up so much of his time and
thoughts that he had no leisure to take the sweet content that I, who
pretended no title to them, took in his fields: for I could there sit
quietly; and looking on the water, see some fishes sport themselves in
the silver streams, others leaping at flies of several shapes and
colours; looking on the hills, I could behold them spotted with woods
and groves; looking down the meadows, could see, here a boy gathering
lilies and lady-smocks, and there a girl cropping culverlocks and
cowslips, all to make garlands suitable to this present month of May.
These and many other field-flowers so perfumed the air that I thought
that very meadow like that field in Sicily of which Diodorus speaks,
where the perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it
to fall off and lose their hottest scent. I say, as I thus sat, joying
in my own happy condition, and pitying this poor rich man that owned
this and many other pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did
thankfully remember what my Saviour said, that the meek possess the
earth; or rather they enjoy what the others possess and enjoy not; for
Anglers and meek quiet-spirited men are free from those high, those
restless thoughts which corrode the sweets of life; and they, and they
only can say as the poet has happily exprest it:

'Hail, blest estate of lowliness!
Happy enjoyments of such minds
As, rich in self-contentedness,
Can, like the reeds in roughest winds,
By yielding make that blow but small
At which proud oaks and cedars fall.'

There you have a passage of felicitous prose culminating in a stanza of
trite and fifth-rate verse. Yes, Walton's instinct is sound; for he is
keying up the pitch; and verse, even when mediocre in quality, has its
pitch naturally set above that of prose. So, if you will turn to your
Walton and read the page following this passage, you will see that, still
by a sure instinct, he proceeds from this scrap of reflective verse to a
mere rollicking 'catch':

Man's life is but vain, for 'tis subject to pain
And sorrow, and short as a bubble;
'Tis a hodge-podge of business and money and care,
And care, and money and trouble...

--which is even worse rubbish, and yet a step upwards in emotion because
Venator actually sings it to music. 'Ay marry, sir, this is music
indeed,' approves Brother Peter; 'this cheers the heart.'

In th