to perform a day’s work, which doubtlessly originated in the
circumstance of a woodcock being seldom found until a large extent of
wood has been closely beaten. When, however, woodcocks are most
abundant, it would not be a difficult task, according to that standard
of labor, to do the work of a week in a day, in any noted cover; for
every cover frequented by cocks acquires a notoriety which it seldom
loses, since any wood well frequented with cocks one year, has generally
a fair supply the next. But whether the same cocks that frequent a wood
this year return the next, with their offspring, or whether an entirely
new set of occupants take possession, we leave the ornithologist to
decide. A certain description of woods are seldom known to fail of
woodcocks during the winter months; these woods or plantations are such
as are swampy, or have a stream of water running through them, or woods
abounding in springs—or where, from the nature of the ground, or want
of draining, the top water encourages the growth of moss. The woodcock
is rarely found in woods where moss is not abundant. During a frost,
cocks are found near fresh water springs; at other times they are most
commonly flushed in the open glades of the densest woods, or rather in
those parts of the woods not choked up at the bottom with fern, rushes,
or brambles, but where they can freely run about, and in those parts
where willows, oziers, hazel-trees, or crate-wood is plentiful. In such
places it will readily be ascertained whether there are cocks or not, by
the borings in the moss or dead leaves, and by the chalkings. A cock
will often be found near its feeding place, after a dark night.
A cock will seldom fly far until it has been fired at several times: it
should, therefore, when practicable, be marked down. By a judicious
system of marking, many successive shots may be obtained at the same
bird. It is seldom that the skilful shooter flushes a cock, which, with
the aid of markers, he does not eventually kill. The difficulty of
woodcock shooting arises, for the most part, from the birds being
flushed in the thickest part of woods, and contriving to wing their
flight through the trees in such a manner as to baffle the sportsman’s
aim. After being fired at in a wood, cocks will frequently alight
amongst hedge-rows on the outskirts, especially under a hedge running
close to and parallel with a water-course, when they are easily killed,
as they will not rise until the shooter is close upon them; and their
flight is not difficult to master when there are no trees to obstruct
the aim.
A shooter, who has not opportunities of grouse-shooting, deems
cock-shooting the perfection of his art; but he considers himself more
than repaid for his toil, if he bag a couple or two. Combined with
pheasant shooting, it is glorious sport.
As cocks are birds of passage, and their tarriance in our covers is of
uncertain duration, permission to shoot them is often given to persons
whose honour can be depended upon not to kill pheasants. To any but a
real sportsman this is a tantalizing employment; the pheasants rise
before him every fifty yards, and he may perhaps not meet with more than
a couple of cocks in a day.
Spaniels are the best dogs for this sport: they give tongue when close
upon game, and so allow the shooter notice, in a situation where he
could not see a pointer or setter.
Formerly any one who was an adept at bringing down a woodcock, was
certain of the enjoyment of a considerable local reputation as a shot,
and he deserved it. Place one of their long, heavy, single-barrelled
pieces, furnished with an ancient lock, flint of course, in the hands of
a modern shooter, let him charge with powder similar to that used in the
early days, and take his chance in a tangled brake, where the cock can
make play among the branches for its life, and he will readily believe
that killing a cock in those days was a real trial of skill. A short
light detonator is thrown upon the bird, the trigger is drawn, and the
shot reaches the mark in an instant; so speedy is the whole process,
that it is scarcely necessary to make any allowance for the motion of
the object, when attempting snap shots at short distances; but, with the
fowling-piece and ammunition of the period we are speaking of, it was
necessary to take aim half a yard above or before the object moving, for
a bird would fly that distance at least, after the trigger was drawn,
and before the shot reached it; or if it made a sudden turn, the shot
swept past it. Besides the less chance of killing with one of those long
heavy guns, the shooter would not fire half so often as with a light
one; so much more time being necessary to bring up the piece and
calculate the requisite allowance, the bird would generally be behind
the next tree before the gun would be at the shoulder. Such was the
slowness of ignition, that wild-fowl would take alarm at the flash from
the pan, and dive out of harm’s way ere the shot reached the water. In
all shooting, whether in the open or in cover, a deal depends upon where
the shooter places himself,—a knowledge of this part of his art will
enable him to obtain twice as many fair shots as his uninitiated
companion. When shooting in high covers, the sportsman should push on
hastily through those parts where, though very likely for game, he
cannot command a view of it should it rise; but whenever he comes to a
glade that commands a view in several directions, he should wait some
time while his dogs beat around him, and his companions, buried in
brambles and brushwood, pass him. It is often advisable to follow a
footpath in a wood, particularly where ground shots are expected.
