, Mr. Walton possesses that benignity of spirit, and such a winning method of discourse, that you may easily believe ‘he made the way seem shorter’ by his good company.

Painter. He should be a pattern of cheerful gravity, or he has, I know not what, artifice to make himself appear so, since his writings betoken so many endowments of native gentleness.

Angler. But that it is no artifice I may take upon me to declare, and to say the truth, an inbred sweetness and compliance are notable, both in his look and words; insomuch that Auceps, the falconer, on his first acquaintance, took the liberty to say: ‘Methinks, Sir, we may promise good discourse from you that both look and speak so cheerfully.’

Painter. Then after those polite salutations they were all inclinable to travel pleasantly towards Ware?

Angler. And as they walked and conversed, they praised their several recreations: and first, Mr. Auceps, the falconer, exercised their attention concerning the element he used to trade in, which was the air; and he would fain make it clear, that this was ‘an element that exceeds both the earth and water; and, though I sometimes deal in both,’ (this is what Mr. Auceps said) ‘yet the air is most properly mine; I and my hawks use that most, and it yields us most recreation; it stops not the soaring of my noble, generous falcon; in it she ascends to such a height as the dull eyes of beasts and fish are not able to reach to; their bodies are too gross for such high elevations: in the air my troops of hawks soar up on high, and when they are lost in the sight of men, then they attend upon and converse with the gods; therefore I think my eagle is so justly styled Jove’s servant in ordinary: and that very falcon, that I am now going to see, deserves no meaner a title, for she usually in her flight endangers herself, like the son of Dædalus, to have her wings scorched by the sun’s heat, she flies so near it: but her mettle makes her careless of danger; for she then heeds nothing, but makes her nimble pinions cut the fluid air, and so makes her highway over the steepest mountains and deepest rivers, and in her glorious career looks with contempt upon those high steeples and magnificent palaces which we adore and wonder at; from which height I can make her to descend by a word from my mouth (which she both knows and obeys) to accept of meat from my hand, to own me for her master, to go home with me, and be willing the next day to afford me the like recreation.’ Now, is not that a cheerful description? and, that I may not be thought immoderate, I will omit many passages; but I beseech you listen to the praises that Mr. Falconer makes of ‘those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties, with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art. As first the lark, when she means to rejoice; to cheer herself and those that hear her; she then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air, and having ended her heavenly employment, grows then mute and sad, to think she must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch, but for necessity.’

Painter. Aye! ‘grows then mute and sad to think she must descend to the dull earth!’ How natural that is! Mr. Walton’s words are more musical than the song of the lark—and his strains higher than her aerial flight, for they bring you nearer to thoughts of heaven.

Angler. Then he proceeds: ‘How do the blackbird and throssel with their melodious voices bid welcome to the cheerful Spring, and in their fixed mouths warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to! Nay, the smaller birds also do the like, in their particular seasons, as, namely, the leverock, the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead.’

Painter. Beautiful! ‘the honest robin that loves mankind both alive and dead;’ that has an allusion to the ballad of the Babes in the Wood, a sad and simple history that so mightily touches the affections of children.

Stop, dear brother; for I would not have you to mar those passages you have now cited out of Mr. Walton by some that are worse.

Angler. Listen to one more, and I have done. ‘But the nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth!’

Painter. I now remember that description: it is beyond my praise;—it is all music together, and I declare to you, I know not which I am most in love with—the song of the nightingale, or the meek penman who hath set that song to such music.

Angler. I told you the writings of Mr. Walton have a power to unlock the affections; and I am so bold as to assure you, that many men I could name, who mocked at fishers and fishing, before they had perused the Complete Angler, have been moved to practise his art by the persuasive arguments they have found in it.

Painter. That I can believe, and for my part I am almost brought to wish myself a Falconer by these testimonies which Auceps hath adduced to the praise of his ‘noble, generous hawks, and those little nimble musicians of the air.’

Angler. Stay a while, till I bring before you what the merry huntsman had to say for his recreation; and after that the commendations Mr. Walton bestows on the greater excellency of his own happy art of angling. But now I perceive you have made an outline of this landskip, so let us go down to the lower streams of the river, where I have something better to show you.

Painter. I am not willing to doubt any thing you say: but what can you find more full of beauty than these landskips hereabouts?

Angler. Of that I shall give you leave to judge when I have brought you to a spot will enchant you; and there you may be sure to catch a good fish.

Painter. Well then, let us be doing; and now I think it is time to repair to my angle, that I left in the water to fish for itself.

Angler. There it is, and so take it up.

Painter. How now!—my worm and hook both gone!—Look you!—and it may be I have lost a good trout, whilst I was charmed with those song-birds, that sung so sweetly out of Mr. Walton’s aviary.

Angler. Never mind,—you shall presently ‘try a fall’ with another; and pray take notice, that trout was not lost, for quiet Mr. Walton says, ‘no man can lose what he never had.’ Ah! ha! saw you that fish?—he rose just above yonder great stone on the other side. If I have any luck, I shall land him presently.

Painter. You have cast your fly in the very spot; and there!—look——there he is again.

Angler. I have him fast.

Painter. See—what a summersault he made!

Angler. He should be a trout from his nimbleness, and a plumper too.

Painter. I beseech you handle him like an artist—here is the net and all ready—haul him in.

