XXII.

=THE HUNT.=

ANCIENT HUNTING SONG.

The hunt is up, the hunt is up! Sing merrily we, the hunt is up The birds they sing, The deer they fling, Hey, nonny, nony, no; The hounds they cry, The hunters fly, Hey, trolilo, trololilo. The hunt is up, the hunt is up! Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!

The wood resounds To hear the sounds, Hey, nonny, nony, no; The rocks report This merry sport, Hey, trolilo, trololilo,

The hunt is up, the hunt is up! Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!

Then hie apace Unto the chase, Hey, nonny, nony, no! While every thing Doth sweetly sing Hey, trolilo, trololilo, The hunt is up, the hunt is up! Sing merrily we, the hunt is up! _Anonymous._

HOUNDS.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew’d, so sanded, and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knee’d and dew-lapp’d, like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, Each under each: a cry more tunable Was never halloo’d to, nor cheered with horn. W. SHAKSPEARE.

DEER LEAP.

In our way to Hound’s-Down we rode past a celebrated spot, called the Deer Leap. Here a stag was once shot, which, in the agony of death, collecting his force, gave a bound which astonished those who saw it. It was immediately commemorated by two posts, which were fixed at the two extremities of the leap, where they still remain. The space between them is somewhat more than eighteen yards.

GILPIN’S “_New Forest_.”

THE HARE.

FROM “THE CHASE.”

Delightful scene! Where all around is gay, men, horses, dogs, And in each smiling countenance appears Fresh blooming health and universal joy. Huntsman! lead on—behind, the clustering pack Submiss attend, hear with respect thy whip

Loud clanging, and thy harsher voice obey.

* * * * *

Here on this verdant spot, where Nature kind With double blessings crowns the farmer’s hopes; Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank mead Affords the wandering hares a rich repast, Throw off thy ready pack. See where they spread, And range around, and dash the glittering dew! If some staunch hound, with his authentic voice, Avow the recent trail, the jostling tribe Attend his call, then with one mutual cry The welcome news confirm, and echoing hills Repeat the pleasing tale. See how they thread The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along! But quick they back recoil, and wisely check Their eager haste; then o’er the fallow’d ground How leisurely they work, and many a pause Th’ harmonious concert breaks; till more assur’d, With joy redoubled, the low valleys ring. What artful labyrinths perplex their way! Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants, she doubts If now she lives; she trembles as she sits, With horror seiz’d! The withered grass that clings Around her head, of the same russet hue, Almost deceiv’d my sight, had not her eyes, With life full beaming, her vain wiles betray’d. At distance draw thy pack; let all be hush’d— No clamor loud, no frantic joy be heard, Lest the wild hound run gadding o’er the plain Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. Now gently put her off; see how direct To her known mew she flies! Here, huntsman, bring (But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds, And calmly lay them in. How low they stoop, And seem to plow the ground! then all at once, With greedy nostrils, snuff the fuming steam That glads their fluttering hearts. As winds let loose From the dark caverns of the blustering god, They burst away and sweep the dewy lawn. Hope gives them wings, while she’s spurred on by fear. The welkin rings—men, dogs, hills, rocks, and woods In the full concert join. Now, my brave youths, Stripp’d for the chase, give all your souls to joy! See how their coursers, than the mountain roe More fleet, the verdant carpet skim; thick clouds

Snorting they breathe; their shining hoofs scarce print The grass embruis’d; with emulation fir’d, They strain to lead the field, top the barr’d gate, O’er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush The thorny-twining hedge: the riders bend O’er their arch’d necks; with steady hands, by turns, Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone, And with the panting winds lag far behind. Huntsman! her gait observe; if in wide rings She wheel her mazy way, in the same round Persisting still, she’ll foil the beaten track; But if she fly, and with the favoring wind Urge her bold course, less intricate thy task: Push on thy pack. Like some poor exil’d wretch, The frighted Chase leaves her late dear abodes; O’er plains remote she stretches far away, Ah! never to return! For greedy Death Hovering exults, secure to seize his prey. Hark! from yon covert, where those towering oaks Above the humble copse aspiring rise, What glorious triumphs burst in every gale Upon our ravish’d ears! The hunter’s shout, The changing horns, swell their sweet-winding notes; The pack wide opening load the trembling air With various melody; from tree to tree The propagated cry redoubling bounds, And winged zephyrs waft the floating joy Through all the regions near: afflictive birch No more the school-boy dreads; his prison broke, Scampering he flies, nor heeds his master’s call; The weary traveler forgets his road, And climbs th’ adjacent hill; the plowman leaves Th’ unfinish’d furrow; nor his bleating flocks are now The shepherd’s joy! Men, boys, and girls Desert th’ unpeopled village, and wild crowds Spread o’er the plain, by the sweet frenzy seiz’d. Look, how she pants! and o’er yon opening glade Slips glancing by! while, at the farther end, The puzzled pack unravel wile by wile, Maze within maze. The covert’s utmost bound Slily she skirts; behind them cautious creeps; And in that very track, so lately stain’d By all the steaming crowd, seems to pursue

