xvn THE BOAR 311 



one ravine, then down another, and comes to bay after a run of 

 about ten minutes, in some difficult bit of thick thorns or tangled 

 bamboo, or any other place of refuge, in which it can face the 

 hounds, and at the same time be secure from either a side or rear 

 attack. 



This places the seizing hounds in a dangerous position, as they 

 are obliged to rush direct upon the boar's tusks, unless they can 

 manage to break through the barriers upon either side. Even 

 then they would be hampered in their attempts to get away from 

 the quick and desperate lunge, which the boar makes when least 

 expected. All these difficulties have to be well considered, and the 

 nature of the animal thoroughly understood. 



Every creature, whether human or of the lower creation, is born 

 with certain gifts, excepting a few unfortunates, who appear to 

 have been passed over. It is impossible to educate a man or an 

 animal to be a first-rate performer in anything unless the nature is 

 within. A thousand boys may be educated for the military 

 profession with the same masters, and equal care bestowed upon 

 their training, but how many will become distinguished generals 1 

 Only those who have natural gifts. There will be many who 

 become generals, but how many who become distinguished 1 It is 

 the same in everything. Take music, for an example. Every girl 

 learns music in some horrible form or other, which is a misery to 

 herself and an expense to her parents ; a worry to her master, and 

 an infliction upon her audience, when in ripening years she 

 torments them with the results of musical education. On the 

 other hand, a few are born musicians ; they require but little care 

 in early life, and, whether through voice or hand, they are born to 

 enrapture their hearers. 



It is a dreadful descent to jump suddenly to dogs, but it is 

 nevertheless true. There are dogs of all sorts and degrees of 

 cleverness, they are born with gifts ; there are other dogs which 

 are born to be stupid, they are beyond teaching. I had a spaniel, 

 a very lovely and energetic dog, a great and untiring hunter ; that 

 dog would have gained a prize for beauty ; but it had its peculiar 

 ways. If I shot a wild duck, and it fell into the water, he would 

 immediately plunge in to retrieve the game ; but if there happened 

 to be a sand-bank near that duck, or should the opposite shore be 

 closer than the bank upon which I stood, he would assuredly carry 

 the duck to the nearest land, and leave it there, instead of bringing 

 it to me. That dog was born for the Royal Humane Society, but 

 not for a retriever. Nothing would teach him better ; his one 

 idea was, that if a bird fell into the water, no matter how, it was 



