University of Virginia Library

SUMMER RETREAT IN ARKANSAS.

It is not expected that a faithful description of Satan's
Summer Retreat in Arkansas, will turn aside the fashion
of two worlds, from Brighton and Bath, or from Newport
and Saratoga, although the residents in the neighborhood
of that delightful place, profess to have ocular
demonstration, as well as popular opinion, that his
Satanic Majesty in warm weather regularly retires to
the “Retreat,” and “there reclines” in the “cool.”

The solemn grandeur that surrounds this distinguished
resort, is worthy of the hero as represented by
Milton; its characteristics are darkness, gloom and
mystery; it is environed by the unrivalled vegetation
and forest of the Mississippi valley. View it when you
will, whether decked out in all the luxuriance of a
southern summer, or stripped of its foliage by the winter's
blasts—it matters not—its grandeur is always
sombre.

The huge trees seem immortal, their roots look as
if they struck to the centre of the earth, while the
gnarled limbs reach out to the clouds Here and there
may be seen one of these lordly specimens of vegetation,
furrowed by the lightning; from its top to the base you
can trace the subtle fluid in its descent, and see where
it shattered off the gigantic limb, or turned aside from
slight inequality in the bark.

These stricken trees, no longer able to repel the numerous
parasites that surround them, soon become festooned
with wreathes and flowers; while the damp air
engenders on living tree and dead, like funereal drapery,
the pendant moss, which waves in every breeze and seems
to cover the whole scene with the gloom of the grave.

Rising out of this forest, for ten square miles, is the
dense cane-brake, that bears the name of “Satan's Summer
Retreat;” it is formed by a space of ground where,
seemingly, from its superiority of soil, more delicate
vegetation than that which surrounds it, has usurped
the empire. Here the reed, which the disciple of Izaak
Walton plays over the northern streams like a wand,
grows into a delicate mast—springing with the prodigality
of grass from the rich alluvium that gives it sustenance,
and tapering from its roots to the height of
twenty or thirty feet, it there mingles in compact and
luxuriant confusion its long leaves.

A portion of this brake is interwoven with vines of
all descriptions, which makes it so thick that it is almost

as impenetrable as a mountain. Here, in this solitude,
where the noon-day sun never penetrates, myriads
of birds, with the instinct of safety, roost at night;
and at the dawn of day for awhile darken the air as
they seek their haunts—their manure deadening like a
a fire, for acres around, the vegetation, so long have they
possessed the solitude.

Amid this mass of cane and vine, the black bear
retire for winter quarters, where they pass the season,
if not disturbed, in the insensibility of sleep, and yet
come out in the spring as fat as when they commenced
their long nap.

The forest, the waste, and the dangers of the cane-brake,
but add to the excitement of the Arkansas hunter;
he conquers them all, and makes them subservient to
his pursuits. Familiar with these scenes, they to him
possess no sentiment; he builds his log cabin in a clearing
made by his own hands, amid the surrounding grandeur,
and it looks like a gypsy hut among the ruins of
a Gothic cathedral. The noblest trees to him are only
valuable for fence-rails; and the cane-brake is “an infernal
dark hole,” where you can “see sights,” “catch
bear,” and get a “fish pole,” ranging in size from a
“penny whistle to that of a young stove pipe.”

The undoubted hero of Satan's Summer Retreat, is
old Bob Herring: he has a character that would puzzle
three hundred metaphysicians consecutively. For, while
he is as bold as a lion, he is superstitious as an Indian.

The exact place of his birth he cannot tell, as he says
that his parents “travelled” as long as he can remember
them. He “squatted” on the Mississippi at its nearest
point to the Retreat, and there erecting a rude camp,
commenced hunting for a living, having no prospect
ahead but selling out his “pre-emption right” and improvements,
and again squatting somewhere else.

Unfortunately, the extent of Arkansas, and the
swamp that surrounded Bob's location, kept it out of
market until, to use his own language, he “became the
ancientest inhabitant in the hull of Arkansaw.” And
having, in spite of himself, gradually formed acquaintances
with the few residents in this vicinity, and grown
into importance from his knowledge of the country, and
his hunting exploits, he has established himself for life,
at what he calls, the “Wasp's diggins;” made a potato
patch, which he has never had time to fence in; talked
largely of a cornfield; and hung his cabin round with
rifle-pouches, gourds, red peppers, and flaming advertisements
with rampant horses and pedigrees; these latter
ornaments, he looks upon as rather sentimental—but
he excuses himself on the ground that they look “hoss,”
and he considers such an expression as considerably
characteristic of himself.

