other part of the South of Ireland. Unfortunately they were disappointed in the weather for salmon fishing, the showers still keeping up the Blackwater, and they had to return to Bury without seeing a salmon killed, but not before they had one grand day's fishing at small game on the Owbeg. They took with them my fishing basket, as full of fairsized trout as it could cram, on the 26th of May, when they left my friend's hospitable home for their own in England.

We fished that day from the bridge at Ballinamona to the ford above Castletownroche. Opposite Old Town, the hospitable mansion of Rowland Campion, Esq., the celebrated breeder of shorthorns, is an extraordinary looking building, a cross between a castle and a round tower, built by John Roche. The name of this castle is Doonawanly, and the owner is the builder. There is not a stone in the building, nor a window or door, but was placed in the position it is in by himself. He planned it, carted stones to it, was his own mason, and waited on himself; was his own carpenter, glazier, slater, and bricklayer. There is a mill now being finished, which he has himself built near his castle. We saw him at work digging a tail race for the water to escape from the part of his building where he intends to put the water-wheel, when he makes it. He is what is called in Ireland A UNIVERSAL GENIUS. He makes his own shoes, his own clothes. He is an excellent dentist, and some of the most aristocratic ladies in the country, it is said, masticate with the teeth manufactured by Johnny Roche. I saw a beautifully-executed set of three teeth of his manufacture in the mouth of a country woman. which would do credit to the first dentist in London. He is an excellent musician, and makes all his own instruments. He plays on the bagpipes, the fiddle, the flute, the key-bugle, and I know not how many more instruments. They are all of his own make. He is his own brass and metal founder, and does all his own castings for his harrows, winnowing machines, ploughs, and other farming implements, all of which he makes himself. He is at present employed in finding out perpetual motion, but he will not allow any person to inspect the instrument by which he means to effect it. He is the son of a farmer who held about forty acres of land, and he only received a very limited education. He is a plain-spoken and plain-looking man; nothing wonderful in his looks. His castle is built near a holy well, over which grows a hawthorn tree, which is loaded with rags of various colours, left there by the votaries as a remembrance to the saint (I forget his name) to whom they performed their devotions at his well. Here, on each Sunday and holyday, Johnny Roche has from one to two hundred of the country people dancing and amusing themselves. He has taught several of the country boys to play on different instruments. They form an excellent band; and up in the castle, and outside on the grass, he has parties dancing on, if not the "light," at all events on the "fantastic" toe. There is not a fiddler or piper within fifty miles of him but, when his instrument gets out of order, comes to Johnny to have it repaired. In fact I think I may challenge Christendom to produce his fellow for multifarious talents, honesty, and industry. And when John Roche passes away to immortality, his odd-looking castle at least will remain for an age as a sample of what a single man can do without help in handicraft and labour, if some Goth or Vandal does not pull it down. On the Thursday, the 27th, we thought the river clean enough for a


salmon, and accordingly were on the tail of the pool below Mr. Foot's, of Carrigahunna Castle, early in the morning. The part of the river where we commenced belongs to Mr. Miles Linehan, or as he is better known as Miley Linehan. He is one of those true Irishmen that, with hearts two big for their bodies, only wish to know how they can afford sport to their fellow-men. No one ever heard of Miley Linehan preventing a sportsman from fishing or shooting on his property. The poor man as well as the rich has free leave, and he is only too happy to hear that the former was able to catch in a day on his property as much salmon as would support his family for a month, which is often the case in a good day's fishing the early part of the year with the "professionals" on the Blackwater.

My friend Charley R. hooked two salmon at the tail of the pool, and lost both. My nephew fished the stream below it, and rose two, but did not hook them. We left this spot with regret, and with doubt as to our future sport, without killing any. I counted over thirty fish throwing themselves on the tail of the pool, in a space altogether not over twenty yards square. What a number must have been there which we did not see! We left and proceeded to Connor's Flat, about a mile farther down on the river. Here my nephew crossed the ford, and fished from the high bank at Connor's side of the river, Charley R. wading in his India-rubber boots and fishing the opposite side. At the first stone wall on the head of the flat my nephew hooked a sporting fish over sixteen-pounds weight. No person was at his side; and as it was almost an impossibility to kill him without running the risk of hand-playing him, Charley sent his son round by the ford with a gaff to help him in his extremity. For a long hour did this splendid spring fish battle with his adversary. A dozen times at least did he race across almost to the bank where we were, from the opposite side. The fish could see his enemy on the high bank, and he would not be coaxed into near quarters. At length he showed signs of being vanquished. When he made a few of his last charges, he came to the top of the water on his side, and then would turn up-tail, and go down helplessly and slowly. Now was the most critical time to play a heavy fish. The fear that the hold of the hook might wear through the skin of the mouth, if it was not firm round a bone; the knowledge of the power of a dying salmon when he sees the angler; the sudden plunge forward, or rapid double into the fisherman to get slack line-all must be well weighed. When the angler is on a strand, the playing of a fish is not near so difficult; for when he is conquered in fair racing he will come into the gaff quiet enough, not seeing his enemy, as he does when the fisherman is on a high bank above him. Eventually my nephew brought him into the gaff, and a well-directed stroke inwards and upwards brought out the first salmon I saw killed this year. The usual cheer was given, and taken up heartily at our side of the river as my friend Charley cried out, almost at the moment the fish was gaffed, In him." Sure enough he was "in" another beautiful springer. Now was my turn to handle the gaff, but at my side of the river was a fine long strand, and the trouble was much easier than the pair at the other side experienced. We had, notwithstanding, fine sport with this fish. The first charge he made, when he felt the steel, was a succession of bounds from the water. On being hooked, he threw himself at least six feet right head foremost upwards,


