THE
CHASE;
A
POEM.
BY
WILLIAM SOMERVILE, ESQ.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY W. BULMER AND CO.
Shakspeare Printing Office,
CLEVELAND-ROW.
1802.
The following ADDRESS was prefixed to the Quarto Edition of the CHASE,
published in 1796.
TO THE PATRONS OF FINE PRINTING.
_When the exertions of an Individual to improve his profession are
crowned with success, it is certainly the highest gratification his
feelings can experience. The very distinguished approbation that
attended the publication of the ornamented edition of Goldsmith’s
Traveller, Deserted Village, and Parnell’s Hermit, which was last year
offered to the Public as a Specimen of the improved State of Typography
in this Country, demands my warmest acknowledgments; and is no less
satisfactory to the different Artists who contributed their efforts
towards the completion of the work._
_The Chase, by Somervile, is now given as a Companion to Goldsmith; and
it is almost superfluous to observe, that the subjects which ornament
the present volume, being entirely composed of Landscape Scenery and
Animals, are adapted, above all others, to display the beauties of Wood
Engraving._
_Unfortunately for his friends, and the admirers of the art of Engraving
on Wood, I have the painful task of announcing the death of my early
acquaintance and friend, the younger Mr. Bewick. He died at Ovingham, on
the banks of the Tyne, in December last, of a pulmonary complaint.
Previously, however, to his departure from London for the place of his
nativity, he had prepared, and indeed finished on wood, the whole of the
designs, except one, which embellish the Chase; they may therefore
literally be considered as the last efforts of this ingenious and much
to be lamented Artist._
_In executing the Engravings, his Brother, Mr. Thomas Bewick, has
bestowed every possible care; and the beautiful effect produced from
their joint labours will, it is presumed, fully meet the approbation of
the Subscribers._
_W. BULMER._
_Shakspeare Printing Office,
May 20th, 1796._
WILLIAM SOMERVILE.
That celebrity has not always been the attendant on merit, many
mortifying examples may be produced to prove. Of those who have by their
writings conferred a lasting obligation on their country, and at the
same time raised its reputation, many have been suffered to descend into
the grave without any memorial; and when the time has arrived, in which
their works have raised a curiosity to be informed of the general
tenour, or petty habits of their lives, always amusing, and frequently
useful, little more is to be collected, than that they once lived, and
are no more.
Such has been the fate of William Somervile, who may, with great
propriety, be called the Poet of the Chase; and of whom it is to be
regretted that so few circumstances are known. By the neglect of friends
while living, and the want of curiosity in the publick, at the time of
his death, he has been deprived of that portion of fame to which his
merits have entitled him; and though the worth of his works is now
universally acknowledged, his amiable qualities, and he is said to have
possessed many, are forgotten and irrevocably lost to the world. In the
lapse of more than half a century, all his surviving friends, from whom
any information could be derived, are swept away. The little which has
been hitherto collected concerning him, will be found, on examination,
not perfectly satisfactory; and of that little, some part is less
accurate than our respect for so excellent a writer leads us to wish it
had been.
He was of a family of great antiquity in the county of Warwick. His
ancestor came into England with William the Conqueror, and left two
sons. The eldest, from whom our poet was descended, had Whichnour, in
the county of Stafford, for his inheritance; and the other, the ancestor
of Lord Somervile, settled in the kingdom of Scotland. The eldest branch
afterwards removed to Ederston, in the county of Warwick; which manor
Thomas Somervile became possessed of, by marrying Joan, daughter and
sole heir of John Aylesbury, the last heir male who owned that estate.
This Thomas died in the year 1501, leaving one son, Robert, who also
left one son, John, who was the father of William Somervile, whose only
son, Sir William Somervile, Knight, left a posthumous son, William, who
died in 1676, having married Anne, daughter of John Viscount Tracey, of
the kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had eleven sons and five daughters.
Of this numerous progeny, none seem to have survived except Robert, who
married Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Sir Charles Wolseley, and by her
became the father of three sons; 1. our author; 2. Robert, who was
killed in India; and, 3. Edward, who was of New College, Oxford; where
he took the degree of B. C. L. December 7, 1710, and D. C. L. April 26,
1722, and died between the years 1733 and 1742.
