30 ANGLING REMINISCENCES. 



and disasters without reckoning. Her darling 

 Rory is a born drunkard, and inherits so strongly 

 his mother's propensities, that all who dwell in the 

 neighbourhood abhor his very presence. Nature 

 has aptly twisted his shape and features so as to re- 

 semble his words. He is the incarnation of false- 

 hood, and yet, strange to say, an angler; but, mark 

 me, a desperately bad one the mere murderer of 

 other men's sport. He rakes and harrows the best 

 pools with nets and other destructive engines, in 

 order to obtain fish, disposing of these as fresh and 

 clean when in their worst and stalest condition. His 

 braggadocio is staringly large, but too common- 

 place to be amusing; there are no jokes in the 

 heart of it ; it is one concoction and tissue of abso- 

 lute and unredeemed falsehood. It has, however, 

 a plot and manner, a minuteness and dramatic pro- 

 gression about it, somewhat imposing. Rory is 

 too artful not to embellish the deception ; he gilds 

 the bolus before he asks you to swallow it. 



I once met him, and not at the time knowing my 

 man, was led to ask him concerning some hill 

 lochs which I fancied to exist in the neighbour- 

 hood of the village where he lived. He mentioned 

 the names of several, and of one in particular, where 

 he asserted he had often killed trout of an enormous 

 weight ; moreover, he described its size, situation, 

 and curiosities gave me an idea of where it lay, 

 and induced me, without much ado, to go in search 

 of it, the distance being a mere trifle, and no guide 



