University of Virginia Library

1. NO. I.
RAMBLING REMINISCENCES OF
ANCIENT HUNTERS.

Virg. Georg. 3.

Chorus to Bright Phœbus.

No; we will not look upon the hunters of Kentucky yet;
the mighty dead of other days claim first our admiring contemplation.
It will be good for us to look at their portraits in
Time's old diorama—to see them face to face through History's
faithful theodolite.

What an innumerable army! Patriarchs, sages, kings,
heroes, inspired, demigods, sacred, profane! Blessed is thy
memory, O son of Cush, and thy name glorious, captain of the
host, and father and beginner of all hunting! Of whom else
doth the historian bear record, that he “was a mighty hunter
before the Lord?”

Posterity hath not done justice to Nimrod. Even Josephus
barely mentions him, and we are left entirely in the dark as
to the character of his game and the weapons of his craft.

It is not vain, however, nor improper, as we hope, to speculate
upon a matter which, to hunters, is a subject of such

thrilling interest. May we not, then, imagine and believe,
that the founder of Babel was one of the giants of those days,
and that his armory was fashioned in the workshop of that
skilful artificer, Tubal Cain, and that he hunted the mastodon
and magatherion? But let every man think for himself.—
We said that posterity had not done justice to Nimrod. We
ought to except from this censure those good poets Tickell
and Somerville. They have both glorified him in verse.
Their researches, whether of fact or fancy, are worthy of the
attention of the judicious antiquarian.[1]

It would argue gross ignorance, or else wilful malice, not
here to name the unfortunate Esau. He, too, was a “cunning
hunter, a man of the field.” Frequent, doubtless, were
the nights when the dutiful son, returning tired from the hunt,
comforted his kind old father's heart with a saddle of good
venison, the trophy of his trusty bow and quiver. But alas!
alas!—there are passages in the life of Esau upon which we
cannot bear to dwell—themes too high. Let us pass on.

Who cometh next? Truly, Samson, Milton's Samson Agonistes,
beyond challenge a keen hunter. This honorable reputation
he worthily acquired by his capture, adjunction and adignition
of the three hundred foxes, which he turned among

his father-in-law's grain-stacks, to punish him for trading away
his wife when he was temporarily absent from the family-For
one man to catch three hundred foxes, upon one hunting
expedition, or even in the course of a whole season, it requires
not only great strength, but much ingenuity, earnest perseverance,
faithful patience, good love, and good luck. Samson
was an uncommon man.

We take occasion here to caution the scrupulous reader to
look not upon us as a Philistine. We desire to be understood
as making these references to the hunters of the by-gone days
of Palestine, with no sceptical levity, but with faithful reliance
upon recorded facts. We will further remark, that
great as was the performance last referred to, yet we believe
it may be accomplished by a man of extraordinary powers,
without the aid of any miraculous assistance. We esteem
that it was so accomplished, and that it was one of the ordinary
occurrences in the life of the hunter Samson. As such it is
our duty to record it here. As such, we celebrate the enterprise,
and enshrine it with its author in our gallery of hunters.

But let us look upon the profane and the mythological, and
then, peradventure, we may be permitted to moralize, without
restraint. The Heathen celebrated mighty hunters. Great
is his glory, who is vouched for by Diodorus and the almost
Christian Cicero. A poet's incarnation he may be, but people
seem to believe in him, and to recognize and to worship his
attributes. Do we ever say Samsonian? No; we always
call it a “Herculean” task. Son of Alcmena, fortunate were
the irregular nuptials of thy honored parents! Happy was
the earth, when thou wert delivered to deliver her of Hydras
and Chimæras. Happy was the sky which received thee
back to rule the seasons,—as some, not vain, imagine,—and
to quaff old nectar with thy father Jupiter.

But we have no sympathy with people specially gifted.
Hence we contemplate the exploits of demigods with cold
wonder only, and not with the hearty enjoyment with which
we listen to the story of a sporting friend, who is like ourselves,
and from a knowledge of whose character we may
judge of the extent of the embellishments. Moreover, it is
hard to comprehend the glory of cutting off dragon's heads,
and doing such other deeds of desperate valor as the biographers
of Hercules have, with commendable particularity, set
down to stimulate our ambition. For one thing, however, we
love as well as admire the hunters of old times. They had
the true spirit of chivalry in them. Hunters were patriotic,
and generous, before printing and gunpowder were invented.
Now, we offer rewards to men to do themselves a pleasure,
and give bounties for dead wolves and crows.