In our next, we shall pursue this subject, and give some remarks upon
the lock, the percussion system, triggers, wadding, ammunition, etc.,
and shall then proceed with remarks upon Snipe Shooting, etc. We are
determined to make this department a perfect _vade mecum_ to the
sportsman.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.[4]
[4] Owing to the temporary absence of Mr. Poe, the reviews in this
number are from another hand. That department is exclusively under the
control of Mr. Poe. C. J. Peterson, his coadjutor, has the charge of the
other departments of the work.
_The Life and Times of Red Jacket, or Sa-go-ye-wat-ha; being a
sequel to the History of the Six Nations. By_ William L. Stone.
_1 vol. Wiley and Putnam, New York and London, 1841._
The first settlers of this country found it tenanted by a people totally
different from the effeminate races of Hispaniola and Cuba. Bold,
patient and sagacious; sinewy in form and inured to fatigues; warlike in
character, wise in council, and hospitable to a proverb, the savages of
North America approached more nearly to an equality with the Anglo-Saxon
race, than any people whom the rage for discovery had then made known to
Europe. Nor was their progress in civilization to be despised. Their
wigwams, though not luxurious, were comfortable; their women cultivated
maize, tobacco, and numerous vegetables; pillows of wood were used in
common by them and by the English peasantry; and, in the comforts of
every day life, the savages of this continent fell little behind the
mass of the European population. Women were held in high respect; their
persons never violated in war, and their opinions consulted in cases of
difficulty. The form of government in use among the Indians was
singularly adapted to their condition. Like the ancient Germanic leader,
the Indian chief was usually chosen for his wisdom, strength, and
bravery—we say _usually_, because in nothing has more ignorance been
shown than in describing the Indian polity as everywhere the same. No
general rule can be laid down respecting it. In most of the tribes the
government was that of a democracy; in some that of an aristocracy; and,
in a few instances, that of a nearly absolute despotism. Sometimes there
was one chief in war and another in peace: now he was ruled by a council
of old men, and now he had delegated powers equal to those of a
dictator; but, on the whole, the usual polity appears to have been
democratic, each brave having a chance of attaining the leadership by
his eloquence, wisdom, or courage. Often these qualities preserved the
supreme power in a family for generations, the son succeeding the
father, unless a more worthy leader was chosen by the people. Where
there was both a war chief and a civil ruler, the latter office was the
more likely to be hereditary. In short, what Tacitus said of the ancient
Germans, may be pronounced of the Indians: “_Reges ex nobilitate, duces
ex virtute sumunt: nec regibus infinita, nec libera potestas; et duces
exemplo potius quam imperio præsunt_.” “They took their kings on account
of nobility, and their generals on account of valor: nor was the power
of their kings absolute and unlimited; and their generals commanded by
the authority which their example rather than their power gave them.”
And, in another place, “_de minoribus principes; de majoribus
omnes_”—“the principal men consulted and decided about the least, the
whole body of the people about the greatest affairs.” Nor did the
resemblance stop here. The same forest life, the same habit of
recounting their deeds in chaunts, the same warlike character, the same
wild and yet spiritual religion, and the same haughtiness of spirit,
arising from the consciousness of independence, characterised alike our
Teuton ancestors, whose freedom we inherit, and our predecessors on this
continent, whose liberty we have destroyed. And to this day, if we may
credit Catlin, the Western Indian remains the same proud being. The
Sioux, glittering in his showy costume, and careering along the prairie
with his spear and steed, reminds us of the ancient Pole, flashing with
jewels, galloping to the diet at Warsaw, and seeming to justify the
haughty boast of his order, “that if the sky were to fall they would
support it on the points of their lances.”
