CHAPTER IV.
THE FAIR-GREEN OF PALMERSTOWN.
There were half-a-dozen carriages, and a score of led horses outside the fair-green, a precious lot of ragamuffins, and a good resort to the public-house opposite; and the gate being open, the artillery band, rousing all the echoes round with harmonious and exhilarating thunder, within--an occasional crack of a 'Brown Bess,' with a puff of white smoke over the hedge, being heard, and the cheers of the spectators, and sometimes a jolly chorus of many-toned laughter, all mixed together, and carried on with a pleasant running hum of voices--Mervyn, the stranger, reckoning on being unobserved in the crowd, and weary of the very solitude he courted, turned to his right, and so found himself upon the renowned fair-green of Palmerstown.
It was really a gay rural sight.

The circular target stood, with its bright concentric rings, in conspicuous isolation, about a hundred yards away, against the green slope of the hill.

The competitors in their best Sunday suits, some armed with muskets and some with fowling pieces--for they were not particular--and with bunches of ribbons fluttering in their three-cornered hats, and sprigs of gay flowers in their breasts, stood in the foreground, in an irregular cluster, while the spectators, in pleasant disorder, formed two broad, and many-coloured parterres, broken into little groups, and separated by a wide, clear sweep of green sward, running up from the marksmen to the target.
In the luminous atmosphere the men of those days showed bright and gay.
Such fine scarlet and gold waistcoats--such sky-blue and silver--such pea-green lutestrings--and pink silk linings--and flashing buckles--and courtly wigs--or becoming powder--went pleasantly with the brilliant costume of the stately dames and smiling lasses.

There was a pretty sprinkling of uniforms, too--the whole picture in gentle motion, and the bugles and drums of the Royal Irish Artillery filling the air with inspiring music.
All the neighbours were there--merry little Dr.Toole in his grandest wig and gold-headed cane, with three dogs at his heels,--he seldom appeared without this sort of train--sometimes three--sometimes five--sometimes as many as seven--and his hearty voice was heard bawling at them by name, as he sauntered through the town of a morning, and theirs occasionally in short screeches, responsive to the touch of his cane.

Now it was, 'Fairy, you savage, let that pig alone!' a yell and a scuffle--'Juno, drop it, you slut'-- or 'Caesar, you blackguard, where are you going ?' 'Look at Sturk there, with his lordship,' said Toole, to the fair Magnolia, with a wink and a nod, and a sneering grin.