b:^ A YEAR OF LIBERTY ; OR, 



From the summit of Muckisli, as far as the eye can range, silver 

 pools dot the brown expanse. Mountain streams connect many of 

 these with the sea, and probably afford a passage for salmon to reach 

 their lonely winter quarters. That many of these lakes hold large 

 red trout, I know ; what the majority are worth I do not know ; but 

 if local accounts are to be trusted, the sport in the north, west, and 

 south of this country must be excellent. Some ardent spirit, stimu' 

 lated by the difficulty of the enterprise, will doubtless start up and 

 astonish the world piscatorial with his discoveries ; but such an 

 explorer should possess a rare combination of gifts. Imprimis, a 

 waterproof skin, like a seal, or one of Mr. Oording's best boots ; 

 secundo, a stomach that can digest anything, or thrive on nothing ; 

 tertio but a truce to nonsense. This country I believe contains 

 lake treasures unknown to the outside world. They are awfully out 

 of the way ; in countless cases too remote from anything deserving 

 the name of accommodation, to be available except to the neighbour- 

 ing cottar, who, being destitute of a boat, can only paddle about on 

 the margin. 



What Lord George Hill's country was some years ago, anyone who 

 reads "Facts from Gweedore" may see. No roads, no resting-place ; 

 only a few panes of glass in the whole barony, one or two flannel 

 petticoats amongst all the ladies, and so on. It is now some years 

 since I read the pamphlet referred to, but the facts are much as I 

 have stated them. At that time nothing but a seagull or a wild 

 duck could have visited the district and made himself at home. 



What that region was ^before the good man who tried to culti- 

 vate the soil and those who dwelt on it other parts of the country 

 are now, wild, desolate, and inaccessible ; but, as we shall see more of 

 it in September, enough has been said for the present. 



We have been flying over the country as if an excursion-ticket 

 were in our pocket, whereas a tour de ma chamhre would have been 

 better; so perhaps the reader will please to remember we only amved 

 last night at Rathmelton. 



This frontier town of Donegal dozes away its existence on the 

 banks of the river Leannan. The seedy, disconsolate aspect of the 