At the period of its settlement by the whites, the two most powerful
nations of what now forms the Northeastern section of the United States,
were the Lenni-Lenape and Mengwe—the former occupying the shores of the
Delaware river, and extending into Connecticut—and the latter living
chiefly in the Valley of the Mohawk and its vicinity. Neither of these
people were the original occupiers of the land; but who their
predecessors were, or whence they came, no man can tell. Their language,
customs and laws are as unknown to us as those of the Antediluvian
world. They have passed away and left no sign. Now and then the
traveller, through some primeval forest, will come across the ruins of
their forts—rude, vague and vast—but he can gather nothing from these
silent mounds, except the single fact, that a race once peopled this
continent superior in civilization to the Indians. The Alligewi gave
name to our mountains,[5] and that is all we know.
Betwixt the Lenni-Lenape and Mengwe there raged continual wars, in which
the former nation generally came off victorious. At length, however, the
several tribes of the Mengwe united into a confederacy known as that of
the Five Nations; and, being supplied with fire-arms by the Dutch,
succeeded in subduing the Delawares, and forcing them to assume the
character of WOMEN. This singular ceremony was performed at Albany, in
the presence of the Dutch, in 1617. From that time the Iroquois have
been the dominant nation. A work recording their history, explaining
their governmental polity, and discussing their manners and customs
would throw great light on the whole Indian race, and prove invaluable
to the student; and it is as one of a series, intended to carry out such
an idea, that the present volume has been published. The author has
divided his subject into four periods: the first of which will contain
the history of the Six Nations, up to the arrival of Sir William
Johnson—the second will be occupied by the life and times of that
remarkable individual—the third carries on the history through the life
of Brandt—and the fourth, the present work, brings the subject up to
the sale of the last Seneca lands in 1838. Only the last two eras of
this history have as yet seen the light.
The life of Red Jacket is the least important portion of this subject,
affording little more than a narrative of treaties for the sale of
lands, with an occasional glimpse at the polity of the Six Nations, and
the Senecas in particular. The period is not one calculated to display
the powers which the early history and origin of the Six Nations might
call forth. Industry and research are nearly all that is required. Both
of these qualities Colonel Stone has evinced. There is little that is
positively new in the book, but many doubtful questions have been
settled, and a clearer insight given into the Indian character and
customs than we had been led to expect. As an instance of the latter, we
notice the fact mentioned of the women and war-chiefs in the Canandaigua
council, who took the business of the treaty out of the sachems’ hands,
asserting that the latter had no right to refuse the sale of lands,
against the opinion of the women and braves. We are also made more fully
acquainted, in this volume, with the subjection, in general, of the
military to the civil power among the Indians. Perhaps the style is
objectionable in one or two particulars, and there are too many speeches
given “in extenso;” while events of little importance sometimes occupy
as much space as those of greater moment, and tend to give an occasional
prolixity to the work, which would be well worth the author’s revision
when a second edition comes to be demanded. The anecdotes which
intersperse the volume are highly characteristic. On the whole, in
collecting and arranging so many undigested facts, and in preserving
from oblivion the oral traditions of the actors in the scenes he
relates, Colonel Stone has shown a commendable industry. But his work is
only begun. The mere record of a chieftain’s life, however celebrated
the individual may be, is secondary to the history of a mighty people
and the inquiry into its origin. We care little, comparatively, when or
how Red Jacket spoke, but we do care whence his people came. Our object
is to learn the polity and customs of his nation, to analyze its
language—in short, thoroughly to understand its history and character.
To do this is what constitutes Colonel Stone’s design, but as yet he has
only incidentally carried out his plan. Neither the life of Brandt nor
that of Red Jacket does more than skim over the great question our
author has proposed to discuss. Biography is not history: the narrative
of a few land treaties is not the account of a nation’s glory. As the
greatest people of the Indian race, and as the conquerors of the
Alligewi, we feel an interest in dissipating the obscurity which attends
the origin of the Six Nations. It is in vain to say such an attempt
would be fruitless. Has it ever been methodically, analytically,
perseveringly tried? Why does Colonel Stone avoid this portion of his
subject—the portion which should naturally claim his attention first?
