Greetings to American Anglers

From Master Isaak Walton

My Good Friends--As I have said afore time, sitting by a river's side is
the quietest and fittest place for contemplation, and being out and
along the bank of Styx with my tackle this sweet April morning, it came
into my humor to send a word of greeting to you American anglers. Some
of your fellows, who have come by this way these past years, tell me
notable tales of the sport that may he had in your bright streams,
whereof the name of Pocono lingers in my memory. Sad it is to me to
recall that when writing my little book on the recreation of a
contemplative man I had made no mention of your rivers as delightsome
places where our noble art might be carried to a brave perfection, but
indeed in that day when I wrote--more years ago than I like to think
on--your far country was esteemed a wild and wanton land. Some worthy
Pennsylvania anglers with whom I have fished this water of Styx have
even told me of thirty and forty-inch trouts they have brought to
basket in that same Pocono stream, from the which fables I know that the
manners of our ancient sport have altered not a whit. I myself could
tell you of a notable catch I had the other morning, when I took some
half dozen brace of trouts before breakfast, not one less than
twenty-two inches, with bellies as yellow as marigold and as white as a
lily in parts. That I account quite excellent taking for these times,
when this stream hath been so roiled and troubled by the passage of
Master Charon's barges, he having been so pressed with traffic that he
hath discarded his ancient vessel as incommodious and hasteneth to and
fro with a fleet of ferryboats.

My Good Friends, I wish you all the comely sport that may be found along
those crystal rivers whereof your fellows have told me, and a good
honest alehouse wherein to take your civil cup of barley wine when there
ariseth too violent a shower of rain. I have ever believed that a pipe
of tobacco sweeteneth sport, and I was never above hiding a bottle of
somewhat in the hollow root of a sycamore against chilly seizures. But
come, what is this I hear that you honest anglers shall no longer pledge
fortune in a cup of mild beverage? Meseemeth this is an odd thing and
contrary to our tradition. I look for some explanation of the matter.
Mayhap I have been misled by some waggishness. In my days along my
beloved little river Dove, where my friend Mr. Cotton erected his
fishing house, we were wont to take our pleasure on the bowling green of
an evening, with a cup of ale handy. And our sheets used to smell
passing sweet of lavender, which is a pleasant fragrance, indeed.

One matter lies somewhat heavy on my heart and damps my mirth, that in
my little book I said of our noble fish the trout that his name was of a
German offspring. I am happy to confess to you that I was at fault, for
my good friend Master Charon (who doth sometimes lighten his labors with
a little casting and trolling from the poop of his vessel) hath
explained to me that the name trout deriveth from the antique Latin word
_tructa_, signifying a gnawer. This is a gladsome thing for me to know,
and moreover I am bounden to tell you that the house committee of our
little angling club along Styx hath blackballed all German members
henceforward. These riparian pleasures are justly to be reserved for
gentles of the true sportsman blood, and not such as have defiled the
fair rivers of France.

And so, good friends, my love and blessing upon all such as love
quietness and go angling.

IZAAK WALTON.