GROUSE SHOOTING. 83 



CHAPTER XIII. 



The nineteenth of August, that busy day of preparation 

 with Irish sportsmen, came at last. An unusual com- 

 motion was evident among my kinsman's household, 

 and there was a wondrous packing-up of camp-beds, 

 culinary utensils, baskets and bottles, arms and ammuni- 

 tion — in short, of every necessary article for the support 

 and destruction of life. At dawn of day four horses 

 set off heavily laden ; shortly after, a second division of 

 dogs and guns moved under a careful escort ; the 

 '* otter-hunter " hobbled off while I was dressing ; and 

 the piper, the lightest-laden of all concerned, closed the 

 rear. After breakfast, two ponies were brought to the 

 door, and, with a mounted attendant to carry our 

 cloaks, my cousin and I pursued the same route that the 

 baggage had already taken. 



Talk not of India ! Its boasted gang of servants is 

 far surpassed by the eternal troop of followers apper- 

 taining to an Irish establishment. Old John tells me 

 that sixteen regulars sit down to dinner in the servants' 

 hall, and that, at least, an equal number of supernume- 

 raries are daily provided for besides. When I hinted 

 to my cousin the expense that must attend the sup- 

 porting of this idle and useless multitude, his reply was 

 so Irish, *' Pshaw ! hang it ! — sure they have no wages , 

 and what the devil signifies all they eat? My father, 

 before the landing of the Paul Jones, fed two hundred 

 men for a fortnight, and used to declare that never 

 were there such plentiful times. It killed the cook, 

 however, poor woman ! she was literally broiled into 

 a pleurisy — but such a wake as she had ! I remember 