We tell him frankly that he would gain ten times more reputation, and
prove himself possessed of ten times more talent, if he would come up to
this matter gallantly, and not scour around and around it, like a
frightened hound.
Red Jacket was a sachem or civil chief among the Senecas. He seems to
have been of no family, and to have won his way to the first place in
the councils of his people, by his tact, his patriotism, and, more than
all his eloquence. Few men have ever lived who surpassed him in oratory,
if we may judge his proficiency in that art by the effect he produced on
his hearers. All that has been related of Demosthenes and Cicero among
the ancients, or of Bolingbroke and Chatham among the moderns, may be
applied with equal truth to this great orator of the Senecas. When he
rose to speak not a word was heard—when he took his seat his enthusiasm
infected all. He was even able to carry his point when superstition, in
its darkest guise, was arrayed against him. Some specimens, at least, of
such wonderful powers of eloquence may naturally be expected to have
come down to us; yet, with but one or two exceptions, his printed
speeches are tame to mediocrity. Much of this, no doubt, is to be
attributed to incompetent translations: indeed, our author lays the
whole fault at this door. But there is another and simpler reason, to
which Colonel Stone has not alluded.
Every nation has its distinctive spirit, or, to speak more plainly, its
peculiar mode of thought. To this the orator must accommodate himself.
The same style of eloquence which affects an Englishman, falls cold on
the ear of an Italian. Even the Philippics of Demosthenes, or the
orations of Cicero, were unrivalled, only so far forth as they were
adapted to the peculiarities of an Athenian or Roman audience; and, had
the situation of either of these orators been changed, there is great
chance that, unless they altered their style, they would have been
hooted from the forum, or at least listened to in silence. So with the
oriental orators, whose most celebrated passages seem turgid to us. We
take it, then, that one of the great secrets of this apparent tameness
in Red Jacket’s orations, arises, as much from our different
appreciation of his style, as from the inadequacy of the translations.
We admit that there exists no perfect transcript of a harangue by him,
but could one of his speeches be handed down to us, word for word, we
predict that it would seem to us little better than turgid bombast or
inflated allegory. Yet that Red Jacket was a great _Seneca_ orator, we
have the concurrent testimony of more than fifty years—to say nothing
of the evidence, in the book before us, of his vigorous intellect and
grace of manner, the two most important requisites for oral eloquence.
The character of this celebrated chieftain was an odd mixture of “dirt
and divinity.” He was great as a whole, but mean in the detail. He ruled
over warriors, and was an arrant coward. He professed to be frank, and
lived on intrigue. His constant struggle was to retain the lands of his
people, and yet more than once he would have sold them for his personal
emolument. He was a hypocrite, a drunkard, and devoured by vanity; but
he was also an orator, a statesman, and devoted to his country. He
sometimes was capable of the loftiest generosity, and at other times he
would stoop to cheat the government out of a coat. But in one thing his
character is above reproach—he never ceased asserting the rights of his
country; and from the treaty at Canandaigua, down to the latest hour of
his life, he opposed manfully every alienation of the Seneca soil. He
was often unsuccessful, and always misrepresented; but he did not relax
his efforts. On the size of their domain, he said, depended the
importance of his people; and that people it was his ambition to
preserve an entire nation. For this he would have built up a wall of
separation betwixt them and the whites—for this he excluded
missionaries—for this he opposed schools—for this he denounced
intermarriages—for this he lived and died a pagan. Yet he survived to
see all his efforts in vain. He survived to behold the Senecas dwindled
to half their numbers, to see their forests cut down, and to witness
their lands slip piecemeal from their hands. How melancholy to
contemplate the poor old chief, when, returning to hunt in the beautiful
valley of the Gennesee, he found the ravages which the white men had
made in the forest so great, that he sat down and wept.
