Midway in my long walk yesterday, I lunched at a wayside inn. On the
table lay a copy of a popular magazine. Glancing over this miscellany, I
found an article, by a woman, on "Lion Hunting," and in this article I
came upon a passage which seemed worth copying.
"As I woke my husband, the lion--which was then about forty yards
off--charged straight towards us, and with my .303 I hit him full in the
chest, as we afterwards discovered, tearing his windpipe to pieces and
breaking his spine. He charged a second time, and the next shot hit him
through the shoulder, tearing his heart to ribbons."
It would interest me to look upon this heroine of gun and pen. She is
presumably quite a young woman; probably, when at home, a graceful figure
in drawing-rooms. I should like to hear her talk, to exchange thoughts
with her. She would give one a very good idea of the matron of old Rome
who had her seat in the amphitheatre. Many of those ladies, in private
life, must have been bright and gracious, high-bred and full of agreeable
sentiment; they talked of art and of letters; they could drop a tear over
Lesbia's sparrow; at the same time, they were connoisseurs in torn
windpipes, shattered spines and viscera rent open. It is not likely that
many of them would have cared to turn their own hands to butchery, and,
for the matter of that, I must suppose that our Lion Huntress of the
popular magazine is rather an exceptional dame; but no doubt she and the
Roman ladies would get on very well together, finding only a few
superficial differences. The fact that her gory reminiscences are
welcomed by an editor with the popular taste in view is perhaps more
significant than appears either to editor or public. Were this lady to
write a novel (the chances are she will) it would have the true note of
modern vigour. Of course her style has been formed by her favourite
reading; more than probably, her ways of thinking and feeling owe much to
the same source. If not so already, this will soon, I daresay, be the
typical Englishwoman. Certainly, there is "no nonsense about her." Such
women should breed a remarkable race.
I left the inn in rather a turbid humour. Moving homeward by a new way,
I presently found myself on the side of a little valley, in which lay a
farm and an orchard. The apple trees were in full bloom, and, as I stood
gazing, the sun, which had all that day been niggard of its beams, burst
forth gloriously. For what I then saw, I have no words; I can but dream
of the still loveliness of that blossomed valley. Near me, a bee was
humming; not far away, a cuckoo called; from the pasture of the farm
below came a bleating of lambs.