Theseus, Castor, and Pollux. It is almost ludicrous to
think of one of these heroes sending in an affidavit, duly sworn
to according to law, and claiming from the overseers of the
town a ten dollar bill for shooting down a wild cat.

Nestor, Ulysses, Diomedes, swift-footed Achilles. Xenophon
tells us that these were all mighty hunters. But they were
statesmen, warriors, and benefactors, too. By Diana! When
we think of these, and of some glorious few other such ancient
megatherial earth-gods, who made for history and poetry a subject
and a beginning, our anger waxeth hot at the assurance of
the muskrat-catching poachers of modern times, who affect to
call themselves hunters. They are blasphemers. They take
the name in vain. Saint Saggitarius forefend that we should
shoot an undeserved arrow at the bear-hugging Colonel
Crockett! But our conscience pricks our judgment to pronounce
its denial that he can challenge any better claim to
the laurels of a hunter than a half-shrived ghost in purgatory

can put forth to a fee-simple foot-hold among the stars. There
is no registry of the name of clown-hunter in any book of
heraldry that we wot of.

Multo majora canamus.—Is there any thing more glorious
in fact, or in fancy, than the impersonation of the chaste, virgin,
huntress goddess? Worthily was she mistress and queen
of the chase. We seem to see her now, her maidens all put
forth, bending from her firmamental throne, to whisper a kiss
upon the fair brow of Endymion, innocent youth, as he lies,
cold and tired, on the summit of old Latmos. Now a beam
from her eye falls upon the expecting boy; and now—a
cloud hides them from us, and our vision is gone! We confess,
that if we were to catch the moon in company with Endymion,
we should be apt to be revengeful, and furnish another
proof of the truth of the old maxim, that “three spoils company.”
There should be no eclipse, nor any other sort of fun
that night. We would punish the proud Dian for her cruel
treatment of the unwittingly offending Actæon. A hunter, he,
and a brave. Her worshipper. And yet, forsooth, because,
with no malice aforethought, and by mere accident, he happened
to stumble upon her one day in the woods when she
was not dressed for company, she must needs metamorphose
him into a stag, and set upon him his own rapacious dogs!
Out upon such savage prudery! Nephele, and Hyale, and
Rhenis, and Psecas, and Phiale, and all the rest of ye, heartless
nymphs! We have no patience with your affectation,
making your mistress to act like a very lunatic![2]

Unhappy Actæon! “Sic illum fata ferebant.” Bad luck

was thine in truth. What a horrible host of blood-hounds he
had upon him! It makes one's blood to run cold, even only
to hear their names. Let us look into the excellent Mr. John
Clarke, and read a portion of his translation, for the benefit of
juvenile students.

“First Blackfoot, and the good-nosed Tracer, gave the signal
by a full-mouthed cry.”—Cry;—Every deer-hunter knows
what that cry is;—the deep, beautiful, musical, bay, that
breaks upon your extatic ear, bearing the knowledge of the discovered
game. “He now flies through places where before
he had often pursued. Alas! he flies from his own servants.
He would fain cry out, I am Actæon, know your master.
Words are wanting to his inclination; the air rings with the
cry. Black-hair made the first wound upon his back; Killdeer
the next; Rover stuck fast upon his shoulder. They
came out later than the rest, but their way was soon dispatched
by a short cut across the mountain. Whilst they hold their
master, the rest of the pack come in, and stick their teeth together
into his body. Now room is wanting for more wounds.
He groans and makes a noise, though not of a man, yet such
as a buck could not make, and fills the well-known mountains
with sad complaints; and as a suppliant upon bended knees,
and like one asking a favor, he turns about his silent countenance.
But his companions, ignorant of their wretched prey,
encourage the ravenous pack with their usual cries, and look
around, mean time, for Actæon; and call for him loudly, as if
he were absent, Actæon! Actæon! He turns his head at
the name, as they complain that he is not there to enjoy the
sight of the game presented to them. Glad would he be, indeed,
to be away; but he is there, against his will; and glad
would he be to see, and not feel, the cruel violence of his
dogs. They hang upon him, and thrusting their snouts into

his body, tear to pieces their master, under the shape of a
false buck. And the rage of the quiver-bearing Diana is said
not to have been exhausted until his life was ended by many
wounds.”

