Walton, Isaak and Charles Cotton. The Compleat Angler: or, The Contemplative Man’s Recreation. Modern Library, 1998.
One of the best things about wrapping up a productive week of work on Fridays is hitting send on the last e-mail update, powering down the computer, and heading about half an hour northeast of Chandler to go fishing on the Lower Salt River at Blue Point Recreation Area. I’m motivated to get there and enjoy the gift of remaining sunlight. Driving in my beloved, 150K+ mile Jeep Compass, I experience a series of simple, unencumbering turns: escaping suburbia on the 202, cresting the Saguaro-studded pass at Usery Mountain, making a single right turn on the Bush Highway watching for horses and cyclists, and then a single left turn onto a road with no name. It is a short hike to the Salt River’s rock-pebbled edge. Within minutes I cast a first line freely into the flow of the Rio Salado. This act opens the contemplative present. In casting from the shore, landing lures, and reeling them back repeatedly, I study to be quiet.
“Study to be quiet” (I Thessalonians 4:11) is the final word in Izaak Walton’s Compleat Angler or, The Contemplative Man’s Recreation. This great book was first published in 1653. Walton refined it for a quarter-century further into its fifth edition with an added part by Charles Cotton on instruction on how to angle for a trout or grayling in a clear stream. After the Bible and the works of William Shakespeare, it is the most reprinted book in the English language. Walton’s gem describes conversations and dialogues over the course of five days between a range of friends along their fishing quest, but most prominently Piscator, Venator, and Auceps, commencing on one “fine, fresh May morning,” a “conference betwixt an Angler, a Hunter, and a Falconer, each commending his Recreation” (p. 3). Early on, Auceps, a defender of hawking, leaves his companions at Theobald’s (located in the county of Hertford, about twelve miles from London, in the parish of Cheshunt). A delightful dialogue between the humble fisherman, Piscator, Brother of the Angle (“enemy of the otter” (p. 5)), and Venator, a lover of hounds and hunting, unfolds.
In this review, I offer an overview of this classic, which deserves a place on the top shelf of any classical educator, as well as a few of its most excellent passages. This is a discourse on fish and fishing, the art of angling, structured around a framework of “knowing, loving, and practicing,” whereby Walton claims, “I have made myself a recreation of a recreation” (p. xxxv) in his appeal to the honest angler. Yet, its enduring wisdom, I argue, is found in his conclusion to “study to be quiet” (φιλοτιμεῖσθαι ἡσυχάζειν), a profound lesson learned well in cultivating the art of angling. In this liberating discovery, angling might rightly be judged a liberal art, not a knack, hooking people in a search for more classical-minded paths.
This founding document of the genre of fishing literature is divided into chapters and ordered in terms of each day’s journeys, observations, and conversations. Beyond the commendations of the first day, we learn more about otters and the chub on the second, and we learn how to fish, catch, and cook chub, and easy trout fishing on the third day. The trout passages are truly inspiring. Walton is masterful in mixing them with poetry, a lovely country milkmaid’s song, and meals. The third and fourth days offer more instruction on how to fish for trout, making artificial minnows and seasonal flies, as well as a series of observations about various fish and how to fish for them: the umber or grayling, the salmon, the luce or pike, the carp, the bream, the tench, the perch, the eel, the barbel, the gudgeon, ruffe, and the bleak. The fifth and the last day of conversation between Piscator and, now, his humble scholar in the angler’s art, Venator, reviews how to fish for roach and dace, cadis, the minnow or penk, the loach, the bullhead, and the Miller’s-Thumb. Walton concludes the fifth day’s discourses with observations about rivers and how to order fish ponds, directions for making a line, and for how to dye the fisherman’s rod and line.
Undoubtedly, Walton’s masterpiece teaches readers much about fish and how to fish. However, he reminds us, “… though I can be serious at seasonable times, yet the whole Discourse is, or rather was, a picture of my own disposition; especially in such days and times as I had laid aside business” (p. xxxvi). Walton is also clear on one fundamental question about the art of catching fish – “how to make a man
that was none to be an Angler by a book” – that it is an art not taught by words, but by practice. He even defends the view that angling may be said to be like mathematics insofar as it can never be fully learned: “[for] there will still be more new experiments left for the trial of other men that succeed us” (p. xxxvii).
