Whatever sympathy you may feel with these eloquent expressions of that
entire complacency in the present, past, and future, which peculiarly
animates Dean Stanley's writings, I must, in this case, pray you
to observe that the transmutation of holy wells into sewers has,
at least, destroyed the charm and utility of the Thames as a salmon
stream, and I must ask you to read with attention the succeeding
portions of the chapter which record the legends of the river
fisheries in their relation to the first Abbey of Westminster;
dedicated by its builders to St. Peter, not merely in his office of
cornerstone of the Church, nor even figuratively as a fisher of men,
but directly as a fisher of fish:--and which maintained themselves,
you will see, in actual ceremony down to 1382, when a fisherman still
annually took his place beside the Prior, after having brought in a
salmon for St. Peter, which was carried in state down the middle of
the refectory.

But as I refer to this page for the exact word, my eye is caught by
one of the sentences of Londonian[4] thought which constantly pervert
the well-meant books of pious England. "We see also," says the Dean,
"the union of innocent fiction with worldly craft, which marks so
many of the legends both of Pagan and Christian times." I might simply
reply to this insinuation that times which have no legends differ
from the legendary ones merely by uniting guilty, instead of innocent,
fiction, with worldly craft; but I must farther advise you that the
legends of these passionate times are in no wise, and in no sense,
fiction at all; but the true record of impressions made on the minds
of persons in a state of eager spiritual excitement, brought into
bright focus by acting steadily and frankly under its impulses. I
could tell you a great deal more about such things than you would
believe, and therefore, a great deal more than it would do you the