Early memories; some chapters of autobiography — John Shaqi
Early memories; some chapters of autobiographyYeats, John Butler
General
Early memories; some chapters of autobiography
Yeats, John Butler
Authors, Irish -- 19th century -- Biography; Portrait painters -- Ireland -- Biography; Yeats, John Butler, 1839-1922
To be fond of fishing ran in the family, but my father I think preferred
grouse shooting. Arthur Corbet, my mother's brother, a big athletic man
with a short temper, had because of a very bad stammer become a clerk in
the Bank of Ireland which all his life he regarded as an insult
inflicted upon him by cruel destiny. He would walk fourteen Irish miles
to a pretty sequestered village high up among the mountains, fish all
day, and at night return walking all those miles carrying a load of
fish. I don't think my father would have endured that fatigue for a
day's fishing, and my uncle would sometimes say that he had not the true
zest. The friends of my youth used to measure a man by his taste in
shooting, fishing, or hunting, and there were noisy and dismal circles
where men were measured by their capacity for drinking. When I was asked
by the people compiling 'Who's who' what was my favourite pastime, I
replied that I had none, but would like a little fishing. It was not
inserted, being considered, I suppose, too frivolous for the solemn
emptiness of that useful book. I do not like fishing with bait because
of the nauseous handling of the worms; and in shooting the sight of the
bird alive and wounded in one's hand is painful for the nerves. But no
one minds the flapping and writhing of the fish taken out of his
element. The fish is too remote; we cannot guess its thoughts, it
inspires no curiosity. To wander along a river bank and with your utmost
dexterity cast your flics lightly here and there over the surface of a
deep pool and watch for the yellow gleam of the fish as it rises, is
there anything so fascinating as this gambling in dark waters? I knew a
man who died an enviable death. He was a distinguished Dublin barrister,
a man of imagination, and he loved salmon fishing. He had just hooked a
salmon and was playing it when he had a heart seizure. As he lay in a
friend's arms, with his dying eyes he watched that fish being played and
landed. He went to his death charioted to the next world in a
fisherman's dream.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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