Observe the streams and see them silent go- I'll shew you all the pleasures of the stream THERE is a freshness, a repose, an indescribable enjoyment of solitude on the banks of a clear and placid river, which a lover of nature can alone sufficiently appreciate. The air is so pure on a fine morning in the spring, her breath so sweet as it passes through the snowy hawthorn bushes, the sloping hills are so varied with trees and flowers, and the meadows so fresh and gay, that cold must that heart be, and insensible to the charms of river-scenery, that does not enjoy such a spot, and look around him with delight. Those who have wandered on the banks of my favourite Avon, as it flows through the borders of the New Forest, and seen its clear and sparkling waters passing over the long and yielding rushes, which sometimes shew themselves above the surface, and then gently hide themselves as some dragonfly settles upon them-those that have watched the graceful bendings of the stream, sometimes opening into shallow broads covered with ephemeræ, and then narrowing into deeper and more rapid channels, will have experienced the quiet enjoyment of the scenery of one of our most beautiful rivers. The English, perhaps, more than any other nation, are capable of appreciating the charms of nature, and those thousand beauties which are to be found in our little sequestered dells, and in the smiling vallies through which many of our pretty streamlets find their way. The satisfaction and complacency, which arise from a contemplation of the beauties of the works of creation, our walks in verdant fields and shady woods,the song of birds, and the calmness and stillness of nature in her more retired spots, all these have been dwelt upon and described both by naturalists and poets. It is indeed impossible to see the verdure of our meadows, to hear the melodious songs of birds, to witness the fertility of the earth, and to view the order and economy which pervade all nature, without feelings of delight and gratification. With these feelings we enter into the charms of Walton's pastoral, and set a true value on the tranquil pursuits of Gilbert White. But it is to the honest and patient Angler, that such scenes afford the greatest enjoyment and admiration. Far removed from the noise and turmoil of the world, he prepares his rod, and while standing on the banks of the stream, with the speckled trouts rising freely around him, he "tastes the unrifled freshness of the air," and is thankful for the innocent enjoyment he is partaking of. We have often thought, that the amusement of angling has been too much despised by those, who are not anglers themselves. If all the pleasure of the pursuit consisted in dragging a fish to shore, or in watching a float to see it go under water, we might join in the ridicule which has been bestowed on "the brethren of the rod and line." The pleasure of angling, however, takes a far wider range, and we are convinced that the mere act of fishing is only a secondary consideration with those, who join with it a fondness for the charms of nature. The enjoyment of air and exercise, as the Angler pursues his course through flowery meadows and fields covered with herds and flocks, listening to the unseen lark, or watching the varied movements of the swallows, as they glide around him in every direction, have charms which add a relish to his walk, and harmonize with every kindly feeling of his heart. Nor is this all. A reflective angler will derive many useful lessons of instruction from the visible objects of creation which surround him, all of which serve to prove the infinite perfection and unbounded benevolence of the Great Creator. This after all, should be the chief object of those, who "tread the dewy lawns," and who will perceive the various and curious contrivances of nature to preserve even a little fragile and delicate moss on some bleak and barren rock. In viewing the "ample sky," or following the windings of some pretty streamlet, as it waters its banks, gay with our native flowers, we may learn to be humble, and by reflecting on our own insignificance, may be taught the grand secret of human existence that of preparing for our last great change. The very revolutions of nature, the ephemeræ, dancing in the sun-beams, independent of all other considerations, must teach us to expect it. Amongst those who found "books in the running brooks," was Izaak Walton. He, perhaps, more than any other writer, appreciated the delight of strolling on the banks of a river. His charming pastoral is a proof of this, and we are convinced that he merely made angling a secondary consideration in describing those scenes in which he so much delighted. While he amuses, he at the same time instructs his readers; and his fervent and unaffected piety, the simplicity of his taste, the benevolence of his mind, and the contentedness of his spirit, are apparent in all he thought, and in all he wrote. No lover of the rod can find himself on the banks of a river, without thinking of Walton. His name is so connected with anglers and angling, that they have become inseparable. The charge of a want of humanity has been brought against him, and from this we would willingly rescue him. We must however endeavour to do it at the expense of his piscatory skill, which some of his honest disciples will, perhaps, think an act of treason. In expressing an opinion that Walton did not deserve the name of an angler, in the modern acceptation of the word, we know that we shall excite the astonishment of many of his admirers. We must, however, honestly avow our conviction, that "our good father" was almost as ignorant of the mystery of fishing, as the contented looking cockneys that may occasionally be seen every summer dozing in a punt near Richmond Bridge. The old Cromwellian trooper, Richard Franck, was probably right when he hinted that Walton had derived his knowledge of fishing from "antiquated authors and mouldy records." We chance to have a few of these "mouldy records" in our possession, on which we set no little store, and on looking into some of them, we are bound to admit that many of the hints given by Piscator to his "honest disciple," have been taken from these rare "treatyses of fysshynge." It is evident, that his own skill in the art consisted in watching his float, as it glided gently down one of the pretty streams he has so delightfully described, while his hints and instructions to anglers were derived from those |