We have stated that Bob's mind would puzzle three
hundred metaphysicians consecutively, and we as boldly
assert that an equal number of physiologists would be
brought to a stand by his personal appearance. The

left side of his face is good looking, but the right side
seems to be under the influence of an invisible air-pump;
it looks drawn out of shape; his perpendicular height
is six feet one inch, but that gives the same idea of his
length that the diameter gives of the circumference;
how long Bob Herring would be if he were drawn
out, it is impossible to tell. Bob himself says, that he
was made on too tall a scale for this world, and that he
was shoved in like the joints of a telescope,—poor in
flesh, his enormous bones and joints rattle when he
moves, and they would no doubt long since have fallen
apart, but for the enormous tendons that bind them together
as visibly as a good sized hawser would.

Such is Bob Herring,—who on a bear hunt will do
more hard work, crack more jokes, and be more active
than any man living; sustaining the whole with unflinching
good humor, never getting angry except when he
breaks his whiskey-bottle, or has a favorite dog open on
the wrong trail.

My first visit to Satan's Summer Retreat, was propitious;
my companions were all choice spirits; the
weather was fine, and Bob Herring inimitable. The
bustling scene that prefaced the “striking the camp”
for night lodgings, was picturesque and animated; a
long ride brought us to our halting-place, and there was
great relief in again stepping on the ground.

Having hoppled our horses, we next proceeded to
build a fire, which was facilitated by taking advantage

[ILLUSTRATION]

Bob Herring's Camp-fire.

[Description: 468EAF. Image of five men gathered around a campfire. The two men closest to the foreground are sitting on a fallen tree and rock and have guns leaning next to them. There is a dead deer hanging from one of the trees.]

of a dead tree for a back-log; our saddles, guns, and
other necessaries were brought within the circle of its
light, and lolling upon the ground we partook of a frugal
supper, the better to be prepared for our morrow's
exertions and our anticipated breakfast.

Beds were next made up, and few can be better than
a good supply of cane tops, covered with a blanket, with
a saddle for a pillow; upon such a rude couch, the
hunter sleeps more soundly than the effeminate citizen
on his down. The crescent moon with her attendant
stars, studded the canopy under which we slept, and the
blazing fire completely destroyed the chilliness of a
southern December night.

The old adage of “early to bed and early to rise”
was intended to be acted upon, that we might salute the
tardy sun with the heat of our sport; and probably we
would have carried out our intentions, had not Bob
Herring very coolly asked if any of us snored “unkimmonly
loud,” for he said his old shooting iron would go
off at a good imitation of a bear's breathing. This
sally from Bob brought us all upright, and then there
commenced a series of jibes, jokes, and stories, that no
one can hear or witness except on an Arkansas hunt
with “old coons.” Bob, like the immortal Jack, was
witty himself, and the cause of wit in others; but he
sustained himself against all competition, and gave in
his notions and experience with an unrivalled humor
and simplicity.

He found in me an attentive listener, and, therefore
went into details, until he talked every one but myself
asleep.

From general remarks, he changed to addressing me
personally, and as I had every thing to learn, he went
from the elementary, to the most complex experience.

“You are green in bar hunting,” said he to me, in a
commiserating tone—“green as a jimson weed—but
don't get short-winded 'bout it, case it's a thing like
readin', to be l'arnt;—a man don't come it perfectly at
once, like a dog does; and as for that, they l'arn a heap
in time;—thar is a greater difference 'tween a pup and
an old dog on a bar hunt, than thar is 'tween a militia
man and a regler. I remember when I could'nt bar
hunt, though the thing seems onpossible now; it only
takes time—a true eye and a steady hand, though I did
know a fellow that called himself a doctor, who said you
could'nt do it, if you was narvious.

“I asked him if he meant by that, agee and
fever!

“He said, it was the agee without the fever.

“Thar may be such a thing as narvious, stranger,
but nothing but a yarth quake, or the agee can shake me;
and still bar hunting aint as easy as scearing a wild turkey,
by a long shot.