Such was the awful consequence of looking upon a woman
without permission! How full is history of friendly beacons
to warn young men of danger!

We will hang up one more portrait in our gallery. Thine,
Adonis, thine; thou loved one of Cytherea. Thou, too, lost
thy life in the chase, but not ingloriously, and the gods made
provision for thee after thy demise. We must be excused, O
Adonis, from being sorrowful because of that wild boar's tooth
sending thy soul to the skies, for Venus wept for thee, and
Bion hath embalmed thee. Many bards have sung thy elegy.
Reader, knowest thou the flower Anemony? It thou be uninstructed,
seek some wise woman, and get understanding;
and know, and love, in that little budling, the metamorphosed
mortal parts of the tender-cheeked hunter Adonis.

There is a more modern antiquity, that boasteth excellent
hunters. Shall we see these worthies? We know a process
—a charm—we can hold communion with their ghosts!—We
have had such nights with the old hunters! Dost thou dare
to see them? We will warrant thee they are busy at some
sport. Behold now, we shut our earthly eyes. We speak
the spell that cannot be heard by mortal. Now it is all dim.
Now light slowly breaks, and lo! the Elysian fields. There,
down in a green valley, are met the ghosts of all the dead
hunters of the world. They are shooting at a target. Heard
you that whiz? See you not that arrow quivering in the
bull's eye? 'T was a well-aimed shot. It was Arthur drew
the string—immortal he of the round-table—not that modern
Arthur, who—we must give this lamp a turn or it will—there;

that will do.—But our vision! alas! it is gone. So ever it
fares with the introduction of an unpleasant guest. One such
will banish a whole room full of good company. We could
get into a passion now, and curse—the Devil and his works.
We have a right to do that. It would be highly improper to
bless them, or to speak respectfully of them. But it is better
to be benevolent. We will curse no one, not even Scotch
George Thompson. May God, if it be possible, assoilsie even
him.—

Let us summon our hunting friends. Come hither, ye hunters
of ancient days, be present to our desires, and hold with
us sweet converse—

No, no; we want no black spirits. The colored gentlemen,
if any, will please to stay below—

Look where they come. A goodly company, Nature's aristocracy.
Substantial shadows—glorious! will they speak?
What music is this like the doubtful concord of clanging
armor, and waving plumes, and ringing steel, and neighing
steeds, and twanging bow-strings, and a harp touched by a
skilful minstrel! like

Who is this hoary headed bard? Gracious presence, suffer
us, as much as may be lawful, to worship thee! Thou art
old Cadwallo, whose tongue inexorable Edward made cold;
and thou hast sung in bower, and banquet hall, the praises of
brave hunters. Be, we pray thee, one of our household gods.