The foe she flies. Let cavilers deny That brutes have reason; sure ’tis something more, ’Tis Heaven directs, and stratagems inspires Beyond the short extent of human thought. But hold! I see her from her covert break; Sad on yon little eminence she sits; Intent she listens, with one ear erect, Pondering, and doubtful what new course to take, And how t’ escape the fierce, blood-thirsty crew That still urge on, and still in valleys loud Insult her woes, and mock her sore distress. As now in louder peals the loaded winds Bring on the gathering storm, her fears prevail, And o’er the plain, and o’er the mountain’s ridge Away she flies; nor ships with wind and tide, And all their canvas wings, scud half so fast. Once more, ye jovial train, your courage try, And each clean courser’s speed. We scour along In pleasing hurry and confusion lost; Oblivion to be wish’d. The patient pack Hang on the scent unwearied; up they climb, And ardent we pursue; our laboring steeds We press, we gore; till once the summit gain’d, Painfully panting, there we breathe awhile; Then, like a foaming torrent, pouring down Precipitant, we smoke along the vale. Happy the man who with unrival’d speed Can pass his fellows, and with pleasure view The struggling pack; how in the rapid course Alternate they preside, and jostling push To guide the dubious scent; how giddy youth Oft babbling errs, by wiser age reprov’d; How niggard of his strength, the wise old hound Hangs in the rear, till some important point Rouse all his diligence, or till the Chase Sinking he finds: then to the head he springs, With thirst of glory fir’d, and wins the prize. Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career! Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance gaze, Have haply foil’d the turf. See! that old hound, How busily he works, but dares not trust His doubtful sense; draw yet a wider ring. Hark! now again the chorus fills. As bells Stilled awhile, at once their peal renew, And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls.

See how they toss, with animated rage Recovering all they lost! That eager haste Some doubling wile foreshows. Ah! yet once more They’re checked—hold back with speed—on either hand They flourish round—ev’n yet persist. ’Tis right; Away they spring; the rustling stubbles bend Beneath the driving storm. How the poor Chase Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduc’d! From brake to brake she flies, and visits all Her well-known haunts, where once she rang’d secure, With love and plenty blest. See! there she goes, She reels along, and by her gait betrays Her inward weakness. See how black she looks! The sweat that clogs th’ obstructed pores scarce leaves A languid scent. And now in open view, See, see, she flies! each eager hound exerts His utmost speed, and stretches every nerve. How quick she turns! their gaping jaws eludes, And yet a moment lives; till, round inclos’d By all the greedy pack, with infant screams She yields her breath, and there reluctant dies! WILLIAM SOMERVILLE, 1692–1742.

A HUNTER’S MATIN.

Up, comrades, up! the morn’s awake Upon the mountain side, The curlew’s wing hath swept the lake, And the deer has left the tangled brake, To drink from the limpid tide.

Up, comrades, up! the mead-lark’s note And the plover’s cry o’er the prairie float; The squirrel he springs from his covert now, To prank it away on the chestnut bough, Where the oriole’s pendent nest, high up, Is rock’d on the swaying trees, While the hum-bird sips from the harebell’s cup, As it bends to the morning breeze.

Up, comrades, up! our shallops grate Upon the pebbly strand, And our stalwart hounds impatient wait To spring from the huntsman’s hand! CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

A SPORTSMAN OF OLDEN TIME.

