Thirty-five brace were already shot on our
beat—very few, I must own, by Mr. Croxpound,
but I had the earl and Major Woolwich
for companions, and they very well covered
my short-coming. Mrs. Bookby left for the
lodge, and a gillie was despatched to the
lodge with our birds, while we resumed the
sport and continued shooting until seven in
the evening.

On the way home, as my gillie had
abundantly had reason to perceive that I was but a
Londoner on the moor, I was not sorry to find
that his patronage of my ignorance took a
didactic humour. He instructed me in all the
mysteries of heather. The bright pink, which
they call the bell heather, blooms only in
July, August, and September; the white
blossoms later, and the lilac—the commonest
kind—is in flower all the year. These facts
exhausting him upon that topic, he took up
his other theme and told me about birds—
about the difficulty of adapting the heath-cock
to a caged life; how when caged he
would refuse to feed, then pine away and die.
He explained how slightly the grouse make
their nests, just enough put together to possess
a form and enable the hen to cover her young,
but with not a stick of superfluous workmanship
about it. The grouse hatch in March or
April, now and then as late as May; and
many of the young birds are destroyed by
foxes, hawks, and other monsters of the
moor.

When we got back, weary and wet-footed,
to the lodge, we found a cheerful peat fire
blazing in every bedroom, and a regiment of
warm baths steaming out their invitations to
our feet. A dash of whiskey in the water
was pronounced an admirable anodyne for the
sore-footed. Having washed our feet in
patriarchal style, we gathered round the
dinner-table. So passed one circle of four-and-
twenty hours, and so passed all.

Grousing is not what it used to be—a mere
amusement. Noblemen have discovered that
it is as well worth while to stock the market
as to overstock their friends with game; and
therefore if you would be welcome on the moors,
you must shoot well: you must not shatter
birds and render them unsaleable. The best
are packed up and sent to the London market
now, as regularly as they send fowls from
Dorking. Mr. Bookby was so much delighted
with the admirable performances of Major
Woolwich that he said, shaking him warmly
by the hand,  "My dear fellow, what a splendid
shot you are! By Jove, you are worth three
pounds a day and your keep."

On the last day of the month the grousing
ended with a clan gathering. The morning
broke among clouds, and wind and rain
threatened postponement of the sports. At
noon, however, the mists rolled from the
mountains, the sun shone down into the
valley, and the picturesque little village of
Glenfern was full of bustle and preparation
for the arrival of the great chief. Upon an
open space, opposite the principal inn, there
was a kind of course marked out by ropes
running from stake to stake. On each side
of this course seats were erected, and carts
were drawn up in readiness against the
coming of their occupants. The stone bridge
at the north entrance to Glenfern was covered
with spectators who awaited the appearance of
the clans. At a few minutes before two o'clock,
a fanfaronade from the heights, performed upon
loaded anvils, announced that the chief was
approaching. The cavalcade consisted of about
two hundred men, headed by the Glenronald,
their chief—a handsome man whose locks had
become white before his limbs were feeble.
The men wore the Glenronald tartan, with
the closely-fitting coat of cloth or velvet, and
the plain Glengarry, or cloth cap, having a
piece of broom or heather stuck into the side
of it. The skeen-doo—(how they spelt it I don't
know), the Highlander's last resource, a short
knife—stuck in the garter of each right leg.
One old man among them wore the sword
and the plumed Highland bonnet. The pipers
played merrily, and as the clansmen came near
us, they wheeled into line, and marched two
and two. So, with the chief at the head,
preceded by pipers three, they arrived on the
course, and there forming a square, stood
with their shields and their long axes ready,
as if about to give battle to each other.  By
this time a line of carriages had formed, and
the gay dresses of ladies were fluttering about
them. Every seat was occupied on carriage,
cart, or platform, and the sports began. The
Glenronald having saluted the assembled
company, the Reverend Mr. Preach, the
parson of the parish and one of the stewards
of the festival, came forward with a programme.
The signal having been given,
hurling, wrestling, single-stick, foot-racing,
and all the well-known Highland games
proceeded merrily.  Dancing closed the
entertainment, and the Highland fling and sword
dance were considered to be the most
triumphant successes in that way. Then
the men were all passed in review, that prizes
might te adjudged to those who were most
perfect in their appointments. A ball and
supper to the gillies closed the day, and was
the last item of my experience among the
Moors,

AN OPIUM FACTORY.

AT Ghazeepore, one hot and windy day, I
went down to the " opium go-downs " or
stores. The atmosphere of a hot and windy
day at Ghazeepore, if it should ever be thought
suitable for invalids or others, may be inhaled
in England by any one who will stand at the
open door of an oven and breathe a fog of
fried sand cunningly blown therefrom. After
a two miles drive through heat, and wind,
and sand, and odoriferous bazar, we—I and
two friends—found our way to a practicable
breach or gateway in a high railing by which