Why are there so few heroic tales of our brave boys a-hunting with
breechloaders, may be asked. The truth is that, with modern weapons,
hunting is as unromantic as work in a slaughter-house.
Men may still be wounded by teeth or claws, as I have known one who
lost an arm to a tiger, and every now and then a man is killed,
although he has modern weapons in his hand; but it is mostly by
accident or stupidity, and nearly always by preventable accident, like
getting wounded on a railway. It is painful, and may be fatal; but so
rare and so preventable that to take the risk needs no more courage
than to step into a train.
That is why so many lies are told. The truth is bald. I have witnessed
some, and credibly heard of hundreds of hunting adventures, in the
most dangerous corners of the world; and read of thousands more. To
see the truth, one has to allow for the many events that seem too
commonplace to remember, as well as for all the tricks of slippery
memory. Statistics are not available, which is helpful in a thing like
this; for statistics are misleading, and can be quoted to prove
anything. So every man has to generalise from what he knows; and,
doing so, I concur in the opinion of those judicious persons who think
that the most dangerous kinds of modern hunting are safer in every way
than common coal-mining. The percentage of mortality is almost
certainly a great deal smaller. Not once, so far as I have been able
to believe, not once did any man, with modern weapons in his hands, do
anything very heroic, or _need_ to do it. The grit was often there;
but there was no real opportunity, for it is not the mere taking of
risks that makes the hero. The gambling spirit is equal to that. The
hero rises above selfishness as far as above fear, and does what he
sees to be right, unheeding consequences. In our long war with the
beasts, which has lasted so many millenniums, we needed such men at
the start, but not now. The brunt of the battle is over, and anyone
can finish it.
That is why there is little to tell in our anecdotes of modern
adventures, unless when something happens under primitive conditions.
Never did any modern hunter have to face such danger as was faced by a
bereaved old Burman grandfather in a village near Rangoon when he took
a spear in his hand, and, with other old men, ran after the tiger that
was carrying away his grandchild, and closed with it. These old
fellows showed a spirit that makes one think better of humanity. But
what are we to think of the idle men with breechloaders and servants?
What drives them to the field or forest? The heavy burden of
life-weariness, the Nemesis of idleness and plethora. The best of them
are seeking a relief from real worries, perhaps, and the others
killing time, or seeking amusement. Why not? It is nonsense for any
man to dictate the pleasures of another; but let us have no cant at
any rate, no make-believe heroics, as if the killing of cats needed
particular bravery on the part of a man with a battery.
There are few more genuine pleasures in life than that of a European
officer, who is at hand to help villagers in India against leopards or
tigers, and feels his gun of use; and the wounds, if any, received in
that way would leave honourable scars. But such a coincidence of duty
and pleasure is rare, and seldom to be got by seeking for it. It is
altogether a different thing from the experience of sportsmen in
search of sensations.