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"Leaving the small oratory, a terrace of flowers leads to a gothic stone-seat at the end, and, returning to the flower-garden, we wind up a narrow path from the more verdant scene, to a small dark path, with fantastic roots shooting from the bank, where a grave-stone appears, on which an hour-glass is carved.

"A root-house fronts us, with dark boughs branching over it. Sit down in that old carved chair. If I cannot welcome some illustrious visitors in such consummate verse as Pope, I may, I hope, not without blameless pride, tell you, reader, in this chair have sat some public characters, distinguished by far more noble qualities than the nobly pensive St John!' I might add, that this seat has received, among other visitors, Sir Samuel Romilly, Sir George Beaumont, Sir Humphry Davy -poets as well as philosophers, Madame de Stael, Dugald Stewart, and CHRISTO. PHER NORTH, Esq. !

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"Two lines on a small board on this root house point the application

'Dost thou lament the dead, and mourn the loss Of many friends, oh! think upon the cross !' Over an old tomb-stone, through an arch, at a distance in light beyond, there is a vista to a stone cross, which, in the seventeenth century, would have been idolatrous!

church, on one side; and on the other you
look over a great extent of country. On a
still summer's evening, the distant sound
of the hurrying coaches, on the great Lon-
don road, are heard as they pass to and
from the metropolis. On this spot this last
admonitory inscription fronts you-

There lie the village dead, and there too I
When yonder dial points the hour, shall lie.
Look round, the distant prospect is display'd,
Like life's fair landscape, mark'd with light and
shade.

Stranger, in peace pursue thy onward road,
But ne'er forget thy long and last abode !"""

Gentle author-gentle reader-gentle critic, we must now part, and each pursue his own appointed path in life. Our parting shall be kind-and being in Mr Bowles's own delightful words, it shall not be unaffecting.

"Christian reader! we have passed a few hours together, I hope not entirely unprofitable to you. But the sun is shining out-the bells are ring◄ ing-we will now leave the parsonage, the garden, the churchyard, and pass along this village terrace. I may take up a few moments more of your time, whilst we slowly pace along the pathway which leads to the road, and lis ten to the village peal.

*

*

"Before we part look round once more. Yonder is the termination of Wiltshire downs; there winds alone, Wansdike, of whose mighty march I have spoken in the commencement of this parish perambulation. The distant Tower of Devizes crests the further hill beyond that eminence, the scene of the great battle in the days of Charles the First-Round-way-hill. We have now come to the end of this

"To detail more of the garden would appear ostentatious, and I fear I may be thought egotistical in detailing so much. Having conducted the reader through the parish thus far, I shall take him, before we part, through an arch, to an old yew, which has seen the persecution of the loyal English clergy; has witnessed their return, and many changes of ecclesiastical and national fortune. Under the branches of that solitary but mute historian of the pensive plain, let us now rest; it stands at the very extreme northern edge of that garden which we have just perambulated. It fronts the tower, the churchyard, and looks on to an old sun-dial, once a cross. The cross was found broken at its foot, probably by the country iconoclasts of the day. I have brought the interesting fragment again into light, and placed it conspicuously opposite to an old Scotch fir in the churchyard, which I think it not unlikely was planted by Townson on his restoration. The accumulation of the soil of centuries had covered an ascent of four steps at the bottom of this record of silent hours. These steps have been worn in places, from the act of frequent prostrations or kneeling, by the forefathers of the hamlet, perhaps before the church existed. From a seat near this old yew tree, you see in peace pursue thy onward road, the churchyard, and battlements of the But ne'er forget thy long and last abode."

meadow. Here is the path that once led to the rural abode of the royal Abbot of Malmesbury, and which still leads to the humbler parsonage. There is the road that conduets you back to the Great World. Companion of a few hours, while the sunshine of life lasts, and ere the church-bell shall toll, when we are beyond the sound of all human things, you will hear the morning music of these bells at a distance, and remember, if any thing should have been said worth remembering in this account of a retired parish in Wiltshire,

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THIS is a book on a very delightful subject, by a very distinguished man. But although it is occasionally rather a pleasant book than otherwise, it is not by any means worthy either of the subject or the man-the one being Angling, and the other Sir Humphry Davy. It formed the occupation of the Author, he tells us, during many months of severe and dangerous illness, when he was wholly incapable of attending to more useful studies, or of following more serious pursuits. Now, in our humble opinion, no man should write a book of any kind during severe and dangerous illness; for, under such circumstances, how can it escape being mortally stupid? Perhaps a man might write a tolerable sermon during a season of dangerous illness, a passable prayer, or a fair last will and testament. But a good book upon Angling can be written, take our word for it, only in a state of vigorous health of mind and bodytongue pure, eyes bright, stomach strong, pulse steady, and palate tremblingly alive to the taste of Glenlivet. Sir Humphry must have been in a bad way indeed during the composition of the greater part of Salmoniavery comatose his physician must have been fearful of the result-and his recovery may be placed among the modern miracles of the Healing

Art.