William Somervile, our poet, was born in the year 1677, at Ederston,
“near Avona’s winding stream,” as he himself records in one of his
poems. At the age of thirteen, in the year 1690, he was admitted a
scholar of Winchester College, and continued there until the year 1694,
when he was sent to New College, Oxford. It does not appear, as Dr.
Johnson observes, that in the places of his education, he exhibited any
uncommon proofs of genius or literature. He is said, by the same author,
to have been elected a Fellow of New College; but as he does not seem to
have taken any degree at the university, that assertion may be doubted.
It is more probable, that he soon quitted the college for the country,
where his powers were first displayed, and where he was distinguished as
a poet, a gentleman, and a skilful and useful justice of the peace.
How soon he began to write verses we are not informed, there being few
dates in his poems; but it is certain that he was no early candidate for
literary fame. He had reached the age of fifty years, before he
presented any of his works to the publick, or was the least known. In
the year 1727, he published his first volume of Poems; the merit of
which, like most collections of the same kind, is various. Dr. Johnson
says, that, “though, perhaps, he has not, in any mode of poetry, reached
such excellence as to raise much envy, it may commonly be said, at
least, that he ‘writes very well for a gentleman.’ His serious pieces
are sometimes elevated, and his trifles are sometimes elegant. In his
verses to Addison, the couplet which mentions _Clio_, is written with
the most exquisite delicacy of praise: it exhibits one of those happy
strokes that are seldom attained. In his Odes to Marlborough, there are
beautiful lines; but in the second ode, he shows that he knew little of
his hero, when he talks of his private virtues. His subjects are
commonly such as require no great depth of thought, or energy of
expression. His fables are generally stale, and therefore excite no
curiosity. Of his favourite, _the Two Springs_, the fiction is
unnatural, and the moral inconsequential. In his tales, there is too
much coarseness, with too little care of language, and not sufficient
rapidity of narration.” To the justice of this estimate, it may be
doubted whether an unreserved assent will be readily given. Dr. Johnson
has often dealt out his praise with too scanty and parsimonious a hand.
His success as an author, whatever were his merits at that time, was
however sufficient not to discourage his further efforts. In the year
1735, he produced the work now republished: a work, which has scarce
ever been spoken of but to be commended, though Dr. Johnson, whose
habits of life, and bodily defects, were little calculated to taste the
beauties of this poem, or to enter into the spirit of it, coldly says,
“to this poem, praise cannot be totally denied.” He adds, however, “he
(the author,) is allowed by sportsmen to write with great intelligence
of his subject, which is the first requisite to excellence; and though
it is impossible to interest common readers of verse in the dangers or
the pleasures of the chase, he has done all that transition and variety
could easily effect; and has, with great propriety, enlarged his plan by
the modes of hunting used in other countries.” Dr. Warton observes, that
he “writes with all the spirit and fire of an eager sportsman. The
description of the hunting the hare, the fox, and the stag, are
extremely spirited, and place the very objects before our eyes: of such
consequence is it for a man to write on that, which he hath frequently
felt with pleasure.”
Many other testimonies might be added; but its best praise, is the
continued succession of new editions since its original publication.
As Mr. Somervile advanced in life, his attention to literary pursuits
increased. In the year 1740, he produced “Hobbinol, or the Rural Games;”
a burlesque poem, which Dr. Warton has classed among those best
deserving notice, of the mock heroick species. It is dedicated to Mr.
Hogarth, as the greatest master in the burlesque way; and at the
conclusion of his preface, the author says, “If any person should want a
key to this poem, his curiosity shall be gratified. I shall in plain
words tell him, ‘it is a satire against the luxury, the pride, the
wantonness, and quarrelsome temper of the middling sort of people,’ As
these are the proper and genuine cause of that barefaced knavery, and
almost universal poverty, which reign without control in every place;
and as to these we owe our many bankrupt farmers, our trade decayed, and
lands uncultivated, the author has reason to hope, that no honest man,
who loves his country, will think this short reproof out of season; for,
perhaps, this merry way of bantering men into virtue, may have a better
effect than the most serious admonitions, since many who are proud to be
thought immoral, are not very fond of being ridiculous.”
