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still of those, who he thought could never fail him; and then no man had such an ascendant over him by 130 the lowest and humblest insinuations as Duke Hamilton had.

As he excelled in all other virtues, so in temperance he was so strict that he abhorred all debauchery to 135 that degree that at a great festival solemnity where he once was, when very many of the nobility of the English and Scots were entertained, being told by one who withdrew from 140 thence what vast draughts of wine they drank, and that there was one Earl who had drunk most of the rest down, and was not himself moved or altered, the King said that he 145 deserved to be hanged; and that Earl coming shortly after into the room where his Majesty was, in some gaiety, to shew how unhurt he was from that battle, the King sent some 150 one to bid him withdraw from his Majesty's presence; nor did he in some days after appear before the King.

There were so many miraculous 155 circumstances contributed to his ruin, that men might well think that heaven and earth conspired it, and that the stars designed it. Though he was from the first declension of his power 160 so much betrayed by his own servants that there were very few who remained faithful to him, yet that treachery proceeded not from any treasonable purpose to do him any 165 harm, but from particular and per

sonal animosities against other men. And afterwards, the terror all men were under of the Parliament, and the guilt they were conscious of themselves, made them watch all 170 opportunities to make themselves gracious to those who could do them good; and so they became spies upon their master, and from one piece of knavery were hardened and confirmed 175 to undertake another, till at last they had no hope of preservation but by the destruction of their master. And after all this, when a man might reasonably believe that less than a 180 universal defection of three nations could not have reduced a great King to so ugly a fate, it is most certain that in that very hour when he was thus wickedly murdered in the sight 185 of the sun, he had as great a share in the hearts and affections of his subjects in general, was as much beloved, esteemed, and longed for by the people in general of the three 190 nations, as any of his predecessors had ever been. To conclude: he was the worthiest gentleman, the best master, the best friend, the best husband, the best father, and the best 195 Christian that the age in which he lived had produced. And if he was not the best King, if he was without some parts and qualities which have made some kings great and happy, 200 no other prince was ever unhappy who was possessed of half his virtues and endowments, and so much without any kind of vice.

IZAAC WALTON.

ZAAC WALTON (1593-1683) was born at Stafford in 1593, and died at Winchester in 1683. Having acquired a competency as a linen-draper in London, he retired from business and withdrew into the country. During the remaining forty years of his life he enjoyed undisturbed

leisure and wrote the admirable little biographies of five of the most eminent clergymen of his time and The Complete Angler, or the Contemplative Man's Recreations, which secured for him the enduring fame of being one of the most popular English prose writers. The Complete Angler

was first published in 1653, but it was afterwards much altered and, in the 5th edition of 1676, supplemented by a second part on Trout Fishing by Walton's scholarly young friend CHARLES COTTON (1630-1687).

The charm of the book lies in its fresh and simple style, and in the lively dialogues, old songs, and delightful descriptions of idyllic country life, which accompany its technical details of the art of angling.

From THE COMPLETE ANGLER. [Part I, Ch. 4 (1653)]

Viator. Trust me, master, I see now it is a harder matter to catch a trout than a chub; for I have put on patience, and followed you this two 5 hours, and not seen a fish stir, neither at your minnow nor your worm.

Piscator. Well, scholar, you must endure worse luck sometime, or you will never make a good angler. But 10 what say you now? there is a trout now, and a good one too, if I can but hold him; and two or three turns more will tire him. Now you see he lies still, and the sleight is to land 15 him. Reach me that landing-net. So, sir, now he is mine own. What say you? is not this worth all my labour?

Viat. On my word, master, this is a gallant trout; what shall we do 20 with him?

Pisc. Marry, even eat him to supper: we'll go to my hostess, from whence we came; she told me, as I was going out of door, that my 25 brother Peter, a good angler, and a cheerful companion, had sent word he would lodge there to-night, and bring a friend with him. My hostess has two beds, and I know you and I may 30 have the best. We'll rejoice with my brother Peter and his friends, tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, or find some harmless sport to content us.

Viat. A match, good master, let's 35 go to that house; for the linen looks white, and smells of lavender, and I long to lie in a pair of sheets that smells so: let's be going, good master, for I am hungry again with fishing.

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a worm; now I will put on a minnow, and try a quarter of an hour about yonder trees for another, and so walk towards our lodging. Look you, schol- 45 ar, thereabout we shall have a bite presently, or not at all: have with you, sir, on my word I have him. O it is a great loggerheaded chub: come, hang him upon that willow 50 twig, and let's be going. But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, towards yonder high hedge: we'll sit whilst this shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives 55 a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn the verdant meadows.

Look! under that broad beech-tree I sat down, when I was last this way a-fishing, and the birds in the co adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow cave, near to the brow of that primrose hill. There I sat, view- 65 ing the silver streams glide silently towards their centre, the tempestuous sea, yet sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble-stones, which broke their waves and turned them into 70 foam: and sometimes viewing the harmless lambs, some leaping securely in the cool shade, whilst others sported themselves in the cheerful sun, and others were craving comfort from the 75 swollen udders of their bleating dams. As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul, that I thought, as the poet hath happily expressed it:

'I was for that time lifted above earth, And possess'd joys not promis'd in my birth.'