Were Sir Humphry to write a book on Angling, in high health and spirits, we are disposed to think it would be a good one; for, independently of his great scientific attainments, he has the reputation of being a man of taste and literature. Nay, in his early manhood, Sir Humphry was even a bit of a poet; and we have read a pub lished poem of his, that appeared to us to lift up and set down its feet with considerable vigour and alacrity, even like one of Mr Ducrow's horses dancing on a platform to a band of music.

It is at all times agreeable to see men of eminence, men who are conspicuous objects in a nation's eyes," descending from their proud and airy

height to the level of ordinary mortals, to see them eating, drinking, yawning, sleeping, walking, trotting, cantering, and galloping, shooting, fishing, and fox-hunting, like the

of the human race. By doing so, so far from degrading themselves, they elevate others; "they justify the ways of man to man;" and by connecting the pastimes and amusements of this life with its cares and duties, why, they bring all its discordant components into harmonious amalgamation. Thus a bishop, sans wig and petticoat, in a hairy cap, black jacket, corduroy breeches, and leathern leggins, creel on back, and rod in hand, sallying from his palace, impatient to reach a famous salmon cast ere the sun leave his cloud, attended by his chaplain, brandishing a gaff and lister, appears not only a pillar of his church, but of his kind, and in such a costume is manifestly on the high road to Canterbury,and the Kingdom-Come. Paley never was a bishop,-nor, with all his great virtues and talents, did he deserve to be one,-for he was not orthodox either in his morality or his religion. And we will never allow heterodoxy to wear the lawn sleeves, and ominously squint on bench episcopal. But Paley was a pellucid writer, and a bloody angler; he was a tendozen-trout-a-day-man,-dressed his own flies, and threw as far and fine a line as ever dropped, gossamer-like, on deep or shallow. Lord Nelson was an angler till he lost his rightarm; and-But, in our article, we must touch on topics, not exhaust them-so suffice it to say, that to the list of anglers, we are now authorized to add the name of the First Chemist of his day, and the illustrious inventor of the Safety-Lamp.

We had often heard, before Salmonia, of Sir Humphry's fame as an angler. Tom Purdy says "he flings a gude flee for a gentleman." The Kerss -He of the Trows-threeps" he can fish nane;" and poor Sandy Givən, at name of the Baronet, used to shake his head like Lord Burleigh. It is true that these three great artists, having

Salmonia: or Days of Fly Fishing, in a series of Conversations; with some account of the Habits of Fishes belonging to the genus Salmo. By an Angler. London. Murray. 1828.

themselves reached the top of the tree, may, very possibly, look down rather too contemptuously on a philosopher like Sir Humphry sitting among the lower branches-and their opinion on a salmon fisher must, just like a salmon itself, be taken cum grano salis. Still the amateur in angling, as in any other of the fine arts, painting for example, is amenable to the judgment of the artist. Tried by his peers, Sir Humphry might be pronounced a firstrater-by a jury of genuine fishermen from the Tweed, the Tay, the Awe, the Spey, the Dee, and the Findhorn, but a pretender. It is painful, indeed, to be forced to believe that almost nothing is perfectly well done by-gentlemen. Billiards? There are hundreds of markers who could give four to the best gentleman player in all England. Cricket? Beauclerk and Harbord themselves were nothing to the Marsdens. Race-riding? Poo. poo-poo-look at Chiffney, Buckle, or the worst of the Three Days, and Delme Ratcliffe himself is transmogrified into a tailor. Fiddling? Nay Sandy Ballantyne himself-beautiful as is his bow, and fine his finger, must lower his tone to Cramer or Spagnoletti. Shooting? Lord Kennedy, Mr Osbaldeston, and Captain Ross, are all beaten by Arrowsmith. Boxing? Ury, the best gentleman sparrer that ever flung down or took up a glove, was but a boy in the hands of John Jack son. Running? Abraham Wood could have distanced all the Universities. Leaping? Ireland, at hop, step, and leap, could have given two yards to young Beattie of the Border. And to return to angling-why, Mulcocky of Killarney could have safely and easily allowed a salmon an hour to the late Lord Somerville.