He did not yet close his literary labours. In the year 1742, a few
months only before his death, he published _Field Sports_; a poem
addressed to the Prince of Wales; and from Lady Luxborough’s letters we
learn, that he had translated Voltaire’s Alzira, which, with several
other pieces not published, were in her possession. One of these,
written towards the close of life, is so descriptive of the old age of a
sportsman, and exhibits so pleasing a picture of the temper and turn of
mind of the author, we shall here insert. It is an “Address to his Elbow
Chair, new clothed.”
My dear companion, and my faithful friend!
If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend,
If stones and rubbish, at Amphion’s call,
Danced into form, and built the Theban wall;
Why should’st not thou attend my humble lays,
And hear my grateful harp resound thy praise?
True, thou art spruce and fine; a very beau;
But what are trappings, and external show?
To real worth alone I make my court;
Knaves are my scorn, and coxcombs are my sport.
Once I beheld thee, far less trim and gay,
Ragged, disjointed, and to worms a prey,
The safe retreat of every lurking mouse,
Derided, shunn’d, the lumber of my house!
Thy robe, how changed from what it was before!
Thy velvet robe, which pleased my sires of yore!
’Tis thus capricious fortune wheels us round;
Aloft we mount--then tumble to the ground.
Yet grateful then, my constancy I proved;
I knew thy worth; my friend in rags I loved;
I loved thee more; nor, like a courtier, spurn’d
My benefactor when the tide was turn’d.
With conscious shame, yet frankly I confess,
That in my youthful days--I loved thee less.
Where vanity, where pleasure call’d, I stray’d;
And every wayward appetite obey’d.
But sage experience taught me how to prize
Myself; and how, this world: she bade me rise
To nobler flights, regardless of a race
Of factious emmets; pointed where to place
My bliss, and lodged me in thy soft embrace.
Here, on thy yielding down, I sit secure;
And, patiently, what Heaven has sent, endure;
From all the futile cares of business free;
Not fond of life, but yet content to be:
Here mark the fleeting hours; regret the past;
And seriously prepare to meet the last.
So safe on shore, the pension’d sailor lies,
And all the malice of the storm defies;
With ease of body bless’d, and peace of mind,
Pities the restless crew he left behind;
Whilst, in his cell, he meditates alone,
On his great voyage, to the world unknown.
To those who have derived entertainment or instruction from Mr.
Somervile’s works, the information will be received with pain, that the
latter part of his life did not pass without those embarrassments which
attend a deranged state of pecuniary circumstances. Shenstone, who in
this particular much resembled him, thus notices his lamentable
catastrophe. “Our old friend Somervile is dead! I did not imagine I
could have been so sorry as I find myself on this occasion. Sublatum
quærimus. I can now excuse all his foibles; impute them to age, and to
distress of circumstances: the last of these considerations wrings my
very soul to think on. For a man of high spirit, conscious of having (at
least in one production,) generally pleased the world, to be plagued and
threatened by wretches that are low in every sense; to be forced to
drink himself into pains of the body, in order to get rid of the pains
of the mind, is a misery which I can well conceive; because I may,
without vanity, esteem myself his equal in point of economy, and,
consequently, ought to have an eye to his misfortunes.” Dr. Johnson
says, “his distresses need not to be much pitied; his estate is said to
have been fifteen hundred a year, which by his death devolved to Lord
Somervile of Scotland. His mother, indeed, who lived till ninety, had a
jointure of six hundred.” This remark is made with less consideration
than might have been expected, from so close an observer of mankind.
Such an estate, incumbered in such a manner, and perhaps otherwise,
frequently leaves the proprietor in a very uneasy situation, with but a
scanty pittance; and it is evident, that our author was by no means an
economist. Shenstone says, “for whatever the world might esteem in poor
Somervile, I really find, upon critical inquiry, that I loved him for
nothing so much as his flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication of money.” Lady
Luxborough declares him to have been a gentleman who deserved the esteem
of every good man, and one who was regretted accordingly.
He died July 19, 1742, and was buried at Wotton, near Henley on Arden.
He had been married to Mary, daughter of Hugh Bethel, of Yorkshire, who
died before him, without leaving any issue. By his will, proved the
third of September, 1742, he remembered New College, the place of his
education, by leaving to the master and fellows, fifteen volumes of
Montfaucon’s Antiquities, and Addison’s works, for their library; and,
apparently to encourage provincial literature, he bequeathed twenty
pounds to purchase books for the parish library of the place of his
residence.
