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Derwent, a black water too, and that not only from its fountain but quite through its progress, not having these crystal springs to wash and cleanse it which the two forementioned have, but abounds with Trout and Grayling, such as they are, towards its source, and with Salmon below. And this river, from the upper
and utmost part of this county, where it springs, taking its course by Chatsworth, Darley, Matlock, Derby, Burrow-Ash, and Awberson, falls into Trent, at a place called Wildon; and there loses its name. The east side of this county of Derby is bounded by little inconsiderable rivers, as Awber, Eroways, and the like, scarce worth naming, but trouty too; and further we are not to enquire. But, Sir, I have carried
you, as a man may say, by water, till we are now come to the descent of the formidable hill I told
of (at the foot of which runs the river Dove, which I cannot but love above all the rest); and therefore prepare yourself to be a little frightened.
Viat. Sir, I see you would fortify me that I should not shame myself : but I dare follow where you please to lead me. And I see no danger yet; for the descent, methinks, is thus far green, even, and easy.
Pisc. You will like it worse presently, when you come to the brow of the hill: and now we are there, what think you?
Viat. What do I think? why I think it the strangest place that ever (sure!) men and horses went down; and that, if there be any safety at all, the safest way is to alight.
receives the Lug; from thence, passing on to Ross, it enters Monmouthshire, and falls into the Severn below Chepstow.
It abounds with that small species of fish called Lasi-spriogs ; (for which see page 125, n,) and also with Grayling.
And here it may be necessary to remark, that the names of Avon, Ouse, Stoure, and some others, are common to many rivers in England, as that of Dulas is to numbers in Wales. See Notes on the Polyolbion, Song the sixth.
Pisc. I think so too, for you who are mounted upon a beast not acquainted with these slippery stones: and though I frequently ride down, I will alight too to bear you company and to lead you the way. And, if you please, my man shall lead
horse. Viat. Marry, Sir! and thank you too: for I am afraid I shall have enough to do to look to myself: and with my horse in my hand should be in a double fear, both of breaking my neck, and my horse's falling on me, for it is as steep as a penthouse.
Pisc. To look down from hence it appears so, I confess: but the path winds and turns, and will not be found so troublesome.
Viat. Would I were well down though! Hoist thee ! there's one fair 'scape! these stones are so slippery I cannot stand ! yet again! I think I were best lay my heels in my neck and tumble down.
Pisc. If you think your heels will defend your neck, that is the way to be soon at the bottom. But give me your hand at this broad stone, and then the worst is past.
Viat. I thank you, Sir, I am now past it, I can go myself. What's here ? the sign of a bridge? Do you use to travel with wheelbarrows in this country?
Pisc. Not that I ever saw, Sir! why do you ask that question ?
Viat. Because, this bridge certainly was made for nothing else : why! a mouse can hardly go over it: 'tis not two fingers broad.
Pisc. You are pleasant, and I am glad to see you so ; but I have rid over the bridge many a dark night.
Viat. Why, according to the French proverb, and ’tis a good one, among a great many of worse sense and sound that language abounds in, Ce que Dieu garde, est bien gardé, “ They whom God takes care of, are in safe protection :" but, let me tell you, I would not ride over it
for a thousand pounds, nor fall off it for two : and yet I think I dare venture on foot, though if you were not by to laugh at me, I should do it on all four.
Pisc. Well, Sir, your mirth becomes you, and I am glad to see you safe over, and now you are welcome into Staffordshire.
Viat. How, Staffordshire! What do I there, trow? there is not a word of Staffordshire in all
direction. Pisc. You see you are betrayed into it, but it shall be in order to something that will make amends; and 'tis but an ill mile or two out of your way.
Viat. I believe all things, Sir, and doubt nothing. Is this your beloved river Dove? 'Tis clear and swift, indeed, but a very little one.
Pisc. You see it, here, at the worst : we shall come to it anon again, after two miles riding, and so near as to lie upon
banks. Viat. Would we were there once: but I hope we have no more of these Alps to pass over.
Pisc. No, no, Sir, only this ascent before you, which you see is not very uneasy, and then you will no more quarrel with your way.
Viat. Well, if ever I come to London, of which many a man there, if he were in my place, would make a question, I will sit down and write my travels; and like Tom Coriate, print them at my own charge. Pray what do you call this hill, we came down?
(1) Tom Coriate lived in the reigo of King James the First ; and, as Wood calls him, was the whetstone of all the wits of that age : and, indeed, the allusions to him, and to the singular oddness of his character are numberless. He travelled almost over Europe on foot; and in that tour walked 900 miles with one pair of shoes, which he got mended at Zurich. Afterwards he visited Turkey, Persia, and the Great Mogul's dominions, travelling in so frugal a manner, that-as he tells his mother, in a letter to her in his ten months' travels, between Aleppo and the Mogul's court, he spent but three pounds sterling; living remarkably well for about two pepce sterling a day; and of that three pounds he elsewhere says, he was cozened of no less than ten shillings sterling by certaiu Christians of the Armenian nation ; so that, indeed, he spent
Pisc. We call it Hanson-Toot.
