The happiest huntsman I ever heard of was a fat little Frenchman, who
was a guest in a shooting-box in the Highlands of Scotland. His host
was some ex-royalty; and one morning the whole crowd were going to
stalk the deer, except our hero, who stood watching their departure as
cheerily as he could. "Take a gun and potter about yourself near the
house," was the parting shout to him; and after a little, finding time
begin to drag, he remembered the kindly-meant advice, and shouldered a
gun and went off alone.
At dinner-time, he could hardly contain himself till the others had
finished telling their doings; and when at last his hints had made
them curious, and they asked what sport he had had, he cried: "Ah, my
friends, smaller, but better than yours. Just over the top of the
first hillock (_petite colline_), on the edge of the moor, I met a
glorious herd of Scottish chamois, magnificent wild sheep (_moutons
sauvages_), and killed half-a-dozen of them before they escaped. They
must have watched you all go to a distance and felt safe. I completely
surprised them."
It was only the conventions of sport that made the fat little man
ridiculous. The deer were no more wild animals than the sheep. If the
deer-stalkers were real hunters, so was he. In danger and in joy, they
were the same.
They tell me that this story is well-known in London. That was to be
expected. It was too good not to tell. But I heard it in 1894, in the
north, from a parish clergyman of superior character, who located it
in ground adjacent to his parish. It is impossible that he lied. There
is barely one chance in ten that he was misinformed. So, if the
"French lord" concerned convinces me that he desires such
"immortality" as the mention of his name would give, then his name
shall be mentioned, with perhaps a few more particulars. The
probabilities seem to me about ten to one that the story is true.
After all, a statement is not _necessarily_ false, _because_ it is
known in London.
The pleasure of fighting big cats any brave man can feel. But wherein
lies the joy of being what Lord Chesterfield despised, a poulterer? Or
of butchering the deer? Why do we not all feel as kind-hearted
Plutarch did that, when men are at play, the beasts that help in the
fun should have a share of it? Why is there joy in dealing out death?
God knows. I have felt it myself; but a man cannot really analyse his
feelings. He can only pretend to do that. At times--not always of
course, but often enough--our feelings are as mysterious as the stars,
which we can watch and photograph, but never explain.
So, when I say God knows, I mean that there doubtless are in Nature,
which is another name for the mystery of the Universe, abundant
reasons, far beyond my sounding. And I do know a partial explanation,
a kind of clue, which our mealy-mouthed manners make me hesitate to
mention. Yet, after all, truth needs no fine excuses, and the
sentiments of the natural man need no apology. There is a genuine joy
in killing. Nobody needs to be ashamed of it, any more than of
sneezing. It is born in us all; and to a mind undeveloped, unable to
imagine itself in the place of another, cruelty is a pure pleasure,
the lively sensations of it not being spoiled by pity. That was how
the Inquisitors enjoyed themselves, and executions were always
popular. A man likes killing as naturally as he likes sugar. "Clear
your minds of cant," as Dr Johnson advised, and it is easy to see in
that the true attraction of hunting. How great and genuine a joy it is
I never realised till once I watched a lady crunching a praying mantis
under a paper-weight, and gloating over its sufferings, just as a
cousin of hers, a famous hunter, loved to dwell on his more gory
glories. She was sipping a liqueur she liked a minute later, with the
same beatific expression of happiness.
The good old salt, Frank Bullen, has lately been lamenting the new and
unromantic ways of whaling, when the whales are chased by steamers and
the harpoons driven home by gunpowder, and the whales quickly finished
by bombs. Indeed, there is no blinking the fact that the fun is out of
the business. A man should think himself a fool if he goes on fancying
that there is danger or romance, when there is none. The whaler and
the hunter, under modern conditions, are as like the old-fashioned
whalers and hunters as the saloon passengers in an Atlantic greyhound
are like the fellow-voyagers of Columbus or Drake.