CHAPTER V.

DEER-STALKING, AND IBEX SHOOTING, ON THE NEILGHERRY

HILLS.

OW much of romance, and old tradition is associated with the very word, "Deer!"

Does it not, Gentle Reader, conjure up before thee many a legend of the olden time-many a scene of ancient chivalry ?-The Douglas and the Percy? The bloody field of Chevy Chase ?The ancient Forests of our Kings? Robin Hood and his merry men?

-Shakspeare, and the mad pranks of his youth?

We can hardly fancy the most phlegmatic alderman, gazing on a fat haunch, without thinking of honest Jack Falstaff, and Windsor Forest; and remembering that, in all ages, the deer has been the theme of Poets' song-the game of Kings.

As such, we have a regard for "the bonny dun-deer" above all other animals of the chase. We look upon him as a noble animal of ancient family. And we never behold him wandering over his wild domains, with the lofty bearing of a feudal Baron, that a certain feeling of respect does not creep over us.

There are many Indian field-sports, in which we have played

our part, of a grander and more exciting nature than that of deerstalking; but there are none to which we look back with greater pleasure. We have certain romantic ideas connected with this sport, which we do not associate with any other, and which we can only trace to the sublime nature of the scenery amidst which it has been enjoyed, coupled with the silent, solitary character of the sport itself; for we have ever agreed in thinking, with the quaint old author of "The Treatyse of Fyshynge wyth an Angle," that, in deer-stalking, as in the "gentle craft,"-" Whanne ye purpoos to go on your dysportes, ye shall not desyre gretly many persons wyth you."

Dearly did we love those solitary rambles among the wild hills; nor did we ever miss, or seek for any society but our own thoughts. And dearly do we now love to look back to the happy days we have spent in "hunting of the deer." To remember how we have watched him with his herd, feeding in some lone glen; or looming through the mist like a grey spectre ;-or cutting the sky-line, like a sculptured image, on the pinnacle of a mountain, where he keeps his watch, at break of day, scanning the surrounding hills with jealous eye. We love to remember how the royal hart hath led us many a weary mile, in the exciting contest of man's reason against the unerring instinct of the brute;-our manœuvres, foiled by the keen vision, and exquisite sense of smell, which nature has bestowed upon the stag for his protection, and which he uses with the skill of a consummate general;—the wild scenes through which we have followed the chase, far away from the haunts of man, where no sound is heard but the plash of the distant waterfall, and the sighing of the wind through the long rank grass;-the pure air of the mountains bracing the nerves, and setting fatigue at defiance.

Mile after mile have we thus passed over in the heart-stirring pursuit,-hour after hour has thus flown by, equally unheeded,till the shades of night have closed around us, and the wailing cry

of the jackall has warned us to retrace our weary steps over the moonlit hills.

So great an enthusiast are we in the art of deer-stalking, that we look upon it as the poetry of hunting. It is a pursuit which calls forth all the energies of the hunter's mind as well as of his body: it is a campaign in miniature; it is a study for a general; and it is a sport which, if followed in a proper spirit, with due moderation, and by a person of tolerably cultivated tastes, ought to make the solitary deer-stalker, not only a wiser but a better man.

We have never gazed upon the glorious works of nature with such profound feelings of reverence, and gratitude towards the beneficent Creator of all things, as, when sitting alone on a wild hill side, in the warm twilight of a tropical evening, surrounded by all that is grand and beautiful in mountain scenery, we have watched the wary deer feeding securely in the green valley below; and, by means of that wonderful instinct which their merciful Creator has bestowed upon them, defying the utmost skill of man to approach them. We have never sat down to a sumptuously covered table, with half the feeling of gratitude towards Him who gives us our daily bread, that we have, in our solitary tent, to a frugal supper of broiled venison, earned with the sweat of our brow. And never have we retired to rest in a happier frame of mind, or enjoyed more balmy slumber, than after the successful termination of a hard day's deer-stalking.

It has often proved a subject of wonder to us, that this sport of deer-stalking, in spite of the many charms which it possesses in our eyes, finds so few followers amongst the sportsmen of India.

We have known hundreds of men who rode well to hog, who were undeniable rifle shots, who were good sportsmen in every respect, and who used to prove the life and soul of our merry parties in the jungle; but, amongst those, we could point out but few who had poetry enough or perhaps foolish romance enough

-in their composition, to appreciate the delights of the solitary deer-stalker's life.

Indeed, amongst all our sporting friends-if we except our brother, who was, and still is, a perfect enthusiast-Mansfield was the only one who could fully sympathise with us in our ardent love for this sport. He was an enthusiastic admirer of nature; he understood the poetry of the thing; and much as he had distinguished himself in the various manly field-sports of India,— much as he enjoyed the society of his brother sportsmen,—much as his society was courted by them, he never appeared so much in his element, as when following a shy old stag through the solitary wilds of the Neilgherry Hills—and no man knew better than he how to do so with success.

It was therefore with no small feeling of satisfaction, that he availed himself of a quiet day, after the encounter with the tiger, to initiate his young friend Charles into the mysteries of his favourite pursuit.

The ground selected for this day's sport was Chenykonoor,— a spot amongst the Ghats, on the edge of the hills, which, on account of the extreme difficulty of the ground, and its remoteness from the cantonment of Ootacamund, was little known, and less frequented, by any one except the stanch deer-stalker Mansfield himself.

It still wanted more than an hour of daylight, when Charles, who, partly owing to the cold-for this was the first night he had passed under canvass on the hills-and partly from overanxiety, had enjoyed but broken slumbers, started from his hard camp bed, and roused Mansfield out of a sound sleep.

The full moon had, for the last hour, been shining on the young sportsman's face, and the bellowing voice of the old stags, calling from hill to hill, was a temptation he could no longer resist.

Mansfield, delighted at the ardour of his young companion, quickly obeyed the summons;—and, having ascertained that

Charles was properly clothed in the sober habiliments of a deerstalker, the two sportsmen, followed by Mansfield's favourite Peon, Ayapah, proceeded, over the moonlit hills, towards the edge of the Ghats.

Here, by rights, the sportsmen ought to have separated, each taking his own beat; but Charles being a novice in the art, it was necessary, on this occasion, that he and Mansfield should keep together.

Daylight was beginning to appear, as they reached the ground, where Mansfield expected to find deer; and the occasional bellow of a stag afforded welcome evidence that his expectations would not be disappointed. But the hills were enveloped in so dense a mist, that no object could be distinguished; and the sportsmen sat down, in silence, to await its clearing off.

By slow degrees, the white curtain rose, gradually unclothing a conical hill in front, till all was bare, except the rocky summit, on which the vapour hung like a silver veil. And now, through the grey mist, on the very pinnacle of the highest peak, loomed forth a shadowy outline, like the dim ghost of a gigantic deer. Mansfield laid his hand gently upon the arm of his companion, and both crouched low upon the ground.

As the sun rose behind the sleeping mountains, its rays shot through the fog, dispersing it like magic, and a flood of crimson light struck full upon a noble stag. From a mere shadow, he now stood forth in bold relief, his stately form and wide-spreading antlers showing so vividly distinct against the sky-line, that distance was forgotten, and Charles could have sworn that the wild jealous glance of his eye met his, as they watched each other.

After making a rapid survey of the surrounding ground, Mansfield shook his head.

"I fear, Charley my boy, he is too old a soldier for us.—He has taken up so commanding a position that there is little chance of our getting near him; but we may try."

So saying, Mansfield arose, for there was no means of effectually