—How they burn on our eyelids! changing, and mixing with
each other, and mingling with the air, and then standing out
more accurately developed. Apollo sustain us! Turks,
Tartars, Indians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Britons—What
gorgeous trappings have those hunters of the East! Genghiskhan
glittering with gold and burnished steel! He, who,
like that Mogul Vizir, Asaph ap Dowlah, hunted with several
battalions of infantry, encompassing roaring hecatombs, and
the tigers upon a thousand hills! What queen is that he
jostleth? Doth she not stand Boadicea, confessed, bearing a
mighty spear? And lo! a troop of high-born ladies, spurning
the earth with their eager palfreys, each equipped for to
ride a—
Delicate heroines—fawns chasing blood-hounds; tender-hearted
murderers, killing with your bright eyes more than
with your keen arrows! Hail! Gaston, Earl of Foix! gallant
gentleman! true knight! with thy army of dogs, six hundred!
Pass on.—Saint George! who with his good sword
Ascalon smote that gigantic dragon, having fifty feet between
his shoulders and tail, under the left wing, where no scales
were, and delivered his country. The Percy out of Northumberland!
and doughty Douglas!—good friends now. The
seven champions of Christendom!—Sir Bevis, Sir Tristam,
Sir Thopas! How stately are these old king hunters. Alfred
the great, wise and good;—solemn Athelstan;—Cnut,
the Dane;—Edward the Confessor;—of whom sayeth the
accurate Malmsbury, that although he was better fitted for the
cloister than the field, yet he took great delight to follow a
pack of swift hounds, and to cheer them with his voice;—
William the Norman, conqueror of men as well as beasts;—
William Rufus, whose life ran out with the blood staining a
treacherous arrow. What a throng of them! Edward—all
the Edwards! Harry—all the Harrys! Even pedantic king
Jamie, believer in witchcraft, who hath written also of hunting
with hounds in Basilikon Doron;[3] giving it questionable precedency
over archery and falconry; unlike thee, venerable
Roger! schoolmaster and laureate of the school of shooting,
who hath written a book to illustrate the glory of the bow;
proving it to be the fountain of wisdom, health, wealth, and
virtue.[4] And, O delight! here be Robin Hood and little John,
Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudlesly!
Welcome, welcome, bold archers! Let us embrace ye, O
better than kings! ye original unsophisticated democrats!
How Tammany Hall would adore if it were only given her
to know ye!

That last imagination hath dashed down our cup of joy.
We can see no more beyond the sight of the flesh. We are
alone,

into the company of sainted hunters, is departed. Royalty,
and knight-errantry, and beauty, and valor have sunk into
eternal chaos.

We are the friend and apologist of Robin Hood, outlaw
though he was. Hear how he may be forgiven;

What though he hunted in the royal forest, contrary to the
form of the statute in such case made and provided, entertaining
an hundred tall men upon haunches of the king's fat
bucks. Was not the charter unconstitutional? a rank monopoly
of the merry green-wood? Were not the game laws
tyrannical, cruel, unendurable by brave souls, heaven created
warriors, the freest hearts, the strongest arms—in all merry
England? What though he denied that property could be
held in fee simple, and that he pressed the doctrine of “equal
rights” with perhaps too earnest zeal; yet was he not gallant,
humane, magnanimous, and a sincere friend to the poor?
Hearken to the testimony of the anthentic Stow;—“He suffered
no woman to be oppressed, violated or otherwise molested;
poore men's goods he spared, abundantlie relieving
them with that which, by theft, he got from abbeys, and the
houses of rich carles; whom Major—the historian—blameth
for his rapine and theft, but of all theeves he affirmeth him to
be the prince, and the most gentle theefe.”

Well! he was a practical leveller; that seems to be his
offence. And is that unpardonable? Lo! even holy friars,
and other good men, divers, have taught that the rich are
merely trustees for the poor, and that goods and chattels are
only lent to them. Shall he be condemned who executes the
judgments of brotherly love and justice? God forbid. Robin,
we take thy hand before the whole world, and call thee a good

fellow. Thou shalt have our vote for any office thou desires
in the shades.

Those other yeomen named with Robin and little John,
must not be lightly passed over. Modern times are shamed
by their strength and skill. William of Cloudlesley, with an
arrow from his bow, cleft a hazel rod in twain, at the distance
of four hundred yards; and with another arrow shot
an apple from his boy's head, at the distance of one hundred
and twenty-five yards! Is there any gentleman hunter extant
who will shoot against this performance? Bring up
your rifles, and your boys, good people. William and his
associates, we regret to admit, had some vague and indefinite
notions on the subject of other people's property; and it does
not appear that they were so discriminate as Robin Hood.
But then they all repented, and were pardoned by the king,
and were confessed by the bishop, and the king made William
a gentleman, and gave him eighteen pence a day to bear
his bow, and the queen gave him thirteen pence a day, and
made his wife her chief gentlewoman; and then these good
yeomen went forth and got cleansed with holy water,

And so finally concludeth the legend;—

Amen! amen! with all our heart. Three cheers for the
ghosts of Adam Bell & Co. Go it boys! hur—wait for the
word;—Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

Much remains to be said of hunting. Many hunters remain

unsung. We have only brief moments to commemorate that
exquisite fancy of the sport, fierce and gentle falconry.