falling on his tail; he then raced about a dozen yards, and again sprang upwards, repeating this game until he took about fifty yards of line, spring after spring being given every few yards of this race. He then rested himself, and moved up the river slowly, now and then coming up to the top of the water, and rolling like a porpoise. My friend thought from this kind of play that he was badly hooked; but the Fates had it otherwise, as when I gaffed him, after about twenty minutes hard and rapid play, the hook was found firmly imbedded in the palate of his mouth, and with the "ouncet" he threw the index past and under the 14lbs.

Now, as I never profess to make a secret of a killing fly, and not being connected with any "British or Irish Magnetic Company," whose employés are supposed to have secrets in galvanic flies worth £10 each, or £30 for three, I will give the patterns of both the flies which killed on this day. Those who know the Blackwater and its fishing, will readily recognise two favourites of the best fisherman the banks of that river ever bore the late Tom Tarrant : peace to his manes ! He was a simple, HONEST MAN, with but few faults; "take him for all in all, Mallow will never look upon his like again," as a fisherman.

GREY FLY: Body, hare's ear and yellow; hackles, grey and green olive; gold twist; tail, mixed mallard and pheasant; red hackle under the wing, which should be entirely of mallard and brown pheasant, with one sprig of peacock fibre at back.

BLUE and ORANGE JAY: Body, blue and orange-silk; jay hackle, and gold tinsel; tail, golden-pheasant topping; blood-red hackle under the wing, which should be mallard and blue macaw mixed, with a kingfisher's feather at each side of the wing, as a flier.

The next morning, although we were down at the tail of the pool early (about six o'clock a.m.) yet there was a gentleman before us on the strand, fishing-Mr. M▬▬, of Streamhill. His gig was in Miley Linehan's yard, as he had to come a long distance to this favourite spot. It was this day I had the high words with Mr. Foot, the magistrate and conservator, an account of which I gave in the August number of this Magazine. We were regularly beat off of the water by his pair of poaching botches cross-fishing-or, as I called it, "codwalloping." It was more like salt-water tackle to catch cod-fish than that fit for light fresh water they were fishing with. So, after throwing a fly or two, we left for Connor's Flat, but not before my nephew pulled a snug peal of about four pounds out of the stream at the tail of the pool. This fish had the mark of a cut across his back, which he must have got forcing his way through the hatch of Lismore weir, or perhaps getting over the weir of Glandellane. I have remarked in my fishing experiences, that a wounded fish is always hungry, and takes the fly or bait well.

On arriving at Connor's Flat my nephew again crossed to the highbank side, and having rose a fish with the fly, which would not come again, he put up a colly, and the moment he came to him was "in him." Through some bungling or other mismanagement, the line got a knot in it, and would not run through the loops; the consequences were short, sharp, and decisive. The salmon made a race, could get no line, consequently smashed all, and took swivel and what line was out from the top of the rod. We did not succeed in our sport here, as the day got calm and hot; so we retraced our steps to the tail of the pool. Here my friend succeeded in hooking a fine fish, which I took the playing of,

and after a full half-hour's battle he was gaffed. By-the-bye he was very near pulling in my friend. The upper part of the strand is composed of very fine sand, and it slopes into the pool suddenly. Here I brought the fish to him to gaff. In one of the doubles the fish made when I brought it close to the edge of the strand, my friend made the stroke of the gaff, which caught the fish near the tail: when it felt the steel it rushed out, having the power of its head in the deep water. The sand gave way under my friend's feet as he stretched forward, and had he not caught hold of me he would have fallen into the hole head foremost; as it was, he was splashed all over with water from head to foot.