One of the most thoughtful aspects of The Compleat Angler is found in the range of distinctions that Walton makes. For instance, he addresses the honest angler, which implies a taxonomy including non-anglers, dishonest anglers, and wise anglers. Along these lines, we find a titular distinction between complete and incomplete anglers, masters and scholars. We find the classical distinction between what is pleasing, useful, and good. In addition, he frequently contrasts company versus no company and good company, discourse with oneself versus no discourse and good discourse. In a passage on the months when salmon come out of the sea to spawn in most fresh rivers of England, Piscator digresses, “And let me tell you, good company and good discourse are the very sinews of virtue…” (p. 52). Lastly, Walton is at home in his distinctions between the types of fish he knows and it is easy to imagine him carrying on – and on – in a seventeenth-century English ale-house about how to distinguish fish in the River Dove. A key distinction for Walton is between a “leather-mouthed” fish (with teeth in their throat, for example, the chub or cheven, barbel, gudgeon, and carp) and other fish (with no teeth in their throat, but rather with teeth in their mouths, for example, the pike, perch, or trout). These are prudent considerations for knowing how a hook will take hold and, thus, how to go about catching a particular fish in the first place.
I heartily agree with Walton’s self-assessment about his “excellent picture of the Trout” and he writes about them artfully. After Venator caught his first chub, they agree to give the first-fruits to the poor. Then, Piscator assures Venator that he will catch a trout for supper. Having fished for years, this is a bold and confident claim, because often the promise of catching a fish for dinner is one of the finest ways to guarantee no supper at all! Piscator praises the trout as valued at home and around the world: “He may be justly said, as the old poet said of wine, and we English say of venison, to be a generous fish … he is a fish that feeds clean and purely, in the swiftest streams, and on the hardest gravel, and that he may justly contend with all fresh-water fish, as the Mullet may with all sea-fish, for precedency and daintiness of taste, and that, being in the right season, the most dainty palates have allowed precedency to him” (p. 64). In showing his skill to Venator, Piscator demonstrates how to catch the trout with both a worm, a minnow, and, “what many old Anglers know right well, that at some times, and in some waters, a Minnow now is not to be got … [thus one needs] an artificial Minnow, that will catch a Trout as well as an artificial fly…” (p. 94). Piscator praises the trout-anglers of Derbyshire as the best, for the water there is clear to an extremity. Finally, after a full day of fishing and a few hearty draughts, Piscator, his brother Peter, Venator, Coridon, and some others at Bleak Hall, a fishing-house on the banks of the Lea, all enjoy a generous – all twenty-two inches! – trout for supper over convivial songs and poetry praising angling.
How, then, does the art of angling move us to study to be quiet? Simply put, by helping people contemplate well the ordering their soul’s desires or, as Plato says justly in Republic, “to do that which is one’s own” (434a). Much of the book pertains to knowing or doing. Walton also offers insight by way of fishing into our deepest loves. Citing ancient philosophers and biblical wisdom, humble Piscator praises angling for its antiquity, “… an art worthy the knowledge and practice of a wise man” (p. 24). To those doubting that angling is an art, Piscator argues that it must be learned, for no man is born an angler. He adds, “… is it not an art to deceive a Trout with an artificial fly? a Trout! That is more sharp-sighted than any Hawk you have names, and more watchful and timorous than your high-mettled Merlin is bold” (p. 24)? For Walton, no life is happier or more pleasant than a life of the well-governed angler and Piscator boldly declares: “… for when the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the statesmen is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams, which we now see glide so quietly by us” (p. 112). As such, the angler contemplates soulfully, in artful leisure: calm, quiet, innocent recreation. The angler’s art pulls us into a contemplative present, makes us aspire to live quietly, minding those things which are our own. A fisherman knows, too, art’s limit; they are grateful for each catch. This is the contemplative’s recreation.
