e to your
expectant friends. To the young sportsman, the novelty, confusion, and
hubbub of these evening shooting-parties are perfectly bewildering;
Parisian cockneys, above all, are quite beside themselves, shutting
first one eye and then the other, firing, of course, without having
taken any aim, and eventually beating a retreat without a feather in
their game-bags. But to the veteran, this fevered half-hour, this brief
_chasse_, is most delightful; everything conspires to make it lively and
exciting. The party, ten or twelve jolly dogs, have generally dined
together, and the onslaught over, they all return by the pale moonlight,
shoulder to shoulder, singing snatches of some old hunting-song, the
stars overhead and the woodcocks on their backs. A young Parisian and
college friend of mine, Adolphe Gustave de----, very rich and very
witty, whom, after many unsuccessful attempts, I induced to leave the
capital, and pass six months with me in the deserts, as he called them,
of Le Morvan, loved this species of sport intensely, though he never
shot anything. His bag, however, was always better filled than that of
any of his comrades, for though a wretched shot, he had the wit to stand
near a good one, and as he was wonderfully quick with his legs, eyes,
and fingers, he was constantly picking up his neighbour's birds, vowing
all the time they were his own shooting.

CHAPTER XI.

Fine names--Gustavus Adolphus and the cabbages--Gustavus Adolphus!
no hero!--The Parisian Sportsman--Partridge-shooting
despicable--Wild boar-hunting--Rousing the grisly monster--His
approach--The post of honour--Good nerves--The death--The trophy
and congratulations.

Few persons well acquainted with France can have failed to observe how
fond the lower orders, indeed all classes, are of giving high-sounding
names to their children; and it is sometimes truly amusing to notice the
strange upset of associations which in consequence jar the auricular
nerve, and illustrate the singularly exalted notions of the godfathers
and godmothers. "Gustave Adolphe!" I once heard an old cook vociferate
from the kitchen of a small inn to a boy in the yard. "Gustave Adolphe!"
shrieked the aged heroine of the sauce-pans, pitching her voice in A
alto, "_Coupez donc les choux!_" Cutting cabbages! What an antithesis to
the glorious victor of Lutzen. The remark will apply with equal force to
the Gustave Adolphe of the last chapter, thou