Viat. Why, farewell Hanson-Toot! I'll no more on thee: I'll go twenty miles about, first: Puh! I sweat that my shirt sticks to
back. Pisc. Come, Sir, now we are up the hill; and now how do you?
Viat. Why, very well, I humbly thank you, Sir, and warm enough, I assure you. What have we here, a church? As I'm an honest man, a very pretty church! Have you
churches in this country, Sir ? Pisc. You see we have: but had you seen none, why should you make that doubt, Sir?
but fifty shillings in his ten month's travels. In these his travels, be attained to great proficiency both in the Persian and Indostan languages; in the former, he made and pronounced an oration to the Great Mogul; and his skill in the latter, he took occasion to manifest in the following very signal instance. In the service of the English ambassador, then resident, was a woman of Indostan, a laundress, whose frequent practice it was to scold, brawl, and rail, from sunrising to sun-set. This formidable shrew did Coriate one day undertake to scold with, in her own language; and succeeded so well in the attempt, that, by eight of the clock in the morning, he had totally silenced her, leaving her not a word to speak. See A Voyage to East-India, by Edward Terry, chaplain to Sir Tho. Row, ambassador to the Great Mogul, 12mo. 1655.
Further it appears, that he was a zealous champion for the Christian religion against the Mahometans and Pagans, in the defence whereof, he sometimes risqued his life. In Turkey, when a priest, as the custom is, was proclaiming from a mosque-tower that Mahomet was a true prophet, Tom, in the fury of his zeal, and in the face of the whole city, told the priest he lyed, and that his prophet was an impostor : and at a city called Moltan, in the East-ladies, he in public disputed with a Mahometan, who had called him Giaur, or infidel, ia these words : “ But I pray thee, tell me, thou Mahometan! dost thou, in sad. ness, call me Giaur ? That I do, quoth he: Then, quoth I, in very sober sad. ness, I retort that shameful word in thy throat ; and tell thee plainly, that I am a Mussulman, and thou art a Giaur.” He concludes thus : “Go to then, thou false believer, since by thy injurious imputation laid on me, in that thou calledst me Giaur, thou hast provoked me to speak thus. thee, let this mine answer be a wurning for thee not to scandalize me in the like manner any more: for the Christian religion which I profess, is so deur and tender unto me, that neither thou, nor any other Mahometan, shall, scot free, call me Giaur, but that I shall quit you with an answer much to the wonder of those Mahometans. Dixi."
He died of the fux occasioned by driuking sack at Surat, in 1617: having published his European travels in a quarto volume, which he called his Crudities; and to this circumstance the passage in the text is a manifest allusion. See Athen. Oxon. Vol. I. Col. 422 ; Purchase's Pilgrim, Part I. Book 4. Chap. 17; Coriale's Letter from the Court of the Great Mogul, quarto, 1616; and, above all, Terry's Voyage before cited, the author whereof was, as he himself asserts, his chamber-fellow, or tent-mate, in East-India.
Viat. Why, if you will not be angry, I'll tell you;
I thought myself a stage or two beyond Christendom.
Pisc. Come! come! we'll reconcile you to our country, before we part with you; if shewing you good sport with angling will do it.
Viat. My respect to you, and that together, may do much, Sir: otherwise, to be plain with you, I do not find myself much inclined that way.
Pisc. Well, Sir, your raillery upon our mountains has brought us almost home; and look you where the same river of Dove has again met us to bid you welcome, and to invite
to a dish of Trouts to-morrow. Viat. Is this the same we saw at the foot of PenmenMaure? It is a much finer river here.
Pisc. It will appear yet much finer to-morrow. But look
you, Sir, here appears the house, that is now like to be your inn, for want of a better.
Viat. It appears on a sudden, but not before 'twas look'd for; it stands prettily, and here's wood about it too, but so young, as appears to be of your own planting.
Pise. It is so, will it please you to alight, Sir? And now permit me, after all your pains and dangers, to take you
in my arms, and to assure you, that you are infinitely welcome.
Viat. I thank you, Sir, and am glad with all my heart I am here; for, in downright truth, I am exceeding weary. Pisc. You will sleep so much the better; you shall
presently have a light supper, and to bed. Come, Sirs, lay the cloth, and bring what you have presently, and let the gentleman's bed be made ready in the mean time in my father Walton's chamber. And now, Sir, here is my service to you; and, once more, welcome!
Viat. I marry, Sir, this glass of good sack has refresh'd me. And I'll make as bold with your meat; for the trot has got me a good stomach.