in the language is that prose-poem, Walton’s Complete Angler.  That well-known work has a beauty and romantic interest equal to its simplicity, and arising out of it.  In the description of a fishing-tackle, you perceive the piety and humanity of the author’s mind.  It is to be doubted whether Sannazarius’s Piscatory Eclogues are equal to the scenes described by Walton on the banks of the river Lea.  He gives the feeling of the open air:  we walk with him along the dusty road-side, or repose on the banks of the river under a shady tree; and in watching for the finny prey, imbibe what he beautifully calls “the patience and simplicity of poor honest fishermen.”  We accompany them to their inn at night, and partake of their simple, but delicious fare; while Maud, the pretty milk-maid, at her mother’s desire, sings the classical ditties of the poet Marlow; “Come live with me, and be my love.”  Good cheer is not neglected in this work, any more than in Homer, or any other history that sets a proper value on the good things of this life.  The prints in the Complete Angler give an additional reality and interest to the scenes it describes.  While Tottenham Cross shall stand, and longer, thy work, amiable and happy old man, shall last!—­It is in the notes to it that we find that character of “a fair and happy milkmaid,” by Sir Thomas Overbury, which may vie in beauty and feeling with Chaucer’s character of Griselda.

“A fair and happy milk-maid is a country wench that is so far from making herself beautiful by art, that one look of her’s is able to put all face-physic out of countenance.  She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not.  All her excellences stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge.  The lining of her apparel (which is herself) is far better than outsides of tissue; for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the silkworm, she is decked in innocency, a far better wearing.  She doth not, with lying long in bed, spoil both her complexion and conditions.  Nature hath taught her, too immoderate sleep is rust to the soul:  she rises therefore with chanticleer, her dame’s cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew.  Her breath is her own, which scents all the year long of June, like a new-made haycock.  She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pity; and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry wheel) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of Fortune.  She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well.  She bestows her year’s wages at next fair; and in choosing her garments, counts no bravery in the world like decency.  The garden and bee-hive are all her physic and chirurgery, and she lives the longer for’t.  She dares go alone, and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means none:  yet, to say the truth, she is