All this being the case, the only remaining question respecting Sir Humphry is this-is he, among gentlemen anglers, a first-rate gentleman angler? We shrewdly suspect-not. We judge of his skill and prowess from his book; and, as a proof of the confidence we repose in our own judgment, we hereby challenge Sir Humphry (a cool five hundred) for the first seven salmon, in any river and any month, week, or day, he may choose to appoint, in Great Britain or Ireland. We object decidedly to Norwaywhere Sir Humphry, we perceive, has angled a little as too far off; and VOL. XXIV.

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A public challenge may perhaps appear impertinent. But it is not soit is the perfection of politeness. For he who publishes a book on anglingsay Salmonia, or Days of Fly-Fishing thereby declares that he is "" open to all the world. Sir Humphry cannot be a stranger to our skill—at least not to our fame,—

"Whereof all Europe rings from side to side."

He must acknowledge that we are a "foeman worthy of his steel," although his hooks are the handy-work of O'Shaughnessy of Limerick; to be vanquished by Us can, he well knows, be no dishonour; whereas to beat Us (even by a grilse) would be undying keudos-everlasting glory-immortal fame. Were he to outangle North at Coldstream, Sir Humphry might hang up his rod in wreaths of ivy and laurel-just as Wellington his Fieldmarshal's baton, after the overthrow of Napoleon at Waterloo.

We have said that we judge Sir Humphry's skill as an angler by his Book. Now, no sooner did we see his Book advertised in Mr Murray's list, than we ordered it to be sent down to Us per mail, on the very day of its publication-that we might laud it to the skies. We love all brothers of the angle, and shall praise them always both in written and oral discourse, provided we can do so by moderately stretching the strings of our conscience. Obscure scribblers on the Gentle Craft, if they shew but a true feeling, shall by Us be brought forward into the light, and their place assigned them among angling authors-towards the bottom of the country dance. But when the Illustrious not only put the pieces of their rods together, but undertake to

"Teach the old idea how to fish," then we feel that such formidable preparation "must give us pause;" we 2 I

put our spectacles astraddle on our sharpened nose, clear our throat with a few sharp short hems; place our arms akimbo-so; and fixing our face on the philosopher, so insufferably bright with expression, that it seems all oculus-like the very eye of daywe see into and through him-be he as dark and as deep as he may-and intuitively know the precise place he is destined to occupy in company with Walton and Bainbridge.

Salmonia is certainly, on the whole, stupid. The servile adoption, or rather slavish imitation, of old Izaak Walton, is, at this time of day, not to be endured in any writer having the slightest pretensions to original power -and is of itself enough deservedly to damn the volume. Sir Humphry in forms us, that "the conversational manner and discursive style were chosen as best suited to the state of health of the author, who was incapable of considerable efforts and long-continued exertion; and he could not but have in mind a model, which has fully proved the utility and popularity of this method of treating the subject -The Complete Angler, by Walton and Cotton."

What does he mean by speaking of "considerable efforts and long-continued exertion"? Good gracious! are either the one or the other necessary in writing a book upon Angling? "Days of Fly-fishing" is a light and airy title, and such a volume might have been written off-hand, just as you would talk familiarly to an old friend, or scribble an epistle, without any effort at all, or any attention. One does not expect a work on Fly-fishing to be in several folios, on which had been bestowed the unremitting and undivided labour of a long life-the pulse on the thin wrist of the author stopping just as his shrivelled fingers had written "Finis." Had Sir Humphry been as strong as a horse, his health equal to that of Hygeia herself, would he have chosen a style mainly different from "the conversational and discursive," and belaboured his volume with "considerable efforts and long-continued exertion?" Surely he would not have been so silly. If so, then would his book have been even duller and heavier than it is-which is saying a good deal-for even in its present shape we should be sorry to swim the Tweed with it in our creel. It is the weight of a good fish.

The Complete Angler, by Walton and Cotton, has indeed fully proved "the utility and popularity of this method of treating the subject;"-but Sir Humphry must know very well that even a good copy of an invaluable original is worth not very much -an indifferent one, very little-a bad one, nothing. Old Izaak is often very tiresome-very prosy-but then he is a very endearing character. So, too, more or less, are all the other interlocutors. We become intimate with them-like, nay love them-and it is very pleasant to put up with the failings of such friends. Indeed, nothing endears one's friends to a goodhearted man so much as their little failings. Peculiarities beget affection. Who cares a straw for a person of perfectly irreproachable character in all the littlenesses of life? Something absurd even must there be in the face or figure, the dress or manner of a man, before you can take him to your heart. How pleasant the absence-the departure of an intimate and wearisome bosom-friend! You love him for the relief. You feel a tender contrition for having wished him at the devil. You set down every yawn of yours, ere he breathed farewell, as a separate sin to be atoned for by the aggravated cordiality of the return. You become pensive at the remembrance of your own guffaws-the quiz in absence is thought of with much of that tenderness and pity with which we regard the dead-and we vow if ever we meet again in this wicked world, to laugh at him less immoderately, to do more honour to his modest worth, to look on all his singularities in the light of originalities, and to own that, with all his qualities, he must indeed have been à character. Much of all this we experience in reading, and laying aside, and returning to, the Complete Angler. Walton himself we always reverence, even through our smiles. Cotton we always admire, wild though we know him to be; but the queer cits, with names as queer, who prate and prose through the dialogues, we regard with kindly affection, chiefly on account of the amiable specific silliness by which each is distinguished, and which proves one and all of them, beyond possibility of error, to be good anglers, true Christians, and blameless men.