“The varmint aint a hog, to run with a—
w—h—e—w; just corner one—cotch its cub, or cripple
it, and if you don't have to fight, or get out of the way,

then thar aint no cat-fish in the Mississip. I larnt that
nih twenty year ago, and, perhaps, you would like to
know about it.” Signifying my assent, Bob Herring
got up on his bed—for as it was upon the bare ground,
he could not well get off of it,—and, approaching the fire,
he threw about a cord of wood upon it, in the form of a
few huge logs; as they struck the blazing heap, the sparks
flew upwards in the clear cold air, like jets of stars;
then, fixing himself most comfortably, he detailed what
follows:

“I had a knowin old sow on a time, that would have
made a better hunter than any dog ever heer'd on—
she had such a nose,—talk 'bout a dog following a cold
trail—she'd track a bar through running water. Well
—you see afor' I know'd her vartu', she came running
into my cabin, bristles up, and fell on the floor,
from what I now believe, to have been a regular scear.
I thought she'd seen a bar, for nothing else could make
her run; and, taking down my rifle, I went out sort a
carelessly, with only two dogs at my heels. I hadn't
gone far 'fore I saw a bar, sure enough, quietly standing
beside a small branch—it was an old He, and no mistake.

“I crawled up to him on my hands and knees, and
raised my rifle, but had I fired, I must have hit him so
far in front, that the ball would have ranged back and
not cut his mortals. I waited—and he turned tail towards
me, and started across the branch; afeer'd I'd lose
him, I blazed away, and a sort of cut him slantingdicularly

through his hams, and brought him down; thar he
sot looking like a sick nigger with the dropsy, or a black
bale of cotton turned up on end. It was not a judgematical
shot, and Smith thar,” pointing at one of the
sleeping hunters, “would say so.”

Hereupon Bob Herring, without any ceremony,
seized a long stick, and thrust it into Smith's short ribs,
who thus suddenly awakened from a sound sleep, seized
his knife, and, looking about him, asked confusedly
what was the matter?

“Would you,” inquired Bob, very leisurely, “would
you—under any carcumstances, shoot an old He in the
hams?”

Smith, very peremptorily, told his questioner to go
where the occupier of the Retreat in summer, is supposed
to reside through the winter months, and went instantly
to sleep again.

Bob continued—“Stranger, the bar—as I have said,
was on his hams, and thar he sot—waiting to whip
somebody, and not knowing where to begin; when the
two dogs that followed me came up, and pitched into
him like a caving bank—I know'd the result afore the
fight began; Blucher had his whole scalp, ears and all,
hanging over his nose in a minute, and Tige', was lying
some distance from the bar on his back, breathing like
a horse with the thumps; he wiped them both out with
one stroke of his left paw, and thar he sot—knowing as
well as I did, that he was not obliged to the dogs for

the hole in his carcass—and thar I stood like a fool—
rifle in hand, watching him, instead of giving him another
ball. All of a sudden he caught a glimpse of my
hunting shirt, and the way that he walked at me on his
two fore legs, was a caution to slow dogs.

“I fired, and instantly stept round behind the trunk
of a large tree; my second shot confused the bar, and
as he was hunting about for me, just as I was patching
my ball, he again saw me, and, with his ears nailed
back to his head, he gave the d—t w—h—e—w I ever
heard, and made straight at me; I leapt up a bank near
by, and as I gained the top, my foot touched the eend
of his nose.

“If I ever had the `narvious,' stranger, that was
the time, for the skin of my face seemed an inch thick,
and my eyes had more rings in them than a wild cat's.

“At this moment, several of my dogs, that war out
on an expedition of their own, came up, and immediately
made battle with the bar, who shook off the dogs in a
flash, and made agin at me; the thing was done so
quick, that as I raised my rifle, I stepped back and fell
over, and, thinking my time was come, wished that I
had been born to be hung, and not chaw'd up; but the
bar didn't cotch me; his hind quarters, as he came at
me, fell into a hole about a root, and caught; I was on
my feet, and out of his reach in a wink, but as quick as
I did this, he had cut through a green root the size of
my leg, he did it in about two snaps, but, weakened by

the exertion, the dogs got hold of him, and held on
while I blowed his heart out. Ever since that time, I
have been wide awake with a wounded bar—sartainty
or stand off, being my motto.

“I shall dream of that bar to-night,” concluded
Bob, fixing his blanket over him; and a few moments
only elapsed before he was in danger of his life, if his
rifle would go off, as he had said, at a good imitation of
a bear's breathing.

Fortunately for me, the sun on the following morn
was fairly above the horizon before our little party was
ready for the start. While breakfast was being prepared,
the rifles were minutely examined; some were
taken apart, and every precaution used to insure a quick
and certain fire. A rude breakfast having been despatched,
lots were drawn who should go into the drive
with the dogs, as this task in Satan's Summer Retreat
is any thing but a pleasant one, being obliged often to
walk on the bending cane, which is so thick for hundreds
of yards that you cannot touch or see the ground,
—then crawling on your hands and knees between roots,
you are sometimes brought to a complete halt, and
obliged to cut your way through with the knife. While
this is going on, the hunters are at the stands, places
which their judgments dictate as most likely to be
passed by the bear when roused by the dogs.