I left Mallow next day for Cork. Upon inquiry of some of the anglers there, whether there was even a chance of hooking a salmon on the Lee, I was told a few were in it, but I should be like the unhappy individual who spent his time looking for a needle in a bundle of dried grass. I recollected enough of the Lee in old times, to almost mourn over its present desolation. By-the-bye, the following occurrence took place some thirty years ago: those acquainted with the beautiful city and its environs will recollect the parties, whose names I omit, giving the initial letters of their surname. The story, a positive fact, will bear out my oft-made assertion, that the Lee was in my young day the most sporting of the southern Irish rivers.

There were two honest fellows in Cork, perhaps they are alive still, John and James H, who spent most of their time salmon fishing; indeed, a dark day with any little curl on the river was a certain lure to wile them away from the haunts of city men, and lead them up the dyke and over the weirs (there were no bridges then, either Wellesley or William the Fourth, nor was there a new road running, as now, parallel with the dyke), and so they trudged along the banks of the Lee, which were not then, as now, fenced with high walls, but along which the public had and exercised as free a right of entry, and for as long a period as constituted these banks a highway; but as there was no village Hampden to stand up for and preserve these rights, they are now enjoyed by courtesy only; indeed some parts are closed up completely, hermetically sealed. But along those banks of the Lee did the two brothers spend most of their time cross-fishing for salmon. They were not very particular about Sundays. Perhaps they thought, with other sinners, that the better day the better deed; but I blush to write it, even on Sundays did they frequently cross-fish! One Sunday morning they were tackled on Beresford's flat, below the glebe-house of Inniscarra. The bells of the little church were ringing out lustily, calling sinners to repentance. Many forms could be seen moving towards the little ivycrowned house of prayer. Neither of the anglers allowed his thoughts to wander in that direction. They longed for what was forbidden. It is often so with us in this life. We are not satisfied with our position. Our selfish hearts demand more, something we fancy better than whatever blessings we may at present enjoy. Who will say that the Scriptural Adam and Eve are not typical? The world is our Garden of Eden. We bask in sunshine. Fragrant flowers are everywhere around us. Golden fruits invite us to partake their luscious richness. Still, there are things forbidden us to taste-the apples of the garden;

and because they are forbidden, we wish the more for their possession. Then after gratifying our senses or passions,

"That juggling fiend that never spoke before,

But cried, 'I warned you,' when the deed was o'er,"

cries aloud within us. This thought it is that exiles us from Paradise, and after that, remorse for past transgressions is the flaming sword that, too often, prevents our return.

As the two brothers moved along, momentarily expecting a fish to rise, the Rev. Mr. Beresford, who was an enthusiastic angler, came along the pathway on the river's brink that led to the church of Inniscarra. He addressed James, who was at his side of the river, expressing his surprise that he should break the Sabbath by fishing. He expostulated with him, stating that it required but little command over his will to give up the pleasure, if it could be so called, for one day which was set apart by Divine command, to return thanks to God for the blessings enjoyed by man during the other six days of the week. While thus conversing, a salmon rose at the next fly but one to the parson, and took it, and the hurry and bustle consequent on having a fine spring fish hooked soon put a stopper on the extempore sermon. James was not the most expert hand at playing a fish; this the parson perceived, and saw that the fly next him would be tangled in the bushes that grew out of the bank, and thus perhaps the salmon would be lost. In the excitement of the moment his good advice was forgotten. Hastily snatching the rod from James's hand, he took the playing of the fish himself, throwing down his prayer-book on the grass. The fish was hooked outside, and the consequence was a long and lusty battle to bring him into the gaff. So intent was the parson at his favourite sport, that he did not think the time was flying so fast. Nearly three-quarters of an hour elapsed before the fish was conquered, and only then, when the parson wiped the perspiration from his brow and took up his book, he perceived the clerk of the church, without his hat, running up the bank of the river in quest of his reverence, and to acquaint him that the congregation were tired of waiting, and almost all of them had left the church. Evidently abashed at the contrast between his preaching and his practice, he said, "Mr. H―, surely every man walketh in a vain shadow. I believed that nothing could induce me to fish on a Sunday. You see what temptation has done for me. I must be cautious for the future to practise as well as preach. Good morning to you." And he hurried. away to read prayers to those few of the congregation who remained at the church. The two brothers continued their sport, and killed seven more spring fish without losing sight of the church-in fact, from the bridge to the parsonage.

It seems to

How fast the years have flown since this occurrence. me as but yesterday, yet fully thirty years have glided into the abyss of time. We hear not the footsteps of the passing year. Each follows the other inaudibly. Like as spring is succeeded, almost unknown, by summer, and the gradual progression of the seasons are so blended that we scarcely feel the change until winter warns us of its sure approach; so it is in all nature. Night steals through the crimson curtain of evening, and day has gone, but to return as noiselessly through the golden

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