We have a notion, that of all delights that ever it was given
to man to enjoy, this must have been the most delightful.—
Gentlemen of the cockpit, a fight in the air between a pigeon
hawk and a blue heron!—Bold was he, and cunning, who
first tamed the fiercest birds of prey, and taught them to sit
upon his fist, to fly at his command, to pursue, to strike, to return,
docile, faithful servants. Gentle, eager, and as humble,
and fond of the sport as our own good setters, Horatio.—Think
of the king of birds soaring to the third heaven, and then
hovering and swooping, and hovering and swooping, until, as it
were, he could get good sight, and then, with terrible certainty,
dashing down upon the devoted shoulders of an antlered
monarch of the scrub oaks, and tearing out his brains, at the
command of a master! Imagine you duck hawk,—falco
peregrinus—tamed, and thrown off, unhooded, from your fist,
mounting into upper air, and thence, with lightning speed,
striking out a wild gander from a flock of straining honkers,
and then, conscious, of his deserved reward, sailing back to
the bondage of his accustomed jesses! Why, people now-a-days
do not understand the virtue of birds. We are neophytes
in ornithology and ornithodynamics. We hardly know
“a hawk from a hand-saw.”

For ourselves, it is our delight to read and dream of the
goodly companies of noble knights and high-born dames of
olden time, riding out with princely attendance to fly their
hawks. We seem to hear their prancing steeds, and their
gentle

their happy voices, and the dogs beating the bushes by the
stream-side. We see the bittern flushed; and then, falcon,
and marlyon, and gos-hawk, quick unhooded, and upsailing.
We hear the tinkling of their silver bells—we see the general
rush of the whole happy throng following the pursuit—our
breath is quick—up, up soars the bittern in lessening gyration
higher and yet higher, to keep, if, alas! he may, keep above
his unpitying pursuers, and avoid their fatal beaks. Vain
hope! that falcon hath o'ertopped him, and now he pounces,
and the poor victim feels death in his struck skull, and surrenders
his life among the stars!

Not always victorious is the falcon. There are vicissitudes
in the war. The hern hath a long, strong, straight, sharp-pointed
bill; and if the hawk be unwary, he will spit his
breast upon the dangerous spear thrown up to receive him,
and, pierced through and through with a fatal wound, die ingloriously.
We know a kindred bird, which baymen call “the
straight-up;” a biped something between the heron and the
quaack, that is competent to do good execution after this wise.
—We once ourselves, unhappy, received a fearful thrust in
our dexter, from a scoundrel whom we had wing-broken on a
salt marsh, which disabled us from pulling a trigger for a good
fortnight.—Somerville describes the performance to the life
—to the death;—

Henry Inman! wilt thou not paint this picture? It is a
striking illustration of “catching a tartar.”

We are determined to become a faulkoner. We will build

us a mew and an aërie, and we will speak to some country
friend to catch us a young hen-hawk, and a few butcher-birds,
and we will revive the science. We know a pleasant meadow,
where the curlew screams, and the straight-up flaps his
heavy wings, and the newly-paired seges of blue herons sit
solemn by the border of the interwinding rivulet, watching,
with hungry patience, what truant eel, or backsliding young
crab, leaving the safe channel, shall “coldly furnish forth
their marriage breakfast,” and dear Mary shall ride with us
to the green rushes, and—

Here Mary, leaning over our shoulder, shakes us gently by
the ear, and reminds us that we are impecunious, and points
to a passage in aristocratic, cross, old Burton, and reads to
us unwilling—we confess we hate the truth sometimes—as
follows; “Hunting and hawking are honest recreations, and
fit for some great men; but not for every base, inferior person.”

“That is not we, Mary dear. Docti Sumis; we are a
gentlemen bred, and educated, and”—

“Fiddle-de-dee; what are birth and education in a bank
note world? listen! listen! `who while they maintain their
faulkoner, and dogs, and hunting nags, their wealth runs away
with their hounds, and their fortunes fly away with their
hawks.' ”

Reader, farewell! We are melancholy.