Two miles might, on this occasion, have been passed
over by those in the drive in the course of three hours,

and yet, although signs were plenty as “leaves,” not a
bear was started. Hard swearing was heard, and as the
vines encircled the feet, or caught one under the nose,
it was increased.

In the midst of this ill humor, a solitary bark was
heard,—some one exclaimed, that was Bose!—another
shrill yelp—that sounded like Music's;—breathing was
almost suspended in the excitement of the moment,—
presently another and another bark was heard in quick
succession—in a minute more the whole pack of thirty-five
stanch dogs opened!

The change from silence to so much noise, made it
almost deafening. Nothing but personal demonstration
could give an idea of the effect upon the mind of such a
pack baying a bear in a cane-brake. Before me were old
hunters; they had been moving along as if destitute of
energy or feeling; but now, their eyes flashed, their
lips were compressed, and their cheeks flushed; they
seemed incapable of fatigue. As for myself, my feelings
almost overcame me. I felt a cold sweat stealing down
my back, my breath was thick and hot, and as I suspended
it, to hear more distinctly the fight,—for by this
time the dogs had evidently come up with the bear—I
could hear the pulsation of my heart.

One minute more to listen—to learn in which direction
the war was raging—and then our party unanimously
sent forth a yell that would have frightened a nation
of Indians

The bear was in his bed when the dogs first came
up with him, and did not leave it until the pack surrounded
him; then finding things rather too warm, he
broke off with a “whew” that was awful to hear.

His course was towards us on the left, and as he
went by, the cane cracked and smashed as if rode over
by an insane locomotive. Bob Herring gave the dogs
a salute as they passed close at the beast's heels, and
the noise increased, until he said, “it sounded as if all
h-ll were pounding bark.”

The bear was commented on as he rushed by; one
said he was a “buster;” “a regular-built eight year
old” said another; “fat as a candle,” shouted a third;
—“he's the beauty of Satan's Summer Retreat, with a
band of music after him,” sang Bob Herring.

Out of his lair the bear plunged so swiftly, that our
greatest exertions scarcely enabled us to keep within
hearing distance; his course carried him towards those
at the stands, he turned and exactly retraced his course,
but not with the same speed; want of breath had several
times brought him to a stand, and a fight with the dogs.
He passed us the second time within two hundred yards,
and coming against a fallen tree, backed up against it,
showing a determination, if necessary, there to die.

We made our way towards the spot as fast as the
obstacles in our way would let us; the hunters anxious
to dispatch him, that few dogs as possible might be
sacrificed. The few minutes necessary to accomplish

this, seemed an age—the fight all the time sounding
terrible, for every now and then the bear evidently made
a rush at the dogs as they narrowed their circle, or came
individually, too near his person.

Crawling through and over the cane-brake, was a
new thing to me, and in the prevailing excitement my
feet seemed tied together, and there was always a vine
directly under my chin to cripple my exertions. While
thus struggling, I heard a suspicious cracking in my
ear, and looking round, I saw Bob Herring a foot taller
than usual, stalking over the cane like a colossus; he
very much facilitated my progress by a shove in the
rear.

“Come along, stranger,” he shouted, his voice as
clear as a bell, “come along; the bar and the dogs are
going it like a high-pressure political meeting, and I
must be thar to put in a word, sartain.”

Fortunately for my wind, I was nearer the contest
than I imagined, for Bob Herring stopped just ahead of
me, examined his rifle, with two or three other hunters
just arrived from the stands, and by peeping through
the undergrowth, we discovered within thirty yards of
us, the fierce raging fight.

Nothing distinctly, however, was seen; a confused
mass of legs, heads, and backs of dogs, flying about as
if attached to a ball, was all we could make out. On
still nearer approach, confusion would clear off for a
moment, and the head of the bear could be seen, his

tongue covered with dust and hanging a foot from his
mouth; his jaws covered with foam and blood, and his
eyes almost protruding from their sockets, while his
ears were so closely pressed to the back of his head,
that he seemed destitute of those appendages; the whole,
indicative of unbounded rage and terror. These
glimpses of the bear were only momentary, his persecutors
rested but for a breath, and then closed in, regardless
of their own lives; for you could discover, mingled
with the sharp bark of defiance, the yell that told
of death.

