"The silver Dove, how pleasant is the name!" Before entering on my own little excursions on the Dove I will give a brief account of its beginning and ending. From its source to its union with the Trent the Dove serves as a boundary to the counties of Staffordshire and Derbyshire; its whole length is about forty-five miles. The source is in Axe-edge, not far from the little village of Dovehead. The water bubbles up through a little well, whose sides are protected by a couple of flag stones. "Here springs the Dove! and with a grateful zest REV. J. EDWARDS. In Mr. J. P. Sheldon's "Tour of the Dove, etc.," 1894, he says at Dovehead "they will find on a stone laid over the spring the monogram of Walton and Cotton which some reverent hand has carved." The "reverent hand" I find explained in "The River Dove," Pickering, 1847, thus: Angler. 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? 66 Angler. Here are tools . . . so I'll make a rude copy of the cipher which is over the door of the fishing house."1 For some distance from its source it is of small size and not very picturesque. It finds its way to Hartington, and thence pursues its course down the Dales with which I am more or less familiar, and which piscatorially will engage my attention for a few days. Beyond the Dales it strays as it lists through broad and fertile valleys. It passes through Okeover to Ashbourne, thence past Snelston and Norbury, near to Uttoxeter, by Sudbury to Tutbury. It passes Eggington, and opposite Bladon Castle it joins "The crystal Trent, for fords and fish renowned." It is not perhaps generally known that the country is indebted to our charming Dove for one of its sweetest lyrics: for if Tom Moore had never resided on its banks the song, "Those Evening Bells," might never have been written. I was reminded of the fact by Mr. Joseph Hatton, who has just published a bright little 1 This, however, is an imaginary conversation in Cotton's time, though written in 1847. book entitled "Cigarette Papers" (Treherne), in which he says, prettily enough: "Tom Moore lived a lonely but happy life on the banks of the Dove near Ashbourne. He set the music of the local bells to immortal verse." At the present writing I know not, any more than you, what each day may bring forth, but I propose to jot down day by day whatever little incidents may seem to have any, even very trifling, interest, for one's life is made up of little things. I shall have, I fear, much to say about the weather. Tuesday, September 30th.-I arrived here in very discouraging weather-a persistent east wind, frequent sudden showers. I strolled down in the evening to take a first glance at the river at the bottom of the meadow which adjoins the house. There is the identical pool overhung seemingly by the identical branch on which it seems but yesterday that I left my cast and fly. A leatherbat more venturesome than the trout was attracted by the barbed betrayer swinging in the wind, had seized it, and I found him next morning with the fly still in his mouth, floating dead on the water, but still suspended to the branch, hanged and drowned! Wednesday, October 1st.-I commenced angling operations, and never was an adventurous old angler more thoughtfully or more kindly guided and guarded than was I by my good friend, our host of "The Izaak Walton," who is an expert fisherman, knowing most things about angling. We carried our luncheon with us, and fished up the Dale as far as my old acquaintance, Reynard's Cave, which has the same old look (not possible fully to convey by photographs). On my last visit I was tempted to climb up to the kitchen, and thence on to the top of the hill; there was no rope to help me then as there is now, and I was young and active, having barely turned three score; but now, although I could just as easily do it-le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle. We fished all day, but with no success; mine host got a brace of very small trout and I got nothing. In the smoke-room our various daily adventures were duly discussed, and it was rather consoling to find that not one of the experts, these experienced hands, had done much better than ourselves. That smoke-room is as cosy as it is old-fashioned, with a large recess in the window, forming a comfortable seat for three or four people. Above it is a row of a dozen pewterplates, polished as bright as silver, and in the middle is a big bright pewter-dish, kept there as a reminder of the jolly times of long ago, and not for use in these degenerate days. "While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. The Master laid down the law in a big armchair; the Doctor told stories in the windowseat; the Parson read interesting bits from "The Complete Angler"; the Poet was argumentative and facetious. It was soon fully understood between us that our failure to catch any fish was due entirely to the weather, and not to our want of perseverance, of pluck, of energy, or of consummate skill and knowledge. We all agreed in this, that there are trout and grayling both in the Dove and the Manifold, and in the united rivers, and big ones too, but they will not be caught until they choose to do so by deigning to rise at a fly, for we are all dry fly fishermen here. Thursday, October 2nd.-This was also a cold and windy day. The Master, the Parson, the Major, the Doctor, the Doctor's wife, and the Poet went forth to fish, full as usual of bright |