Where is the man who has never experienced the poetic influence of a moonlight scene!  Fancy, then, such a one as here described; a crescent of low hills—­craggy, steep, and thickly wooded—­around you, on three sides, and above them, again, at twenty miles’ distance, the clear blue outline of the Neilgherry hills; in your front, the silver sand bed of the dry watercourse divides the thick and somber jungle with a stream of light, till you lose it in the deep shadows at the foot of the hills—­all quiet, all still, all bathed in the light of the moon, yourself the only man for miles to come, a solitary watcher—­your only companion the poor cow, who, full of fears, and suspicious at every leaf-fall, reminds you that a terrible struggle is about to take place within a few feet of your bed, and that there will be noise and confusion, when you must be cool and collected.  Your little kennel would not be strong enough to resist a determined charge, and you are alone, if three good guns are not true friends.

Oh! that I could express sounds on paper as music is written in notes.  No, reader, you must do as I have done—­you must be placed in a similar situation, to hear and enjoy the terrible roar of a hungry tiger—­not from afar off, and listened for, but close at hand, and unexpected.  It was like an electric shock;—­a moment ago I was dozing off, and the cow, long since laid down, appeared asleep; that one roar had not died away among the hills when she had scrambled on her legs, and stood with elevated head, stiffened limbs, tail raised, and breath suspended, staring, full of terror, in the direction of the sound.  As for the biped, with less noise, and even more alacrity, he had grasped his “Sam Nock,” whose polished barrels just rested on the lower ledge of the little peep-hole; perhaps his eyes were as round as saucers, and heart beating fast and strong.

Now for the struggle;—­pray heaven that I am cool and calm, and do not fire in a hurry, for one shot will either lose or secure my well-earned prize.

There he is again! evidently in that rugged, stony watercourse, which runs parallel, and about two hundred yards behind the hut.  But what is that?  Yes, lightning:  two flashes in quick succession, and a cold stream of air is rustling through the half-withered leaves of my ambush.  Taking a look to the rear, through an accidental opening among the leaves, it was plain that a storm, or, as it would be called at sea, a squall, was brewing.  An arch of black cloud was approaching from the westward, and, the rain descending, gave it the appearance of a huge black comb, the teeth reaching to the earth.  The moon, half obscured, showed a white mist as far as the rain had reached.  Then was heard in the puffs of air, the hissing of the distant but approaching downpour:  more lightning—­then some large heavy drops plashed on the roof, and it was raining cats and dogs.

How the scene was changed!  Half an hour ago, solemn, and still, and wild, as nature rested, unpolluted, undefaced, unmarked by man—­sleeping in the light of the moon, all was tranquillity; the civilized man lost his idiosyncrasy in its contemplation—­forgot nation, pursuits, creed—­he felt that he was Nature’s child, and adored the God of Nature.