Angler. Not so fast—not so fast, brother—let him have his time.

Painter. There again! saw you that leap he gave? By my word you have the right knack.

Angler. Now you observe he has a running line—and now I may bring him up again—so, so—he has done his worst—now fetch the net; but if you love me, manage him with a prudent hand; so, you performed it handsomely; and a fine fish he is: come, let us go down to Pike Pool. I know not how it may fare with you;—but methinks it should be near to dinnertime.

Painter. In plain truth I am well disposed to play my part at that.

Angler. Away then by this bank, where the stream becomes broader. See how it hurries by that bed of rock with a loud murmuring.

Painter. How now! there is a rock in the river like a church steeple, and forty feet high!

Angler. That is the Pike Pool you have heard of.

Painter. Say you so? what a spot of solitude is here!

Angler. Now tell me is not this a charming nook for a recluse angler? But here we must make our passage once more into Staffordshire, by these cobble stones, that we may come to the margin of the Pool; for you see we are stopped on this side by the rocks.

Painter. I am willing to follow you.

Angler. Look well to your footing, and give me the wallet; for I fear you will let that drop into the water, and now your hand—so—

Painter. We are well over; and of all places I have seen, this is surpassing in beauty. Surely it is a rocky dell, that is worthy of a poet’s praise: now if Petrarch had sung of his Laura by these rocks, they would be thought as fine as Vaucluse; and this stream as bright and nimble as the Sorga itself, which I was once happy enough to visit as I passed by Avignon towards Italy: and was permitted the leisure to sketch some imperfect limnings of the strangely shaped and rugged rocks, from which the mysterious fount of the river gushes into daylight. It is true I may not boast to have caught my brace of trouts in its limpid streams; but I tasted some skilfully drest by the civil hostess of the village inn that is called after the name of the Poet. Oh Sir, if you had there been the companion of my prolonged wanderings, with what delight should we have perused together those unimitable poems of Petrarch! And do you recollect, how he says,

Angler. I remember the lines. And be it known to you, Petrarcha was himself a brother of the angle.

Painter. Nay, Sir, your authority for this? I grant you, the impassioned poet might grave the name of his Laura on the hard rocks, or picture to his imagination her beautiful image reflected in the deep clear caverns of the river;

but I cannot be persuaded to believe that so hopeless a lover could be a happy angler. He that was the most learned of his age, and Poet Laureat crowned with the triple garland at Rome, an angler!

Angler. Happy or unhappy—learned or unlearned—I may tell you he was a fisher;—and be these lines my witness, which you may find in his latin works;

Painter. Marry, Sir, after those harmonious verses that you have so fixedly treasured up in your memory it is undeniable you may have the honour to claim Petrarcha for one of your fraternity.

Angler. And what was more natural than he should seek an inward consolation for his diseased thoughts in so quiet and sweet a recreation; and on the banks of his loved river indulge his thoughts with those ‘Visions’ of the departed Laura, which Master Edmund Spenser^[57] hath rendered from the Italian into harmonious English verse:

But now look around, and tell me, you that have seen famed Vaucluse, if this dell be not more woody and umbrageous than the banks of the Sorga; and look at the doublings and wrenches of the stream, which make it the most singular place that can be imagined for natural beauties; and let me tell you, they have been designed by Mr. Isaac Walton, junior, the son of our master of angling.

Painter. How! has Mr. Walton a son, and a limner too?

Angler. You may take Mr. Cotton’s word for that.

Painter. Then I shall be inclined to love him for more reasons than one.

Angler. Well, then, you must know, Piscator and Viator having fished the ‘stream by inches,’ came lower down, and then suddenly Viator exclaimed, ‘But what have we got here? a rock springing up in the middle of the river! This is one of the oddest sights that ever I saw.’ To this Piscator replied, ‘Why, Sir, from that Pike that you see standing up there, distant from the rock,—that is called Pike Pool, and young Mr. Isaac Walton was so pleased with it, as to draw it in landskip, in black and white, in a blank book I have at home, as he has done several prospects of my house also, which I keep for a memorial of his favour.’

Painter. A book full of landskips did you say! in black and white, and all done by the hand of Mr. Izaak Walton, junior? that were indeed a treasure to possess! But come;—let us repose ourselves along these shady banks that Mr. Walton, and his son, and Mr. Cotton all loved, and that deserve to be loved by every honest angler. See these wild flowers, which spring around, and make a soft cushion for us; here is the wild thyme, the Nottingham catchfly, and coltsfoot, and violets——

Angler. And what is no less germaine to the present argument,—a handsome repast!—So let us fall to’t.—Here is an excellent cake, and some hang’d martinmas beef; with a measure or two of mine Host’s good ale. Are you prepared?

Painter. I may warrant you, and no wise dainty after our long walk.

Angler. O that we could now possess our dear accomplish’d Civilian, that hath more learning than both you and I together!

Painter. Aye; if he were here reclining with us by the side of Pike Pool, our entertainment would be complete: and let us not despair to inveigle him hither next month of May.

Angler. Well, I have known stranger things come to pass; and now, if you please, we’ll drink his health in a loving cup of barley wine.

Painter. A worthy toast! fill to the brim!

Angler. To the brim.

Both. Here is a health to our polite Mr.