The fact is, for a heroic temperament like his, a wild adventurous
spirit which dreamt of nothing but battles, races across the pampas,
mighty battues, desert sands, blizzards and typhoons, it was not
enough to go out every Sunday to pop at a cap, and the rest of the
time to ladle out casting-votes at the gunmaker's. Poor dear great
man! If this existence were only prolonged, there would be
sufficient tedium in it to kill him with consumption.

In vain did he surround himself with baobabs and other African
trees, to widen his horizon, and some little to forget his club and
the market-place; in vain did he pile weapon upon weapon, and
Malay kreese upon Malay kreese; in vain did he cram with
romances, endeavouring like the immortal Don Quixote to wrench
himself by the vigour of his fancy out of the talons of pitiless reality.
Alas! all that he did to appease his thirst for deeds of daring only
helped to augment it. The sight of all the murderous implements
kept him in a perpetual stew of wrath and exaltation. His revolvers,
repeating rifles, and ducking-guns shouted "Battle! battle!" out of
their mouths. Through the twigs of his baobab, the tempest of
great voyages and journeys soughed and blew bad advice. To finish
him came Gustave Aimard, Mayne Reid, and Fenimore Cooper.

Oh, how many times did Tartarin with a howl spring up on the
sultry summer afternoons, when he was reading alone amidst his
blades, points, and edges; how many times did he dash down his
book and rush to the wall to unhook a deadly arm! The poor man
forgot he was at home in Tarascon, in his underclothes, and with a
handkerchief round his head. He would translate his readings into
action, and, goading himself with his own voice, shout out whilst