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how he fell in love, got married, and was tamed by Miss Dove. According to this view, the raw material was a strong healthy frame, with well-strung nerves to stand the fatigue, which town-bred Billy Pringle disliked; a keen eye to see the way, a cool head and rapid decision to form a judgment and take a line; and under all, a deep foundation of sturdy, unflinching, unflagging British pluck on which to build the man's character. The polish of boots, breeches, and red coats sat better on pretty Billy Pringle. The brandy-and-water and cigars, the horse dealing, taking of hints, and riding to sell, are surely spots in the sun, if they belong to this photograph.

Besides the instinctive pleasure of chasing and catching, here are pain, danger, toil, and rivals fought and overcome by the courage and endurance of the man. Read the Indian Journal, and study the endurance and courage of carnivora, the courtships of antelopes, and the generalship of a pack of wolves; and it seems that they too share in the pleasures and triumphs of hunting, love, and war.

Now take another case. The writer of the Indian Journal tells how he shot his first grouse, how keen and earnest, bloodthirsty and triumphant the boy was. The author of the Tommiebeg Shootings' gives a caricature, but a very good one, of Scotch grouse-shooting, as now practised in some places. A lot of Cockneys determine to hire a moor, and make the most absurd preparations. One has an anchor with which to hook himself to the bank when he hooks a salmon. Another is the “Soapy Sponge” of the party, who knows all about the sport, and gets the lion's share. The class may be seen in full dress any August. That proverbial essence of 'cuteness, a Scotch lawyer, cheats them all, a laird and a laird's daughter play the part of Parson Dove. Surely they might have found better game than arrant snobs. The interest of the book turns not upon the on the men and on their several ways of taking each other in. Like the horse-dealing in Market Harborough, there is moordealing in Tommiebeg, and money, that root of all evil, has played the mischief with the genuine savage-instinct of hunting as it was practised in the British Isles.

From grouse turn to pheasants, and to Punch and the papers. For one-half of the year a keeper breeds and feeds and watches over his brood with all the care of a Scotch hen-wife, till the master and his friends sally forth and slay; then the game-cart carries the slain to the rail, and the rail delivers the poultry to the poulterer, who pays. Or else a band of robbers invade the coverts the day before the battue, and carry off the feathered half-crowns which the master planted and meant to reap. Or

i The Tommiebeg Shootings; or, A Moor in Scotland. By Thos. JEANS. London, 1860.

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else the game comes down by rail alive, and returns by rail dead; the sportsman pays for the carriage for the missing, and so much a head for the fun of slaying the dead, who are sent home.

From all this forced growth of game and sport, this mixture of nature and art, savagery and civilisation, money-making and genuine sport, it is refreshing to turn to another class of books and inen.

Take Lamont's Seasons with Sea Horses, and watch this growth of the hunter's instinct. If there be danger in riding to hounds, here is greater danger. If there be pleasure in aching bones and quivering muscles, cold, hunger, and fatigue, here are greater hardships braved. If there be pleasure in killing a mouse, or a fox, or a stag, for which you pay, here is the greater pleasure of chasing, with the extra joy of fighting, big brutes able and willing to kill you, and worth money when the fight is won. This is legitimate hunter's commerce. A fair fight, and the victor to have the spoil. The man to flay the bear, or the bear to eat the

But in the midst of all this blood and blubber, the intellect of a clever man appears in this clever book.

Take yet another book, A Hunter's Life in South Africa,” and note how the instinct of the natural hunter rings true in every page.

How everything is swamped by one idea which seems to fill the whole mind of the man. He lives to hunt, and hunts to live, and there is no shadow of sentiment or science in the African Desert.

Take yet another, an Indian sporting book, which some hunter of another grade has written, surely to the joy of his foes; watch how utterly bare and bald and stupid and vapid the marrowless bones of departed sport become without some intellectual ornament; see how truly the writer of Market Harborough judged when he aimed his shaft at the boredom of sporting stories. The hunter scaled the Himalayas, and saw the most beautiful scenery in the world; he may have seen the gorgeous birds and glorious tropical vegetation which others describe, but the mists of the hill-country seem to have closed hopelessly over the bloodshot mental eyes of the carnivorous man, who saw nothing in a mountain but a place for finding game, and looked on a tree as a thing behind which to crouch. This is a sporting book without one merit, except it be used as a sedative about bed-time. Of this class was the huntsman in whose red nose violets stank. Of this class are the carnivora who have some instincts in common with omnivorous men.

From these several classes of sporting-books in which men show themselves to their readers, turn back once more to the Indian Journal which set this train of thought in motion; here is the true hunter's instinct, growing; still green, but with it grows a man's intelligence. The wild moor and the mother's fireside make the boys, the boys become mighty hunters and good soldiers, and yet they are able to see beauty and describe what they saw and felt. There is a love-story and a connected train of thought in the Old Forest Ranger, so the book ranks very high amongst Indian sportsmen; and it is read with keen interest by men and boys, women and girls at home, because the hunting instincts of all are roused and gratified.

1 Seasons with the Sea Horses ; or, Sporting Adventures in Northern Seas. By James Lamont. London, 1861.

2 Five Years of a Hunter's Life in South Africa. By R. GORDON CUMMING. 2 vols. London, 1850.

It may send many to wander in search of adventure, it contains nothing to make a tiger, much to make a gallant gentleman of an English boy.

The Journal is like the sporting novel. It is true metal and rings true. There is none of the foppery of “the Honourable Crasher" and his fellows. Thin boots are unfit for jungle wahahs; but there is hard riding in Indian pig-sticking, and it is quite as well described as the Leicestershire lark of Mr. Sawyer: there is danger in facing a bison and a bullfinch, but there is no brag in the books which describe true sport. There is hardship in Indian travel and a little in English hunting, but small reference is made to hunger and sore bones, by the class of genuine sportsmen who are driven by the better half of their human nature to write books.

