the earth-his ear quick and open to all the songs of the forests, or even the sweet delicate humming of thousands of little wandering bees, as they drink up fragrance or food from the hawthorn, the honeysuckle, and the myriad wild flowers of the neighbouring groves—and, the finest of all senses, the smell is regaled from innumerable coverts of furze or blossoming broom, as he ploughs his delighted way along the hills and mountain summits.

Well has old Isaac Walton depicted these enchanting

scenes:

"Look, under that broad beech tree I sat down when I was last this way a fishing; and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree near to the brow of Primrose Hill. There I sat,

viewing the silver streams glide silently towards their centre, the tempestuous sea; but sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble stones, which broke their waves, and turned them into foam. And sometimes I beguiled myself by viewing the harmless lambs; some leaping securely in the still shade, whilst others sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and saw others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their dams. As thus I sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul with content, that I thought, as the poet has happily expressed it,

'I was for that time lifted above earth,

And possess'd joys not promis'd at my birth,'

As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me; 'twas a handsome milkmaid, that had not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things that、 will never be, as too many men too often do; but she cast away all care, and sung like a nightingale; her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; it was that smooth song made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milkmaid's brother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days."

And the next description of the songsters, who welcomed him on his pilgrimage, is still more charming and exquisite,―worthy the pen of a Jeremy Taylor, in his finest and most enraptured mood :

"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.

"Now do the blackbird and the throssel, with their melodious voices, bid welcome to the cheerful Spring, and in their fixed mouths warble forth such ditties as no art nor instrument can reach to. Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular seasons, as, namely, the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead.

"But the nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music out of her little instru

mental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles never 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.”

Such are one or two of good old Isaac's quaint and tender descriptions of nature, which invest his work with a meaning and dignity far beyond its title, and sufficiently prove Sir Henry Wotton's statement, that " angling is a rest to the mind, a cheerer of the spirits, a diverter of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a moderator of passions, and a procurer of contentedness."

Then, again, when fatigued with your art, how pleasant it is, on a soft, calm, balmy day of June, to repose on the banks of some pleasant brook, and half in dream, half in vision, lapsed to that gentle mood by the murmur of the waters, and the loveliness of the landscape, to gaze on the soft fleeced clouds as they float across the heavenly azure, and with fancy all alive, and imagination brisk and buoyant, create in that ærial panorama sights of grim castles and enchanted temples,-visions, too, fairer than ever canvass realized, of lovely nymphs curling their enamoured limbs in pools of clearest ether; and sometimes faces of grave sages and philosophers, followed, anon, by angelic and seraphic forms, whose loveliness. makes the eye dim with rapture, affording it a blessed

foretaste of all the glories and happiness shrouded in Elysium beyond. O, talk not to us of the joys of society, and the grandeur of crowded towns. Why, this delicious spot of verdure, where I now sit, is richer, far, than costliest carpets of Persia; this surrounding grove possesses more simple magnificence than all the pictures of the proudest masters-that blackbird, singing so deftly from its bower of holly, hath notes that shame the finest rounded throat of fashionable beauty-and, methinks, no eye in the world was ever half so blue, deep, and sunny, as yon cerulean spot amidst the clouds, now reflected in the crystal pool that lies at my feet. Give me nature, and solitude, and a thankful spirit, and never will I envy the idle pleasures, the senseless joys, the palling appetites, of the courtly dwellers of mighty cities. And now we have reached the old bridge, with its one quaint simple arch, at the Skelton Elders. There is the meeting of the waters, and were we musical, this is the time for Moore's exquisite song. This to our right is the finest trout stream within many miles,—the fattest, largest, pinkiest, and of most delicious savour. The other springs from the wild recesses of Wiley Cat

-a rude savage glen amidst the moors, and of the most romantic and sublime description :- -it next passes along the alum works founded by one of the ancient Chaloner's, and winding gracefully along past the Spa House (alas, now, to the shame and disgrace of the neighbourhood, in ruins!), twines past the hazel groves to the right and left, and after running through woods, appropriately

termed the "Waterfall," forming multitudinous lovely cascades, and peaceful pools abounding in trout, finally joins its brother brooklet here, near this bridge.

On we pass through the solemn gloom of Skelton Elders. Dark is the foliage as the clouds of nightsolemn the umbrage as a forest of pines-and scarcely on the brightest summer day can a meridian sun pierce the black shadows, that, like a necromancer's spell, hang above this melancholy wood. Fit place, I ween, for witchcraft to weave her unholy spells, or some Hecate hag at midnight, to stir up her accursed cauldron with "Fillet of a fenny snake,

Eye of neut and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,

Which for charm of powerful trouble

Shall, like hell-broth, boil and bubble."
Macbeth: Act 4, scene 1.

Often in early youth-aye, and maturer age, have we, in passing this solemn solitude, felt our hair stand on end with horror of ghosts and hobgoblins, and many have been the stories to terrify and affright, of murdered smugglers buried in its deep recesses, of highwaymen lurking in the caverns for victims, and as the nightwinds whistled through the tall creaking oaks, of fancied sprites shrieking in the air, or human beings struggling in death with some powerful and conquering foe.