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.
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