lights in the Fair.  Nor did we feel inclined to turn along any by-road on a dark night like that, seeing that we had been partly lost on our way from London the previous year, nearly at the same place, and on quite as dark a night.  On that memorable occasion we had entered Dovedale near Thorpe, and visited the Lovers’ Leap, Reynard’s Cave, Tissington Spires, and Dove Holes, but darkness came on, compelling us to leave the dale to resume our walk the following morning.  Eventually we saw a light in the distance, where we found a cottage, the inmates of which kindly conducted us with a lantern across a lonely place to the village of Parwich, which in the Derbyshire dialect they pronounced “Porritch,” reminding us of our supper.

[Illustration:  TISSINGTON SPIRES.]

[Illustration:  REYNARD’S CAVE, DOVEDALE.]

It was nearly closing-time when we were ushered into the taproom of the village inn among some strange companions, and when the hour of closing arrived we saw the head of the village policeman appear at the shutter through which outside customers were served with beer.  The landlord asked him, “Will you have a pint?” Looking significantly at ourselves, he replied, “No, thank you,” but we noticed the “pint” was placed in the aperture, and soon afterwards disappeared!

At Newhaven we ascertained that we were now quite near Hartington and Dovedale.  Hartington was a famous resort of fishermen and well known to Isaak Walton, the “Father of Fishermen,” and author of that famous book The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man’s Recreation, so full of such cheerful piety and contentment, such sweet freshness and simplicity, as to give the book a perennial charm.  He was a great friend of Charles Cotton of Beresford Hall, who built a fine fishing-house near the famous Pike Pool on the River Dove, over the arched doorway of which he placed a cipher stone formed with the combined initials of Walton and himself, and inscribed with the words “Piscatoribus Sacrum.”  It was said that when they came to fish in the fish pool early in the morning, Cotton smoked tobacco for his breakfast!

  What spot more honoured than this beautiful place? 
    Twice honoured truly.  Here Charles Cotton sang,
    Hilarious, his whole-hearted songs, that rang
  With a true note, through town and country ways,
  While the Dove trout—­in chorus—­splashed their praise. 
    Here Walton sate with Cotton in the shade
    And watched him dubb his flies, and doubtless made
  The time seem short, with gossip of old days. 
  Their cyphers are enlaced above the door,
  And in each angler’s heart, firm-set and sure.

  While rivers run, shall those two names endure,
  Walton and Cotton linked for evermore—–­
    And Piscatoribus Sacrum where more fit
    A motto for their wisdom worth and wit?

  Say, where shall the toiler find rest from his labours,
    And seek sweet repose from the overstrung will? 
  Away from the worry and jar of his neighbours
    Where moor-tinted streamlets flow down from the hill.