A BAND OF WILD BOARS. 221 



deal^ there was a band of wild boars. The day of 

 the week I forget, and, by some accident, cannot find 

 the notes made at the time : however, on a lovely 

 morning, mild enough for Midsummer's Day, with 

 that sweet rarefied air sighing around us, that makes 

 it a sin to light or even smell the fumes of a cigar, 

 we wended our way through a little village, and by a 

 brick-kiln, up to tlie verge of the woods. There a halt 

 was called, and M. d'Anchald, myself, Jules, Ludovic, 

 and his friend the Captain, as fine a specimen of a 

 Cuirassier as ever I saw, went to post ourselves for a 

 shot as best we could. The instant the hounds were 

 uncoupled, away went the old French cripples, as 

 usual, flinging their tongues ; when, in the space of 

 five minutes, I heard Bavard and the other English 

 hounds working the drag of some animal ; and shortly 

 after, by the slot, I knew it to be a boar, and perhaps 

 a band of them, Bavard hunting out the drag, and 

 leading them beautifully. 



And here let me notice another error into which the 

 piqueurs whom I saw invariably fell. The old French 

 hounds, from custom and their babbling propensities, 

 the instant they are let go, put on the appearance of 

 hunting, and, as I have elsewhere shown, begin giving 

 tongue, the English hounds staring at them in mute 

 bewilderment, because, there being no scent, they 



