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CHAPTER VII. 



OLD BEN. 



"Nor on the surges of the boundless air, 

 Though borne triumphant, are they safe ; the gun. 

 Glanced just and sudden from the fowler's eye, 

 O'ertakes their sounding pinions." 



Thomson's Seasons. 



I MENTIONED in my first chapter, and amongst 

 one of my earliest acquaintances in the sport- 

 ing line, a son of old Ben, whom I called an 

 old poacher; but it must not be understood 

 that I meant a poacher in the ordinary accept- 

 ation of the word, for I would not defile these 

 pages with evxn a word in favour of such 

 drunken, thieving, disorderly blackguards, and 

 I did not mean to infer he was anything of 

 that kind ; still, if a man has no ground of his 

 own, and does not take out a license to kill 

 game, he must, strictly speaking, be a bit of a 

 poacher, more or less. 