We have said that Red Jacket was intemperate; and the vice grew on him
as he grew older. When a council was to be held, however, he abstained
from indulgence until the deliberations were past, but then his excesses
were often frightful. An anecdote is related by Colonel Stone, which
shows the old chiefs propensity in rather a ludicrous light. Colonel
Snelling was a great favorite with him. When that officer was given the
command of Governor’s Island, Red Jacket bade him farewell in the
following words:
“Brother:—I hear you are going to a place called Governor’s
Island. I hope you will be a governor yourself. I understand
that you white people think children a blessing. I hope you may
have a thousand. _And above all, I hope, wherever you go, you
may never find whiskey above two shillings a quart._”
Red Jacket died in 1830, and with him perished the glory of the once
powerful Six Nations. Their subsequent history is well known. Their last
rood of land in New York has now passed into the hands of the white man;
the places which knew them shall know them no more, and in a few years
the Iroquois will be numbered with the dead.
The short sketches of the lives of Cornplanter, Farmer’s Brother, and
Harry O’Bail, in the conclusion of the work, are unusually interesting.
The volume is printed well, on paper of the finest quality, but
disfigured, here and there, with typographical mistakes.
-----
[5] Alleghany.
* * * * *
_The Ancient Régime: A Novel. By_ G. P. R. James, Esq. _2 vols.
Harper and Brothers._
“Stale, flat, and unprofitable” are the novels of Mr. James, and of all
his novels the Ancient Régime is the most flat. We have just flung down
the book, wondering how any man could, “_sanâ mente_,” in a sane mind,
publish two volumes so very common-place. Yet Mr. James has done it,
once and again, and yet again, and—God help us—seems determined to do
it, so long as he can find a publisher.
We do not say that the novels of James are unreadable, paradoxical as it
may seem, after what we have written. They are, on the contrary,
pleasant, often instructive. In some respects they are even well
written: if they were not so written, we should pass them in silence;
but when a man of talent persists in writing such common-place affairs
as Corse de Leon and the Ancient Régime, we feel bound to caution the
public against reading them.
In reviewing the last novel of this author, we took occasion to comment
on his repetition of himself; and had not but a bare six months elapsed
since the publication of that article, we should have thought, that he
had commenced this work with our criticism before him; for the whole
conception of the Ancient Régime—according to the preface—is
essentially different from that of Mr. James’ former romances. To do him
justice, he seems to have set out intending to write something really
new. But a dog that has once tasted blood is forever killing sheep,—and
our novelist, after the first few chapters of the work, runs into all
his old habits. Indeed, had he not told us in set phrases that his
object was to show the gradual changes of a female mind from infancy to
womanhood, and that too while she was in the peculiar position of a ward
of a man to whom she bore no relationship: had he not told us this—we
say—and added that he had in the Ancient Régime attempted a new and
more gentle style, we should have divined neither the one fact nor the
other.
There is too much _clap-trap_ in the work before us. Most novelists are
contented if their hero saves the life of his mistress once in the space
of two orthodox volumes. But James thinks this entirely too little. His
heroine seems put up like a ten-pin, only to be bowled at; for her life
is preserved once from a wolf—once from a robber—and once from an
assassin—and beside this, her honour is kept in jeopardy, as a kind of
running commentary, through the whole book. We are tempted to say with
Titmouse, “’Pon honour—most uncommon luck.” Then, too, everything
happens, not as it would in life, but just as it ought to happen. Such a
chain of fortuitous circumstances, following each other link by link, we
venture to say, author never imagined, since the old romances of
chivalry gave up the ghost. The deserted babe passes into the very hands
to which it _should_ go—the supposed father gets a place in the police,
_the very thing for all hands_—the young lady when grown up falls in
love with the son of the _only man living who knows her parentage_—the
king is frustrated in meeting Annette, until after Du Barry has given
him _a new object of pursuit_—the Baron de Cajore is arrested at the
_very instant_ he is arresting the hero—Ernest de Nogent is rescued in
the park at Maupay _just as_ he is about to be stabbed from behind—and
last of all, the assassin de Cajore is killed off at the end, _in the
very nick of time_, and when all the actors are conveniently assembled
to look on, at a nice little tea-party in the forest. Nothing, indeed,
is done naturally: everything is brought about by luck.