PREFACE
BY
THE AUTHOR.
The old and infirm have at least this privilege, that they can recall to
their minds those scenes of joy in which they once delighted, and
ruminate over their past pleasures, with a satisfaction almost equal to
the first enjoyment; for those ideas, to which any agreeable sensation
is annexed, are easily excited, as leaving behind them the most strong
and permanent impressions. The amusements of our youth are the boast and
comfort of our declining years. The ancients carried this notion even
yet further, and supposed their heroes, in the Elysian fields, were fond
of the very same diversions they exercised on earth: death itself could
not wean them from the accustomed sports and gaities of life.
Pars in gramineis exercent membra palæstris,
Contendunt ludo, et fulvâ luctantur arenâ:
Pars pedibus plaudunt choreas, et carmina dicunt.----
Arma procul, currusque virûm miratur inanes.
Stant terrâ defixæ hastæ, passimque soluti
Per campos pascuntur equi. Quæ gratia currûm
Armorumque fuit vivis, quæ cura nitentes
Pascere equos, eadem sequitur tellure repôstos.
VIRG. ÆN. VI.
Part, on the grassy cirque, their pliant limbs
In wrestling exercise, or on the sands,
Struggling, dispute the prize: part lead the ring,
Or swell the chorus with alternate lays.
The chief their arms admires, their empty cars,
Their lances fix’d in earth. The unharness’d steeds
Graze unrestrain’d; horses, and cars, and arms,
All the same fond desires, and pleasing cares,
Still haunt their shades, and after death survive.
I hope, therefore, I may be indulged, even by the more grave and
censorious part of mankind, if, at my leisure hours, I run over, in my
elbow-chair, some of those chases, which were once the delight of a more
vigorous age. It is an entertaining, and, as I conceive, a very innocent
amusement. The result of these rambling imaginations will be found in
the following poem; which if equally diverting to my readers, as to
myself, I shall have gained my end. I have intermixed the preceptive
parts with so many descriptions, and digressions, in the Georgick
manner, that I hope they will not be tedious. I am sure they are very
necessary to be well understood by any gentleman, who would enjoy this
noble sport in full perfection. In this, at least, I may comfort myself,
that I cannot trespass upon their patience more than Markham, Blome, and
the other prose writers upon this subject.
It is most certain, that hunting was the exercise of the greatest
heroes of antiquity. By this they formed themselves for war; and their
exploits against wild beasts were a prelude to their future victories.
Xenophon says, that almost all the ancient heroes, Nestor, Theseus,
Castor, Pollux, Ulysses, Diomedes, Achilles, &c. were MαΘηζαὶ
Kυνηγεδιῶν, disciples of hunting; being taught carefully that art, as
what would be highly serviceable to them in military discipline. _Xen.
Cynegetic._ And Pliny observes, those who were designed for great
captains, were first taught, “certare cum fugacibus feris cursu, cum
audacibus robore, cum callidus astu:”--to contest with the swiftest wild
beasts in speed; with the boldest in strength; with the most cunning, in
craft and subtilty. _Plin. Panegyr._ And the Roman emperors, in those
monuments they erected to transmit their actions to future ages, made no
scruple to join the glories of the chase to their most celebrated
triumphs. Neither were their poets wanting to do justice to this heroick
exercise. Beside that of Oppian in Greek, we have several poems in Latin
upon hunting. Gratius was contemporary with Ovid; as appears by this
verse,
Aptaque venanti Gratius arma dabit.
LIB. IV. PONT.
Gratius shall arm the huntsman for the chase.
But of his works only some fragments remain. There are many others of
more modern date. Among these Nemesianus, who seems very much superiour
to Gratius, though of a more degenerate age. But only a fragment of his
first book is preserved. We might indeed have expected to have seen it
treated more at large by Virgil in his third Georgick, since it is
expressly part of his subject. But he has favoured us only with ten
verses; and what he says of dogs, relates wholly to greyhounds and
mastiffs:
Veloces Spartæ catulos, acremque Molossum.
GEOR. III.
The greyhound swift, and mastiff’s furious breed.
And he directs us to feed them with butter-milk.--“Pasce sero pingui.”
