HOG-HUNTING. 67 



India ! there you must depend on yourself in every 

 way, and at the end your foe, or quarry, meets 

 you on nearly fair and equal terms, and, though 

 certain chances are in your favour, the odds are 

 not forty to one against your killing him, as is 

 the case in fox-hunting. Please do not think I 

 am decrying fox-hunting, for I am not. I love it ; 

 I adore with a sort of venatic worship both a fox 

 and a hound ; but, if I were given my choice of 

 the two sports, I should choose hog-hunting, just 

 as you, dear reader, would prefer a gallop with 

 the Quorn or Cottesmore to a day's * jelly -dogging !' 

 The first time I ever saw a pack of fox-hounds 

 throw off, I thought nothing in the world could 

 cause such a breathless, anxious state of excite- 

 ment as I noticed first one hound feather, then 

 another, and another, then a whimper deepening 

 into a regular chorus, announcing that a fox was 



O 7 O 



afoot, and finally the certainty that he had broken 

 covert, conveyed by the shrill ' Gone away for- 

 rard away,' from the whip posted at the low end 

 of the covert. 



I have seen the royal tiger, the monarch of the 

 jungle, approach with noiseless footfall, the incar- 

 nation of agile and sinewy strength in animal 

 life ; I have heard his terror-striking roar of min- 

 gled rage and pain as he charged home on receiv- 

 ing the leaden missile, and felt that my life, and 



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