I shall conclude this account of the officers of the forest with the singular character of one of them who lived in the times of James I. and Charles I. * * *

The name of this memorable sportsman—for in that character alone was he conspicuous—was Henry Hastings. He was second son to the Earl of Huntingdon, and inherited a good estate in Dorsetshire from his mother. He was one of the keepers of New Forest, and resided in his lodge there during a part of every hunting-season. But his principal residence was at Woodlands, in Dorsetshire, where he had a capital mansion. One of his nearest neighbors was Anthony Cooper, afterward Earl of Shaftesbury. Two men could not be more opposite in their dispositions and pursuits. They seldom saw each other, and their occasional meetings were still more disagreeable to both, from their opposite sentiments in politics. Lord Shaftesbury, who was the younger man, was the survivor; and the following account of Mr. Hastings, which I have somewhat abridged, is said to have been the production of his pen. If Mr. Hastings had been the survivor, and had lived to have seen Lord Shaftesbury one of the infamous ministers of Charles II., he might, with interest, have returned the compliment.

Mr. Hastings was low of stature, but strong and active; of a ruddy complexion, with flaxen hair. His clothes were always of green cloth. His house was of the old fashion, in the midst of a large park, well stocked with deer, rabbits, and fish-ponds. He had a long, narrow bowling-green in it, and used to play with round sand-bowls. Here, too, he had a banqueting-room built, like a stand, in a large tree. He kept all sorts of hounds that ran buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds, both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk-perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers; the upper end of it was hung with fox-skins of this and the last year’s killing. Here and there a polecat was intermixed, and hunters’ poles in great abundance. The parlor was a large room, completely furnished in the same style. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels. One or two of the great chairs had litters of cats in them, which were not to be disturbed. Of these, three or four always attended him at dinner, and a little white wand lay by his trencher to defend it if they were too troublesome. In the windows—which were very large—lay his arrows, cross-bows, and other accoutrements. The corners of the room were filled with his best hunting and hawking poles. His oyster-table stood at the lower end of the room, which was in constant use twice a day, all the year round, for he never failed to eat oysters, both

at dinner and supper, with which the neighboring town of Pool supplied him. At the upper end of the room stood a small table with a double desk, one side of which held a church Bible, the other the Book of Martyrs. On different tables in the room lay hawk’s-hoods; bells; old hats, with their crowns thrust in, full of pheasant eggs; tables; dice; cards; and a store of tobacco-pipes. At one end of this room was a door which opened into a closet, where stood bottles of strong beer and wine, which never came out but in single glasses, which was the rule of the house; for he never exceeded himself, nor permitted others to exceed. Answering to this closet was a door into an old chapel—which had been long disused—for devotion: but in the pulpit, at the safest place, was always to be found a cold shin of beef, a venison pasty, a gammon of bacon, or a great apple-pie, with thick crust, well baked. His table cost him not much, though it was good to eat at. His sports supplied all but beef and mutton, except on Fridays, when he had the best of fish. He never wanted a London pudding; and he always sang it in with “My part lies therein—a—.” He drank a glass or two of wine at meals, put syrup of gilliflowers into his sack, and had always a tun-glass of small beer standing by him, which he often stirred about with rosemary. He lived to be an hundred, and never lost his eyesight, nor used spectacles. He got on horseback without help, and rode to the death of the stag till past fourscore.

WILLIAM GILPIN, 1724–1807.

SONNET.

Old Harry Hastings! of thy forest life How whimsical, how picturesque the charms! Yet it was sensual! With thy hounds and horn, How cheerily didst thou salute the morn! With airy steed didst thou pursue the strife, Sounding through all the woodland-glades alarms. Sunk not a dell, and not a thicket grew, But thy skill’d eye and long experience knew. The herds were thy acquaintance; antler’d deer Knew where to trust thy voice, and where to fear; And through the shadowy oaks of giant size, Thy bugle could the distant sylvans hear, And wood-nymphs from their bowery bed would rise, And echoes dancing round repeat their ecstasies. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, 1762–1837.

SONNET.

There is exhilaration in the chase— Not bodily only! Bursting from the woods, Or having climb’d some misty mountain’s height, When on our eyes a glorious prospect opes, With rapture we the golden view embrace: Then worshiping the sun on silver floods, And blazing towers, and spires, and cities bright With his reflected beams; and down the slopes The tumbling torrents; from the forest-mass Of darkness issuing, we with double force Along the gayly-checker’d landscape pass, And, bounding with delight, pursue our course. It is a mingled rapture, and we find The bodily spirit mounting to the mind. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, 1762–1837.

LINES.

This world a hunting is The prey, poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death; His speedy grayhounds are Lust, sickness, envy, care, Strife that ne’er falls amiss, With all those ills that harm’d us while we breathe. Now if by chance we fly, Of these the eager chase, Old age, with stealing pace, Casts on us his nets, and then we panting die. WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585–1649.

[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]