THE OLD FOREST RANGER.

CHAPTER I.

A WORD FROM THE OLD FOREST RANGER.

EADER, couldst thou see us, as we are now, reposing in our easy chair; our once muscular limbs swathed in flannel bandages; a red woollen nightcap covering our scanty locks; and our stubborn back bending, at length, under the weight of fourscore years; thou wouldst find it hard to credit that this trembling hand, which now can scarcely guide

the pen, was wont, of yore, to poise, with deadly aim, yon longbarrelled rifle; or that the grim trophies of the chase, which grace the walls of our favourite study, and on which we still gaze with all the pride of an American savage sitting amidst the smokedried scalps of his enemies, were fairly ta'en, in sylvan warfare, by the white-headed Old Man who now ventures to address thee. Yet so it is, Gentle Reader-The Old Forest Ranger, once the terror of wild beasts, is now reduced to this.-Think not,

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however, that we repine at our lot.-The old dog hath had his day,—a right merry day it was too—and although in our declining years, we look back, with pleasure, to the exploits of our youth, we do so, also, with feelings of gratitude to our Maker, who hath protected us through many dangers, and brought us back in safety, from a far distant land, to lay our aged bones in the same romantic glen of our beloved Highlands, where first we drew the breath of life.

We have been gazing, for the last hour, upon the trophies which surround us, till our head swims, and our heart burns, with glowing recollections of how each grinning savage bled and died. The soul-stirring scenes come so vividly before us, that we feel an irresistible temptation to commit our thoughts to paper. And write we will, if it be only for the sake of furnishing one other instance of feline ferocity, besides the tragical fate of poor Monro―an anecdote which, in spite of its being half a century old, and worn to tatters by constant use, still continues to be quoted, with undiminished satisfaction, by every writer who wishes to impress his readers with a wholesome dread of the tiger's cannibal propensities; as if it were the only wellauthenticated instance on record, of such a catastrophe.

We feel it also to be due to the character of our brother hunters, who pursue the

"Crafty dysporte of venery"

in a gentlemanlike manner, to disabuse the minds of such of our readers as may have been led away by the accounts of travelled cockneys, and seduced into the belief that Indian sportsmen indulge in the vile practices of shooting hog on the plains, hunting bagged jackals, redolent of asafoetida, and slaying pea-fowl in jungles frequented by deer.

Such things are done no doubt; and done, perhaps, by men who rejoice in the name of sporting characters, but not by sportsmen.

The man who shoots a hog in a hunting country in India, is held up to greater execration than a convicted vulpecide would be in Leicestershire. No man who can ride well up to an old gray boar, will ever demean himself or his good horse, by following a poor, dripping, broken-hearted vermin, till he is trotted to death by a parcel of mangy curs. And we have invariably remarked that those who habitually indulge in the innocent pastime of peacock and jungle-fowl shooting, are young gentlemen who, having devoted their early youth to the rearing of tame rabbits, have never learnt to appreciate the beauties of a grooved barrel, and have, therefore, signally failed in their attempts upon nobler game; or, as a quaint friend of ours used to express himself,

'They have found the wild bucks so extremely bashful that no hunter could approach them."

We have yet another reason for writing, Gentle Reader, but this we must whisper in thine ear.

We have, long ago, exhausted the patience not only of our good Old Lady, but of the Minister, and the Doctor; indeed of all the inhabitants of the parish who have been simple enough to let us decoy them into our den.—The preliminary clearing of the throat, which they recognise too well as the prelude to an Indian story, invariably drives them from our presence; and being no longer able to command a private hearer, we have resolved upon the desperate experiment of making an attack upon the public.

Hurra! We have renewed our youth, like the royal bird from whose wing our pen was plucked. (It is our fancy, Gentle Reader, ever to write with an eagle's quill.) The fire of other days is in our blood.—Our eye is, once more, bright.—We cast off our spectacles as an useless encumbrance, and grasp our longneglected rifle, which for years, hath slumbered peacefully above the fire-place, reposing upon the brow antlers of a noble stag.-The dark Spirit of the woods is upon us. The angry roar of the wounded tiger is in our ears. And we snort like an aged

war-horse, who hath been roused by the trumpet's sound, as we look back, through the long vista of bygone years, on the sylvan warfare of our youth.

We see thee now, thou green spot in the wilderness, where first we pitched our solitary hunter's tent. Oft have the gloomy arches of the eternal forest, in which thou art embossed, echoed to the crack of our trusty rifle. Oft has thy green herbage been stained with the life-blood of the stately bison.

Hurra! for the wild woods!

Hurra! for the headlong charge of the mighty Bull! And thrice Hurra! for the deadly grooved barrel before which he bows his proud forehead to the dust!!

But hush! We are getting beside ourselves. Our unusual fit of excitement hath got the better of our discretion. And our much respected Consort, who was approaching to administer our morning potation of Athol-brose, hath fled in dismay, wringing her hands, and proclaiming aloud that,

"The Laird hath gaen horn-wud!"

We must compose ourselves, else we shall lose our character as well as our Athol-brose.

So! We have pacified our better-half, quaffed our morning cup, and replaced our spectacles with becoming gravity.-The Spirit of the woods hath passed away.-We have laid aside our rifle, resumed our eagle quill, and the Old Forest Ranger hath once more subsided into a douce and cannie Carle.

Reader, if thou art, like us, a thorough-paced old Sportsman, one who hath advanced through all the progressive stages of practical gunnery, from the firing of twopenny cannon, on the King's birth-day, to the scientific use of the grooved barrel.—If thou hast a soul capable of appreciating the manifold beauties of that most perfect weapon the double-barrelled rifle,-armed with which the solitary Hunter wanders fearless among the savage beasts of the wilderness. If, in short, thou art as great an enthusiast in the noble art of wood-craft, as we were in our

younger days, we trust that even our imperfect sketches of Indian field-sports, may afford thee an hour's amusement. Thou wilt be ready to make every allowance for the defects of a brother sportsman's style; and to thee, therefore, we think it unnecessary to make any apology, for asking thee to accompany us into the woods. It may, perhaps, remind thee of old times.

Reader, if thou art no Sportsman, then we do feel some delicacy in asking thee to join us, lest thou shouldst be disappointed. If thou art inclined to shoulder a rifle and follow us in our wanderings, we say come, and welcome! We shall be right proud. of thy company; and will do our best to inspire thee with that wild spirit of adventure which imparts the principal charm to an Indian Hunter's life. But we forewarn thee that thou wilt be introduced to savage men, and savage beasts; and if such society liketh thee not, we pray thee to remember that the blame lies not at our door.

Reader, if thou art a critic, dogging our path for the unworthy purpose of noting every false step, and picking holes in a poor old man's coat, we say,-Aroint thee! We go armed; and aged though we be, have not yet forgotten how to handle a rifle.

We hardly dare to hope that the Gentler Sex will so far honour us, as to illuminate our blood-stained pages, with the sunshine of their eyes. But, in the event of our being so highly favoured, we feel that, to them, some apology is due for introducing them to such uncouth scenes.

Vailing our bonnet, then, and bowing full low, we would thus crave permission to address our Fair Reader.

We are but a poor Old Forester, gentle Lady; one unfit to tell a tale in lady's bower. But, as hunters of old were wont to offer up grim trophies of the chase at the shrine of beauty, so do we venture to lay this unworthy volume at thy feet. Spurn it not, gentle Lady. It is all an Old Forester has to offer, and, for thy sake, he heartily wishes it more worthy of thy perusal.