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As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure 85 entertained me. "Twas a handsome milkmaid that had cast away all care and sang like a nightingale; her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; 'twas that smooth song which 90 was made by Kit Marlowe, now at least fifty years ago; and the milkmaid's mother sang an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.

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They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good, I think much better than that now in fashion in this critical age. Look yonder, on my word, yonder they both be a100 milking again: I will give her the chub, and persuade them to sing those two songs to us.

God speed, good woman! I have been a-fishing, and am going to 106 Bleak Hall to my bed, and having caught more fish than will sup myself and my friend, will bestow this upon you and your daughter, for I use to sell none.

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Milk. What song was it, I pray? Was it 'Come, shepherds, deck your heads,' or, 'As at noon Dulcina 125 rested,' or, 'Philida flouts me,' or, 'Chevy Chace,' or, 'Johnny Armstrong," or, Troy Town'?

Pisc. No, it is none of those: it is a song that your daughter sang 130 the first part, and you sang the answer to it.

Milk. O, I know it now. I learn'd the first part in my golden age, when I was about the age of my 135 daughter; and the latter part, which indeed fits me best, but two or three years ago; you shall, God willing, hear them both. Come, Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentle- 140 men with a merry heart, and I'll sing the second.

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Viat. Trust me, my master, it is a choice song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause that our good Queen Elizabeth did so often wish 150 herself a milkmaid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, and sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night: and without doubt, honest, 155 innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I'll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury's milkmaid's wish upon her, "That she may die in the spring, and being dead, may have good store of flowers stuck 160 round about her winding-sheet.'

BUTLER.

of the Cavalier party and even of Charles II.

himself, by ridiculing the views and the manners of the Puritans in a burlesque epic in doggerel, entitled Hudibras, the best burlesque in the English language. Nevertheless he passed the remainder of

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his life in obscure poverty, and, dying in London in 1680, was buried at the expense of a friend.

Butler's Hudibras, the first part of which was printed in 1663 (though written some fifteen years before) and followed by continuations in 1664 and 1678, may be called a metrical parody upon Cervantes' Don Quixote (1605-1615, first English translation 1612-1620): just as the Spanish knight De La Mancha and his squire

Sancho Panza, so also do Sir Hudibras, a Puritan justice of the peace, and Squire Ralpho, his Independent clerk, sally forth in quest of adventures. But the filling-up of the story is quite different and entirely Butler's own. Of his other compositions there may be mentioned The Elephant in the Moon, a clever verse satire on the newly-founded Royal Society of London (1662), and his interesting prose Charac

ters.

From HUDIBRAS.
[Canto I, II. 15-120 (1662)]

As naturally as pigs squeak;
That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle: 40
Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted:
But much of either would afford
To many that had not one word. ...

A wight he was whose very sight would | Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood; That never bow'd his stubborn knee To any thing but chivalry; 5 Nor put up blow, but that which laid Right Worshipful on shoulder-blade: Chief of domestic knights and errant, Either for cartel or for warrant: Great on the bench, great in the saddle, 10 That could as well bind o'er as swaddle: Mighty he was at both of these, And styl'd of war as well as peace. (So some rats, of amphibious nature, Are either for the land or water.) 15 But here our authors make a doubt Whether he were more wise or stout. Some hold the one, and some the other; But, howsoe'er they make a pother, The diff'rence was so small, his brain 20 Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain;

Which made some take him for a tool That knaves do work with, call'd a Fool. For 't has been held by many that, As Montaigne, playing with his cat, 25 Complains she thought him but an ass, Much more she would Sir Hudibras, (For that's the name our valiant Knight To all his challenges did write): But they're mistaken very much, 30 'Tis plain enough he was not such. We grant, altho' he had much wit, H' was very shy of using it; As being loath to wear it out, And therefore bore it not about, 85 Unless on holidays or so,

As men their best apparel do.

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill'd in analytic:
He could distinguish and divide
A hair 'twixt south and south-west
side;

On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still
confute:

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He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man 's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 55
And rooks committee-men and trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination.
All this by syllogism, true
In mood and figure, he would do. 60
For rhetoric, he could not ope
His mouth, but out there flew a trope;
And when he happen'd to break off
In th' middle of his speech, or cough,
H' had hard words ready to shew why, 65
And tell what rules he did it by;
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talk'd like other folk:
For all a rhetorician's rules

Teach nothing but to name his tools. 70

But, when he pleas'd to shew 't, his speech

In loftiness of sound was rich; A Babylonish dialect, Which learned pedants much affect; 75 It was a party-colour'd dress

Of patch'd and piebald languages: 'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, Like fustian heretofore on satin. It had an odd promiscuous tone, so As if h' had talk'd three parts in one; Which made some think, when he did gabble,

Th' had heard three labourers of Babel, Or Cerberus himself pronounce A leash of languages at once. 85 This he as volubly would vent As if his stock would ne'er be spent; And truly to support that charge, He had supplies as vast and large.

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