Instead of poaching amongst these pages, let this one quotation suffice :

"Reader, you have probably spent many a happy hour among your brother-officers at the mess-table; you may have shared in the fun and frolic of a hunting-breakfast at Melton, or you have enjoyed the social glee and brotherly fellowship of a masonic supper. Perhaps, like myself, you have tried them all, and have enjoyed each in their turn : but, unless you have visited 'the Land of the Sun, you may depend upon it you have yet much to learn. If you wish to see sociability, comfort, and brotherly feeling; if you want to learn what real good living is; and if you appreciate agreeable society, tempered by sobriety and seasoned by wit, you must to the green wood,' with à party of thoroughbred Indian sportsmen; for there will you find them combined and in perfection.

“And here I must remark, that by thoroughbred,' I mean not only high-couraged and game to the backbone; but well-informed, gentlemanlike, and agreeable, as I am happy to say my present companions are.”

The “old forest-ranger" and his Indian Journals are pleasant companions, and game to the backbone. Having thrust your weary feet into a pair of slippers, ensconce yourself in an arm-chair, cut up the book, and worry, worry, worry, tear him and eat him.

Our Foreign Policy.

507

ART. X.-Our Foreign Policy.

LORD RUSSELL'S reign at the Foreign Office has fallen on troublous times. During his tenure of power the position of affairs in Europe has been in the highest degree perplexing and alarming. The everlasting difficulty of Russia and the Poles has broken out as fresh as ever; Prussia has displayed a hardy disregard for truth, justice, and public opinion, which would have done credit to Frederic the Great, and a cynical cruelty of which Davoust would have been ashamed; Austria, as if on purpose to confound all calculation, forgetting the discontented elements which compose her motley empire, heads a crusade for "nationality," and in defiance of her traditionary policy and her disordered finance, plunges into a war which, whatever be its immediate result, will eventually do more to overturn the present bases of European politics than any event since the Treaty of Vienna; while France, mindful of past slights, not perhaps without an eye to future interests, adds to the embarrassments of the situation, by pretended indifference and strange inaction. Yet more serious and more puzzling have been the questions arising out of the war in America. England has not been used to be a neutral. Custom has not hardened her to the unjust demands, the passionate reproaches, the ever-imminent risk of insult which that position entails. And in the present instance all these evils have been aggravated by recent modifications of international law, by the changes in modes of warfare, and by the fierce tempers of the belligerents. The East has not failed to contribute its quota to these difficulties. The destiny of England, as it is the fashion to say, or, in humbler but truer phraseology, the example of the Americans, took us to Japan; and we confess to a strong wish that it had taken us anywhere else. Trade with so great a population is doubtless a most desirable object. But we fear that many English ministers will yet be harassed, and much English blood shed, before we can induce the Japanese millions to honour us with their custom.

It was not to be expected that the Foreign Secretary during such times should escape calumny. The Opposition, eager for place, and finding little else with which to find fault, has assailed the conduct of foreign affairs by the Government keenly if not very consistently or very fairly. The public, rendered restless by its ignorant sympathies, and making little allowance for the difficulties of the situation, has thought lightly of a policy which it has only imperfectly comprehended. Nor need it be disputed that neither the style nor the object of that policy has been VOL. XL.--NO. LXXX.

2 L

such as to attract a rapid or noisy popularity. It has steadily been directed to the preservation of peace; it has been carried on with unusual openness and simplicity. Even Lord Russell's style has the undiplomatic virtue of directness: his meaning is always expressed, as Biron vowed his “wooing mind” should for the future be expressed,“ in russet yeas and honest kersey noes.” Dislike to such an administration will not be uncommon; attack upon it is exceedingly easy. It is unpopular with all who have an undue respect for the tortuous devices of diplomacy, and by all who are unduly moved by anger or compassion. Those who are afraid to commit the country even by a word, and those who are not afraid to plunge the country into war, condemn it equally. And it is not difficult for this indignation to find words. Lord Russell's policy is easily assailed, because it has been a policy of moderation. To abuse such a policy, in times of great excitement, is to secure a ready and favourable audience. The vocabulary, too, is so simple and so telling Neither one thing nor another;" blustering this minute, knocking under the next;” “no consistent plan;" “no conciliation ;” “no vigour;"--of these and such-like phrases we have lately had more than enough.

But from one quarter at least we are entitled to expect something beyond stereotyped expressions of reproach

always vague, often meaningless. The present state of affairs is full of peril, and might be made fertile in instruction. Even should the immediate danger which now threatens us pass away, a study of the causes which gave rise to that danger of the new aspects which European politics are assuming, of the new influences growing into power, and of the position which this country has taken up with regard to these could not fail to afford valuable lessons for the future. We look, therefore, to Her Majesty's Opposition for some assistance in this study. Their constitutional position is that of fault-finders; but in times like the present we may surely expect from them something better than censure.

Any such expectations, however, will be disappointed. In both Houses the Opposition have been lavish of blame; in neither have they announced any principles for the guidance of the opinions of the country, nor suffered any hint to escape them of the nature of the policy which they would recommend. In the debate on the address, nothing could exceed the felicity of Lord Derby's attack, except its vagueness. The Foreign Secretary was ridiculed and made game of with the utmost art of an accomplished and unscrupulous debater; but mere “chaff” will not long support an Opposition. Later in the session-indeed but the other day-his Lordship spoke out in the steam-ram debate, to what effect we shall presently see. Save, however, on this

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