Piscator’s love of fishing and its art leads him to greater loves. We gain beautiful insight into his deepest loves in the passages and poetry from the fifth day in The Compleat Angler. Ostensibly, Chapter 21 pertains to directions for making a line and for the coloring of both rod and line. He and Venator have almost arrived at Tottenham-High-Cross. Yet, in the cool shade of their path’s sweet honeysuckle hedge, Piscator finds an opening for one last exchange between master and scholar, to share the thoughts and joys, “…that have possessed my soul since we two met together” (p. 240). Here begins an exhortation on thankfulness, happiness, and the mercies of life. Piscator repeats that every misery that he has missed is a new mercy, adding, “Nay, let me tell you, there be many that have forty times our estates, that would give the greatest part of it to be healthful and cheerful like us; who, with the expense of a little money have eat and drank, a laughed, and angled, and sung, and slept securely; and rose the next day, and cast away care, and sung, and laughed, and angled again; which are blessings rich men cannot purchase with all their money” (p. 241). In contrast with the vexations of “poor rich people” whose business in life is to “get money, and more money, that he may still get more and more money” akin to a silkworm spinning its own bowels, “consuming itself,” Piscator encourages his fellow anglers to be thankful for their health, competence, and, above all, a quiet conscience. His vision of the good life for human beings questing for contentment is a quiet soul, “…meek and thankful hearts; for those only can make us happy” (p. 243).
Venator responds to all this with poetic lines, “worthy to keep a room in every man’s memory.” He thanks Piscator for his instructions in angling and, even more, for his friendship along the way. Their friendship, he says, is akin to that found in the Confessions (Book IV.3), where Augustine commemorates Verecundus’ kindness in sheltering their leisured conversations from worldly chaos. Venator goes even further, reiterating a doctrine of Socrates, who taught followers they should not think to be honored so much for being philosophers, as to honor philosophy by their virtuous lives. In his own words, Venator concludes, “You advised me to the like concerning Angling, and I will endeavor to do so, and to live like those many worthy men, of which you may made mention in the former part of your discourse. This is my firm resolution” (p. 252). To this end, Piscator has taught Venator, by means of this art, to love virtue and to trust providence, to be quiet and to go a-Angling. Angling, like virtue, possesses its own rewards.
Practically speaking, for those readers inspired not only to read this masterpiece, but also to go out fishing, here’s a list of seven items that will make a trip enjoyable: 1) a fishing license; 2) the proper recreation pass (here’s what you need for Blue Point, for instance); 3) sun protection (I always have sun screen and my Tilley hat); 4) a fishing rod and spinning reel; 5) good fishing line; 6) a tackle box with the basics; and, 7) a new lure (lately, I like to pick up a new Rapala lure when headed out to the Salt River just to experiment with different ways to catch a largemouth bass or trout). I also recommend that you purchase a guidebook for local your plants, animals, and natural attractions. One of the best for young adults in Arizona is the Waterford Press Field Guide, The Nature of Arizona, which is perfect for classical scholars who are also studying Life Science in Middle School classrooms. If you need more guidance or inspiration about what’s possible, I recommend Fish Hawk’s introductory videos on his YouTube channel or the gorgeous fly-fishing documentaries put out by Fly Lords. Here’s one on a grand fly-fishing adventure, “Northbound,” to the remote lakes of Sweden’s Lapland to fire up fishing dreams.
The art of angling, unfortunately, may not be the eighth liberal art, although a strong case could be made for more attention to this art in classical education and its extracurriculars. That’s not the case I’m making in this short review. Instead, my hope is that the review gestures to the knowledge, love, and practice of Walton’s affirmation – studying to be quiet – and his classic lesson about doing that which is one’s own. Like Walton’s wish, I hope for a future rainy evening when you find some leisure to read The Compleat Angler and, inspired, when the clouds pass, to locate a nearby river, buy some inexpensive but effective fishing gear, and, like Piscator and Venator, cast away freely with friends to points beyond.
Dr. Ben Mitchell is a Teacher Resource Portal Manager at Great Hearts America working with a team of authors on history curriculum. He served as the founding Headmaster of Lincoln Prep, where he taught across the curriculum and led the community for seven years. Prior to joining Great Hearts, Ben taught at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point in areas of political philosophy and grand strategy, as well as the University of Richmond, having finished his Ph.D. and M.A. at the University of Virginia and B.A. cum laude in Classics-History-Politics with a Minor in Renaissance Studies at Colorado College. Beyond endless learning, Ben loves traveling, cooking, reading, gardening year-round in his backyard, good conversations, skiing in Flagstaff, and enjoying awesome adventures with his wife and daughters.