But the interlocutors in Salmonia are introduced without the smallest dra

matic skill. Never was there such drawling discourse by the side of a mur muring stream as that indulged in by these elderly gentlemen. The charac ters chosen to support these conversations are, quoth Sir Humphry, HaLIEUS, who is supposed to be an accomplished fly-fisher; ORNITHER, who is to be regarded as a gentleman generally fond of the sports of the field, though not a finished master of the art of angling; POIETES, who is to be considered as an enthusiastic lover of nature, and partially acquainted with the myste ries of fly-fishing; and PHYSICUS, who is described as uninitiated as an angler, but as a person fond of inquiries in natural history and philosophy. There is nothing very much amiss in this attempt at deviation from the characters in the Complete Angler, though manifestly a woful wantofingenuity-originality-which last is to a book about any rural sport -life and soul. Without it, such book is what Sir Humphry and the che mists understand by a caput mortuum. But the worst of it is, that the characters, unoriginal, are also unre. deemed by any strong natural traits, unbrightened by the vivacity, we will not say of genius, but even of animal spirits, and all repeat a lesson which they seem to have painfully conned before reaching the river side. Sir Humphry is seen for ever exerting himself, to the very utmost his feeble health would allow, to "preserve the similitude." Halieus, of course, performs all the feats of skill, and holds the rest of the party dog-cheap. Ornither is the only one of the four who ought to know an eagle when he sees it. Never was there, on all occasions, such another imaginative simpleton as Poietes; while Physicus, being drawn, as we are told, from the life, is as pedantic and as empty as most other philosophical Physicians, who have dealt more with theory than practice.

The fatal fault-the original sin of this production-is in the conception. There is no individuality of character in any one of these four unfortunate gentlemen. Unfortunate we call them, on that very account; for, however rich or reputable a gentleman may be, he cannot be pronounced fortunate, if he have no individuality of character. Not only, in such cases, are gentle, men liable to be mistaken for one another by others-a bad case-but by

themselves—a much worse; à confusion arises among their personal identities, from which result many unpleasant feelings and awkward mistakes; and they all are aware how dangerous it would be for any one of them to swear to a fact as having been consistent with his own knowledge, since, on farther reflection, it would appear equally probable to have occurred to another of the squad. The student of "Salmonia" is puzzled at every page to remember who is speaking-and dislikes the endless trouble of turning back to look for his name. Read from it a dialogue to a blind man,-however cheerful and acute-and all blind men are cheerful and acute-and good and happy too,-and you must take care never to omit the name of a single interlocutor. Not so in Plato-not so in Walton-not so in Landor-not so in North. In those divine dialogues, for example, the Noctes Ambrosianæ, you could not change the name of one speaker for another, even for one retort courteous, or quip modest, without the misnomer being instantly de tected by the dullest ear. But in Salmonia, it would seldom matter much were the names of the speakers put into a hat, and then affixed to the dif ferent speeches, in the order in which they were drawn from the beaver.

Sir Humphry Davy must be too well-read a man in dramatic literature, not to know how essential to the production of any effect at all, is the perpetual preservation of dramatic propriety. Let the sentiments, feel ings, opinions, descriptions, reflections, in a dialogue, be as excellent as may be, natural and true; yet, unless they are all felt to be congenial and appro priate to the character of him who utters them, they seem stale, flat, and unprofitable; and absolutely are felt to lose much of their native worth from being so transmitted to our heart or understanding. The genius by which the truth of nature is preserved throughout all the fluctuations and windings, and turnings, of a free and animated dialogue, in which many strongly-marked and clearly contrasted characters are displayed, is not, in our opinion, a very rare gift; it is possessed, in a thousand distinct degrees, from Shakspeare down to the wit of the village smithy; but nature seems to have withholden it entirely from Sir Humphry Davy, while she

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