When I descended to the breakfast-room, I found the whole family assembled in a group around Lord Kilkee, who had just returned from a distant part of the county, where he had been canvassing the electors, and spouting patriotism the day before.  He was giving an account of his progress with much spirit and humour as I entered, but, on seeing me, immediately came forward, and shook hands with me like an old acquaintance.  By Lord Callonby and the ladies I was welcomed also with much courtesy and kindness, ad some slight badinage passed upon my sleeping, in what Lord Kilkee called the “Picture Gallery,” which, for all I knew to the contrary, contained but one fair portrait.  I am not a believer in Mesmer; but certainly there must have been some influence at work—­very like what we hear of “magnetism”—­for before the breakfast was concluded, there seemed at once to spring up a perfect understanding between this family and myself, which made me feel as much ‘chez moi’, as I had ever done in my life; and from that hour I may date an intimacy which every succeeding day but served to increase.

After breakfast Lord Callonby consigned me to the guidance of his son, and we sallied forth to deal destruction amongst the pheasants, with which the preserves were stocked; and here I may observe, ‘en passant’, that with the single exception of fox-hunting, which was ever a passion with me, I never could understand that inveterate pursuit of game to which some men devote themselves—­thus, grouse-shooting, and its attendant pleasures, of stumping over a boggy mountain from day-light till dark, never had much attraction for me; and, as to the delights of widgeon and wild-duck shooting, when purchased by sitting up all night in a barrel, with your eye to the bung, I’ll none of it—­no, no!  Give me shooting or angling merely as a divertimento, a pleasant interlude between breakfast and luncheon-time, when, consigning your Manton to a corner, and the game keeper “to the dogs,” you once more humanize your costume to take a canter with the daughters of the house; or, if the day look loweringly, a match of billiards with the men.

I have ever found that the happiest portions of existence are the most difficult to chronicle.  We may—­nay, we must, impart our miseries and annoyances to our many “dear friends,” whose forte is sympathy or consolation—­and all men are eloquent on the subject of their woes; not so with their joys:  some have a miser-like pleasure in hoarding them up for their own private gratification; others—­and they are prudent—­feel that the narrative is scarcely agreeable even to their best friends; and a few, of whom I confess myself one, are content to be happy without knowing why, and to have pleasant souvenirs, without being able to explain them.