I remember, once, when I let fall a remark on the subject of horse-racing among friends chatting together, I was voted “morose.”  Is it really morose to object to public gatherings which their own promoters declare to be dangerous for all decent folk?  Every one knows that horse-racing is carried on mainly for the delight and profit of fools, ruffians, and thieves.  That intelligent men allow themselves to take part in the affair, and defend their conduct by declaring that their presence “maintains the character of a sport essentially noble,” merely shows that intelligence can easily enough divest itself of sense and decency.

XV.

Midway in my long walk yesterday, I lunched at a wayside inn.  On the table lay a copy of a popular magazine.  Glancing over this miscellany, I found an article, by a woman, on “Lion Hunting,” and in this article I came upon a passage which seemed worth copying.

“As I woke my husband, the lion—­which was then about forty yards off—­charged straight towards us, and with my .303 I hit him full in the chest, as we afterwards discovered, tearing his windpipe to pieces and breaking his spine.  He charged a second time, and the next shot hit him through the shoulder, tearing his heart to ribbons.”

It would interest me to look upon this heroine of gun and pen.  She is presumably quite a young woman; probably, when at home, a graceful figure in drawing-rooms.  I should like to hear her talk, to exchange thoughts with her.  She would give one a very good idea of the matron of old Rome who had her seat in the amphitheatre.  Many of those ladies, in private life, must have been bright and gracious, high-bred and full of agreeable sentiment; they talked of art and of letters; they could drop a tear over Lesbia’s sparrow; at the same time, they were connoisseurs in torn windpipes, shattered spines and viscera rent open.  It is not likely that many of them would have cared to turn their own hands to butchery, and, for the matter of that, I must suppose that our Lion Huntress of the popular magazine is rather an exceptional dame; but no doubt she and the Roman ladies would get on very well together, finding only a few superficial differences.  The fact that her gory reminiscences are welcomed by an editor with the popular taste in view is perhaps more significant than appears either to editor or public.  Were this lady to write a novel (the chances are she will) it would have the true note of modern vigour.  Of course her style has been formed by her favourite reading; more than probably, her ways of thinking and feeling owe much to the same source.  If not so already, this will soon, I daresay, be the typical Englishwoman.  Certainly, there is “no nonsense about her.”  Such women should breed a remarkable race.