primrose hill; there I sat viewing the silver streamsTM glide silently towards their centre, the tempestuous sea; yet sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble-stones, which broke their waves and turned them into foam: and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing the harmless lambs, some leaping securely in the cool shade, whilst others sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and saw others craving comfort from the swoln udders of their bleating dams. As I thus 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 possessed joys not promised in my birth.

As I left this place and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me; 'twas a handsome milk-maid, 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, which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid's mother sung an answer to it, which was made by sir Walter Raleigh, in his younger days.

They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good; I think much better than the strong lines that are

now in fashion in this critical age. Look yonder! on my word, yonder they both be a milking again. I will give her the chub, and persuade them to sing those two songs to us.

God speed you, good woman, I have been a-fishing, and am going to Bleak-hall, to my bed; and having caught more fish than will sup myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon you and your daughter, for I use to sell none.

Milk-wom. Marry, God requite you, sir, and we'll eat it chearfully; and if you come this way a-fishing two months hence, a grace of God, I'll give you a syllabub of new verjuice in a new made haycock for it, and my Maudlin shall sing you one of her best ballads; for she and I both love all anglers, they be such honest, civil, quiet men in the mean time will you drink a draught of red cow's milk? You shall have it freely.

Pisc. No, I thank you; but I pray do us a courtesy, that shall stand you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we will think ourselves still something in your debt: it is but to sing us a song that was sung by your daughter when I last past over this meadow, about eight or nine days since.

Milk-wom. What song was it, I pray? Was it Come shepherds, deck your herds? or, As at noon Dulcina rested? or, Phillida flouts me? or, Chevy-chace? or, Johnny Armstrong? or, Troy-town?

Pisc No, it is none of those; it is a song that your daughter sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it.

Milk-wom. Oh, I know it now, I learned the first part in my golden age, when I was about the age of my poor daughter, and the latter part, which indeed fits me best now, but two or three years ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me: but you shall, God willing, hear them both, and sung as well as we can; for we both love anglers. Come, Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentleman with a merry heart, and I'll sing the second when you have done.

Here follows the milk-maid's song. "Come live with me and be my love," After which the hunter speaks:

Ven. Trust me, master, it is a choice song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause, that our good queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a milk-maid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night; and without doubt, honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I'll bestow sir Thomas Overbury's milk-maid's wish upon her,

That she may die in the spring, and, being dead, may have good store of flowers stuck round about her winding sheet."

Then comes the milk-maid's mother's anIf all the world and love were young."

swer.

which done, the mother adds:

my song;

but stay,

Well, I have done stay, honest anglers, for I will make Maudlin to sing you one short song more. Maudlin, sing that song that you sung last night when young Coridon the shepherd played so purely on his oaten pipe to you and your cousin Betty.

1

Maud. I will, mother.

married a wife of late," &c.

Pisc. Well sung, good woman; I thank you. I'll give you another dish of fish one of these days, and then beg another song of you. Come, scholar, let Maudlin alone; do not you offer to spoil her voice. Look, yonder comes mine hostess to call us to supper. How now! is my brother Peter come?

Hostess. Yes, and a friend with him; they are both glad to hear that you are in these parts, and long to see you, and long to be at supper, for the are very hungry.

This is an entertaining little book. It de scribes rural scenes and pleasures in simple and unaffected language; the dialogue is lively and humorous, and often diversified with pleasing pieces of pastoral poetry. The morality too is pure and peaceful as the lake on which the angler silently awaits his quiet prey. The work was so favorably received, that it passed through five editions in the author's life-time; to the last of which was subjoined a supplement containing "Instructions how to angle for a Trout, or Grayling, in a clear Stream." An elegant edition was published at London, in 1760, with notes historical, critical, and explanatory, and the lives of the authors prefixed. Angling was the favourite amusement of Walton, particularly while he lived in London. Before his time, the precepts of this art were chiefly, if not wholly, traditionary. By committing them to writing in a manner so agreeable, he has bequeathed an acceptable legacy to the lovers of this tranquil amuse

ment.