THE ANGLER IN IRELAND. 145 



which sweeps through Leitrim and the eight counties inter- 

 vening between its source and the Atlantic Ocean. 



Dublin is singularly unfortunate in its fresh-water fishing, 

 but it is a mistake to suppose that the angler is there entirely 

 at fault. It is not so very far from Powerscourt with the 

 romantic Dargle and its stores of merry little trout. There 

 are pike and perch in the LifTey below the strawberry 

 gardens, and trout increase with your distance from incom- 

 parable Phoenix Park. The best spot I have always, how- 

 ever, found is under the Wicklbw mountains near the source 

 of the river. Kilbride, though a long drive from Dublin, is 

 a very pleasant trip, and often have I compassed it on a 

 jaunting car. The trout are always small, but they make 

 atonement in their extraordinary quantity, and the voracity 

 with which they take the somewhat gaudy little flies by which 

 they are tempted. 



There are some events in life never to be forgotten. You 

 may not remember your first drubbing at school, your first 

 stand-up collar, your first shave, your first kiss, your first 

 client, your first appearance in print, or the incidents, 

 weather, and so on, of your wedding day ; but you cannot 

 forget your first salmon. What a delicious remembrance it is ! 



There was, to be sure, something a trifle curious about 

 mine. I was at Galway, as interesting a town as any in 

 Ireland, and, as every one who has looked over the railings 

 of the bridge must know, a regular show-place for salmon. 

 The bottom of the river seems paved with them, and you 

 may be amused for hours, when the humour seizes the fish, 

 by watching their antics as they shoot and circle and leap as 

 if in the performance of a dance on the up-the-side-and- 

 down-the-middle principle. At the eventful time to which I 



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