Street Barracks, and there were a
regiment of infantry and a squadron of cavalry at the New Barracks, so
that our turn for any garrison duty didn't come very often, and we had
plenty of time to enjoy ourselves. Anyone who wished and who had
sufficient horses could put in four or five days' hunting a week during
the season. The Master of the Limerick Hounds at the time lived at
Croome. He was a typical Irish gentleman, noted for his genial character
and the forcefulness of his language in the hunting field. Limerick is a
fine hunting country, and gives excellent sport. There were many good
riders in those days. Our friend the Sub-Sheriff was one, but perhaps the
best man there was the owner of Ballynegarde, at whose hospitable house
we spent many happy days. He must have ridden quite over sixteen stone,
and I well remember seeing him, on a chestnut horse, clear the wall which
surrounded the park, the chestnut changing his feet on the top, just like
a cat. Good horses were just as expensive in those days as they were
before the war, but we subalterns did not buy expensive horses; we picked
up good jumpers that had gone cronk, and trusted to the vet., occasional
firing, plenty of bandages, and not too hard work to keep them going.

Riding out one morning towards Mount Shannon, the then lovely home of the
Fitzgibbons, on the banks of the river, and just on leaving the old town
of Limerick, I arrived at a rather long and steep hill, at the foot of
which a jarvey was trying to induce his horse, a long, rakish,
Irish-built bay, to go up. The horse absolutely refused to do so, and
each time the old jarvey flogged him he exhibited very considerable
agility in every direction except up the hill. I rode up to the jarvey
and asked him what was the matter. "Shure, sir," he said, "I bought this
horse to go up this hill, for I am the mail contractor on this road. I've
got him here these last three mornings, and I've never got farther than
this. Now I'll have to go back again and get another horse, and all the
people will get their mails late and they'll report me, and they'll fine
me, and the divil do I know what my ould missus'll have to say about it.
And, shure, yer honour, 'tis all the fault of this donkey-headed old
quadruped."

I asked him whether the old quadruped could jump.

"Shure, yer honour," he said, "he'd jump out of his harness, traces an'
all, if I hadn't got him by the bit."

"Will you sell him?" says I.

"Will I