volent and
pious Walton thus concludes a letter to his "most honoured friend,
Charles Cotton, Esq.:"--"though I be more than a hundred miles from you,
and in the eighty-third year of my age, yet I will forget both, and next
month begin a pilgrimage to beg your pardon: for I would die in your
favour, and till then will live, Sir, your most affectionate father and
friend, Isaac Walton." One cannot wonder at the good old man wishing to
visit the courteous and well-bred Mr. Cotton, and to enjoy the
intercourse of hospitable urbanity, near the pastoral streams of the
Dove, when he had received such an invitation as the following,
addressed to his "dear and most worthy friend, Mr. Isaac Walton:"--

Whilst in this cold and blustering clime,
Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar,
We pass away the roughest time
Has been of many years before;

Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks
The chillest blasts our peace invade,
And by great rains our smallest brooks
Are almost navigable made;

Whilst all the ills are so improved,
Of this dead quarter of the year,
That even you, so much beloved,
We would not now wish with us here;

In this estate, I say, it is
Some comfort to us to suppose,
That, in a better clime than this,
You, our dear friend, have more repose;

And some delight to me the while,
Though nature now does weep in rain,
To think that I have seen her smile,
And haply may I do again.

If the all-ruling Power please
We live to see another May,
We'll recompense an age of these
Foul days in one fine fishing day.

We then shall have a day or two,
Perhaps a week, wherein to try
What the best master's hand can do
With the most deadly killing fly:

A day with not too bright a beam,
A warm, but not a scorching sun,
A southern gale to curl the stream,
and, master, half our work is done.

There, whilst behind some bush we wait
The scaly people to betray,--
We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait
To make the preying _Trout_ our prey.

And think ourselves, in such an hour,
Happier than those, though not so high,
Who, like _Leviathans_, devour
Of meaner men the smaller fry.

This, my best friend, at my poor home
Shall be our pastime and our theme;
But then--should you not deign to come,
You make all this a flattering dream.

In wan