It was only while the bear was crushing some luckless
dog, that they could cover his back, and lacerate it with
their teeth. Bob Herring, and one of the hunters, in
spite of the danger, crept upon their knees, so near,
that it seemed as if another foot advanced would bring
them within the circle of the fight.

Bob Herring was first, within safe shooting distance
to save the dogs, and, waving his hand to those behind
him, he raised his rifle and sighted; but his favorite dog,
impatient for the report, anticipated it by jumping on
the bear, which, throwing up his head at the same instant,
received the ball in his nose; at the crack of the
rifle—the well trained dogs, thinking less caution than
otherwise necessary, jumped pell-mell on the bear's
back, and the hardest fight ever witnessed in Summer
Retreat ensued; the hunter with Bob, placed his gun
almost against the bear's side, and the cap snapped—no

one else was near enough to fire without hitting the
dogs.

“Give him the knife!” cried those at a distance.

Bob Herring's long blade was already flashing in
his hand, but sticking a live bear is not child's play; he
was standing undecided, when he saw the hind legs of
Bose upwards; thrusting aside one or two of the dogs
with his hand, he made a pass at the bear's throat, but
the animal was so quick, that he struck the knife with
his fore paw, and sent it whirling into the cane; another
was instantly handed Bob, which he thrust at the bear,
but the point was so blunt, that it would not penetrate
the skin.

Foiled a third time, with a tremendous oath on himself,
and the owner of a knife, “that wouldn't stick a
cabbage,” he threw it indignantly from him, and seizing,
unceremoniously, a rifle, just then brought up by one of
the party, heretofore in the rear; he, utterly regardless
of his own legs, thrust it against the side of the bear
with considerable force, and blowed him through; the
bear struggled but for a moment, and fell dead.

“I saw snakes last night in my dreams,” said Bob,
handing back the rifle to its owner—“and I never had
any good luck the next day, arter sich a sarcumstance—
I call this hull hunt about as mean an affair as damp
powder; that bar thar,” pointing to the carcass, “that
bar thar ought to have been killed afore he maimed a
dog.”

Then, speaking energetically, he said, “Boys,
never fire at a bar's head, even if your iron is in his
ear, its unsartain; look how I missed the brain, and
only tore the smellers; with fewer dogs, and sich a
shot, a fellow would be ripped open in a powder flash;
and I say, cuss caps, and head shooting; they would
have cost two lives to-day, but for them ar blessed
dogs.”

With such remarks Bob Herring beguiled away the
time, while he, with others, skinned the bear. His huge
carcass when dressed, though not over fat, looked like a
huge young steer's. The dogs, as they recovered breath,
partook of the refuse with a relish; the nearest possible
route out of the Retreat was selected, and two horse
loads took the meat into the open woods, where it was
divided out in such a manner, that it could be taken
home.

Bob Herring, while the dressing of the bear was going
on, took the skin, and, on its inside surface, which
glistened like satin, he carefully deposited the caul fat,
and beside it the liver—the choice parts of the bear, according
to the gourmand notions of the frontier, were in
Bob's possession; and many years' experience had made
him so expert in cooking it, that he was locally famed
for this matter above all competitors.

It would be as impossible to give the recipe for this
dish, so that it might be followed by the gastronomers

of cities, as it would to have the articles composing it
exposed for sale in the markets.

Bob Herring managed it as follows: he took a long
wooden skewer, and having thrust its point through a
small piece of the liver fat, he then followed it by a
small piece of the liver, then the fat, then the liver, and
so, on, until his most important material was consumed;
when this was done, he opened the “bear's handkerchief,”
or caul, and wrapped it round the whole, and
thus roasted it before the fire. Like all the secrets in
cookery, this dish depends, for its flavor and richness,
upon giving exactly the proper quantities, as a superabundance
of one, or the other, would completely spoil
the dish.

“I was always unlucky, boys,” said Bob—
throwing the bear skin and its contents over his
shoulders, “but I have had my fill often of caul fat and
liver—many a man who thinks he's lucky, lives and dies
as ignorant of its vartue, as a possum is of corn cake.
If I ever look dead, boys, don't bury me until you see I
don't open my eyes when the caul fat and liver is ready
for eating; if I don't move when you show me it, then
I am a done goner, sure.”

Night closed in before we reached our homes—the
excitement of the morning wore upon our spirits and
energy, but the evening's meal of caul fat and liver, and
other “fixins,” or Bob Herring's philosophical remarks,

restored me to perfect health, and I shall ever recollect
that supper, and its master of ceremonies, as harmonious
with, and as extraordinary as is, the “Summer
Retreat in Arkansas.”