A SPORTSMAN S DINNER. 237 



and whoever unluckily happened to be next number on 

 the visiting list was favoured with one week additional 

 from my " Cousin Mac." 



" Mac," with his Brigadier wig and white pony, 

 has gone the way of all flesh, and by travestying a line 

 of Sir Walter Scott, one could add : 



" The last of all the bores was he." 



It was twilight when we got home. The deer had 

 arrived before us and was already hanging up, suspended 

 from the couples. A cheerful fire blazed in the room of 

 state, while exhilarating effluvia from the outer chamber 

 told that John's preparations were far advanced. We 

 had scarcely time to make our hurried toilet before 

 the table was covered, and Father Andrew, at the Colonel's 

 especial solicitation, favoured us with a Latin grace. 



No one merits and relishes a good dinner better than 

 a grouse-shooter. It delights me to see my companion 

 eat like a traveller ; and to please me, he should possess 

 sufficient acumen to enable him to appreciate the fare. 

 I despise the man who is cursed with a Spartan palate, 

 and who hardly knows the difference between beef and 

 mutton ; and yet, in equal ratio, the gourmand is my 

 abomination. There is a limit in culinary lore beyond 

 which, as I opine, the sportsman should never travel. 

 Like a soldier, he will sometimes find it serviceable 

 to be able to direct the broiling of a steak and the com- 

 bination of a stew. To fabricate a curry, or even regu- 

 late a hash, may be tolerated ; and in a wild country like 

 Ballycroy, or the Scottish highlands, this knowledge will 

 frequently be " worth a Jew's eye ; " but everything 

 beyond this in kitchen accomplishments is detestable. 

 With one who composed omelets, and talked 



