the c Compleat Angler.' 



4 1 



Great is our leaning, we confefs, to this edition, which was 

 printed in the village of Broxbourne, by the river Lea, and in 

 the very footprints of old Izaak. The river itfelf meanders 

 down the opening page, and feated under a pollard-willow, 

 by Lea-fide, with this book on our knee, we drop, readily, 

 into a reverie. We ceafe to read the page — we feem to 

 hear the quiet monotone of the old man's voice, and are 

 ftartled, prefently, by the plaining of the water as he plays and 

 lands his fifh. . . . 



<c Look you, there is a tryal of my (kill ! there is that very 

 chub that I mowed you, with the white fpot on his tail." 



And the broad -leaved water- flags flap to and fro, as the 

 wind flirs them, and the fwallow dips, and the dragon-fly 

 ruffles by, and from a neighbouring copfe, a bird fets up a 

 mellow, joyous trill, whereat the quiet undertone refumes 1 . . . 



" Lo ! there, the nightingale ! another of our airy creatures, 

 which breathes fuch fweet loud mufic out of her little inftru- 

 mental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles 

 are not ceafed. He that at midnight (when the very labourer 

 fleeps fecurely) fhould hear (as I have very often) the clear 

 airs, the fweet defcants, the natural rifing and falling, the 

 doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted 

 above earth and fay, Lord, what mufick haft thou provided 

 for the Saints in Heaven, when thou afforded bad men fuch 

 mufick on earth." 



Pleafant, too, for its own fake, and dear to all anglers, is 



1 Speaking for Auceps. 



