PAINTER. In a handsome litel boke'-and because you have shewn me how my master will sometimes court the favour of the muses, it may come to pass some May morning, when they are angling together, the two poets shall resolve to ask Mr. Richard Marriott to print their verses in a happy conjunction.

ANGLER That would be as worthy of our perusal as the SHEPHERD'S GARLAND fashioned in Eglogs, by Mr. Walton's honest old friend Michael Drayton: and doubtless my Lord's Grace of Canterbury, who loves Mr. Walton and his art of fishing, will have a pleasure to affix his IMPRIMATUR ex Ædibus Lambethanis. PAINTER.-And methinks Mr. Cotton, when he commanded his service to Mr. Daniel Sheldon and promised to send some flies to Sir Joseph Sheldon, knew that Mr. Walton was on a short visit to the Archbishop at Lambeth.

ANGLER. Or it might be at his palace in Croydon? but look you, there is the Dove, down in the deep glen beneath; and though she grows more diminutive, yet there are bright rills that silently glide out of the mountains to swell her little eddies and cascades. And now, here is another turn in the path, and so I have brought you to Dove-head.

PAINTER.-Indeed! I'm rejoiced to hear it, but how! I see no contemptible fountain that 'I can cover with my hat,' but a tolerable

stream.

ANGLER.-Patience, good brother-it is true here we are come to the hamlet of Dove-head; but for the source of the stream, you are to mount

with me the side of this broad mountain, that is called AXE Edge.

PAINTER.-Alas the day! up this great mountain, which is as high as Mont Blanc in Switzerland? but much darker, I warrant you. Well, Sir, if it must be so,-but I'm almost exhausted.

ANGLER.-Come, let me give you a helping

hand.

PAINTER.-I thank you, but I'm too bighearted to yield me-so put on your manhood, and stalk along; I'll stem Broad Axe Edge with a 'heart of controversy.' Heigh ho! now we are up, and here is nothing I can see in the likeness of a river.

ANGLER.-Pardon me, for I may now wish you joy; look to this side of you; here is the 'contemptible little fountain.'

PAINTER.-Indeed! and so there is-what a marvellous little fountain! but it is a most clear and pellucid stream.

ANGLER.-And yet Mr. Cotton declares this river from its head, for a mile or two, is a 'black water, as all the rest of the Derbyshire rivers of note originally are; for they all 'spring from the mosses.'

PAINTER.-Well, I see no mosses hereabouts, but a highland downy turf, and it is a pure and transparent rill.

ANGLER.-Well, well; we may leave these nice questions; only this is for certain, here is the source of the river Dove-so let us sit and rest ourselves.

PAINTER. With all my heart, for I was never so tired in my life, scrambling up and down these

moorlands :-I scarce thought my legs would carry me so far.

6

'Here down my wearyed limbs I'll lay,

My pilgrim's staffe, my weeds of grey.'

ANGLER. It is a good angler's walk, I grant you; and by the sun we are eight hours from Alstonfields!

PAINTER.-Come, then-where is the knack of provisions?

ANGLER. Here it is, and I profess to you I am both hungry and thirsty. There is a slab of stone that covers the fountain will serve for a table-and here is the well of water at command.

PAINTER.-So, so; it is all delightful: indeed. it all breathes of pleasure; let's open the wallet, and make ourselves joyful at the head of the Dove. By the word of an angler, I mean to throw away all cares and be light-hearted. Come, Sir, your appetite is squeamish.

ANGLER. Trust me, I'm quite hearty, and here's my service to you in a cup of wine.

PAINTER. The same to you, and is not our host a good caterer? with hunger for sauce, this provision is fit for a king!--and I am now able, on this wild moor, to be as happy as any prince in Christendom.

ANGLER.-And why not, if we have grateful and contented hearts?

'Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content, The quiet mind is richer than a crown; 'Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; 'The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown. 'Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do mise "—

But come, Sir,-it is your turn for a song; so please you begin.

PAINTER.

Well, then, I'll try my voice at

a song of George Withers:

'Lordly gallants, tell me this,

Though my safe content ye weigh not,

In your greatness, what one bliss

6

Have you gained that I enjoy not?

'You have ho:.ours, you have wealth,
'I have peace, and I have health,
All the day I merry make,
'And at night no care I take.

'Bound to none my fortunes be,

This or that man's fall I care not;

'Him I love that loveth me;

For the rest a pin I care not.

'You are mad when others chafe,

And grow merry when they laugh;
I that hate it, and am free,
'Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.'

And now we'll drink a health to our masters in angling.

ANGLER.-And let it be in a sip of clear water from this fountain head of the Dove.

PAINTER.-Well, well, only a sip, by way of memorial-after that we'll drink to them again and again in better Rhenish. Here is to Mr. Walton and Mr. Cotton!

ANGLER-To Mr. Walton and Mr. Cotton! And now, by your leave, I'll grave the two first letters of their names in cipher on this very stone that is over the fountain.

PAINTER. How mean you?

ANGLER. Here are tools, I borrowed from

our host, for I had bethought me of this, and must confess I purposed it in my mind, the last time I travelled this way. So do you be busy in a picture, and I'll make a rude copy of the cypher which is over the door of the fishinghouse.

PAINTER —It is an excellent conceit; and I hope Mr. Cotton may one day chance to hear of this, and wonder at the unknown travellers that hold him in so high esteem; and would he might now see our mutual labours! Come, Sir, lend me your steel, and I'll light a pipe-so! and now do you tell me something of this Axe Edge which is as dark as a thunder-cloud, but no more like an axe than I'm like a tree. Are we now in the county of Derby or Stafford?

ANGLER.--Which you please: for here you may now stand with one foot on the county of Stafford, and the other in Derbyshire; look you, or I will rather say, listen; for you will scarce hear, and cannot see the puny Dove that now trickles out of the well under our feet, and goes rustling through the long grass down the side of the mountain; and nevertheless I may tell you, she is big enough to divide the counties one from another for many a long mile. There go thy way, little Dove,' and make glad the thousand meadows that you have a mind to visit in your rambles.

PAINTER.-And, trust me, she shall receive the applauses of many meek and happy anglers, in return for the pleasures she bestows on them. But tell me something further, honest Piscator, of this great mountain.