241 



FISHING REMINISCENCES. 



I NEVER travel without my rod and panier. The various incidents 

 I have met with in these excursions would fill a volume. I have 

 fished in England, Wales, Ireland, France, and Italy ; I have 

 baited my ledger in the Thames, thrown my fly in the Tivey, 

 spun my minnow in Loch Neagh, lain my night line in the 

 Loire, and sunk my worm in the Arno. I have read, nay studied, 

 Walton, Salter, Hawker, Bowlker, and almost every other work 

 on the noble art, and yet could never find myself on an equality 

 with the humble peasant of the stream, who, with his rudely 

 manufactured tackle, has stood near me filling his basket, whilst 

 I have been obliged to rest satisfied with a nibble or a rise. I 

 have noticed this in every country, and it has only convinced 

 me that the old adage of practice teaches where precepts fail, is 

 true, at least in fishing. 



I was much amused with a circumstance of this nature which 

 took place in Ireland. I was strolling along the banks of one of 

 the numerous streams which flow into Loch Neagh, after having 

 vainly endeavoured, to tempt a trout with one of Kelly's best- 

 made duns, when I was accosted by a being of most extraordinary 

 appearance. Had I met with an individual of this description 

 in any other country, I should have involuntarily walked on, 

 hastening my step towards the nearest habitation, ever and anon 

 casting a look behind with anxious dread. How can I describe 

 him? Reader, have you ever seen the caricature of a "man 

 who had seen better days ?" Such was the outward appearance 

 of Paddy Shauglin. 



" God bless y'r honor ! and what's the sport ye'r after havin ?" 

 I muttered something in reply. I never knew an angler yet 

 answer this question intelligibly. If he has had good sport, he 

 fears lest you should throw in near him and deprive him of a few 

 of the finny tribe which he considers as his own lawful property ; 

 if bad, he does not like to acknowledge it. "Be dad, that's fine 

 tackle y'r honor's got." Another unintelligible mutter, as my 

 line fell on the water. " Shure y'r honor's not fishin' in the right 

 place, there." A look of contempt on my part — I lengthened 

 my line, determined to show him that if I did not know the 

 river, I knew how to throw the fly ; and with a twist of my wrist, 

 let my fly drop under the opposite bank without causing a ripple 

 on the water. Still the fish would not rise. " Might I be axin' 

 what fly y'r honor's usin' ?" " Blue dun," answered I, with 

 snappish conciseness. This was a poser for my Hibernian 

 acquaintance. " A blue what ! did your honor say ?" " A blue 

 devil," said I, as a rise at my fly indicated the propinquity of a 

 fish. " See, I have missed striking my fish through your bother- 

 ing." " Oh ! shure y'r honor, that was only a pinkeen kickin y'r 