He has, it is true, touched upon the chase in the fourth and seventh
books of the Æneid. But it is evident, that the art of hunting is very
different now, from what it was in his days, and very much altered and
improved in these latter ages. It does not appear to me, that the
ancients had any notion of pursuing wild beasts, by the scent only, with
a regular and well-disciplined pack of hounds; and therefore they must
have passed for poachers amongst our modern sportsmen. The muster-roll
given us by Ovid, in his story of Actæon, is of all sorts of dogs, and
of all countries. And the description of the ancient hunting, as we find
it in the antiquities of Pere de Montfaucon, taken from the sepulchre of
the Nasos, and the arch of Constantine, has not the least trace of the
manner now in use.
Whenever the ancients mention dogs following by the scent, they mean no
more than finding out the game by the nose of one single dog. This was
as much as they knew of the “odora canum vis.” Thus Nemesianus says,
Odorato noscunt vestigia prato,
Atque etiam leporum secreta cubilia monstrant.
They challenge on the mead the recent stains,
And trail the hare unto her secret form.
Oppian has a long description of these dogs in his first book, from ver.
479 to 526. And here, though he seems to describe the hunting of the
hare by the scent, through many turnings and windings, yet he really
says no more than that one of those hounds, which he calls ἰχνευτῆρες
finds out the game. For he follows the scent no further than the hare’s
form; from whence, after he has started her, he pursues her by sight. I
am indebted for these two last remarks to a reverend and very learned
gentleman, whose judgment in the belles-lettres nobody disputes, and
whose approbation gave me the assurance to publish this poem.
Oppian also observes, that the best sort of these finders were brought
from Britain; this island having always been famous, as it is at this
day, for the best breed of hounds, for persons the best skilled in the
art of hunting, and for horses the most enduring to follow the chase. It
is, therefore, strange that none of our poets have yet thought it worth
their while to treat of this subject; which is, without doubt, very
noble in itself, and very well adapted to receive the most beautiful
turns of poetry. Perhaps our poets have no great genius for hunting.
Yet, I hope, my brethren of the couples, by encouraging this first, but
imperfect essay, will shew the world they have at least some taste for
poetry.
The ancients esteemed hunting, not only as a manly and warlike
exercise, but as highly conducive to health. The famous Galen recommends
it above all others, as not only exercising the body, but giving delight
and entertainment to the mind. And he calls the inventors of this art
wise men, and well-skilled in human nature. _Lib. de parvæ pilæ
exercitio._
The gentlemen, who are fond of a jingle at the close of every verse, and
think no poem truly musical but what is in rhyme, will here find
themselves disappointed. If they will be pleased to read over the short
preface before the Paradise Lost, Mr. Smith’s Poem in memory of his
friend Mr. John Philips, and the Archbishop of Cambray’s Letter to
Monsieur Fontenelle, they may, probably, be of another opinion. For my
own part, I shall not be ashamed to follow the example of Milton,
Philips, Thomson, and all our best tragic writers.
Some few terms of art are dispersed here and there; but such only as are
absolutely requisite to explain my subject. I hope, in this, the
criticks will excuse me; for I am humbly of opinion, that the
affectation, and not the necessary use, is the proper object of their
censure.
But I have done. I know the impatience of my brethren, when a fine day,
and the concert of the kennel, invite them abroad. I shall therefore
leave my reader to such diversion, as he may find in the poem itself.
En age, segnes
Rumpe moras; vocat ingenti clamore Cithæron,
Taygetique canes, domitrixque Epidaurus equorum;
Et vox assensu nemorum ingeminata remugit.
VIRG. GEORG. III.
Hark away!
Cast far behind the lingering cares of life:
Cithæron calls aloud, and, in full cry,
Thy hounds, Taygetus. Epidaurus trains
For us the generous steed; the hunter’s shouts,
And cheering cries, assenting woods return.
[Illustration: BOOK I]
Argument.
_The subject proposed. Address to his Royal Highness the Prince.
The origin of hunting. The rude and unpolished manner of the first
hunters. Beasts at first hunted for food and sacrifice. The grant
made by God to man of the beasts, &c. The regular manner of hunting
first brought into this island by the Normans. The best hounds and
best horses bred here. The advantage of this exercise to us, as
islanders. Address to gentlemen of estates. Situation of the
kennel, and its several courts. The diversion and employment of
hounds in the kennel. The different sorts of hounds for each
different chase. Description of a perfect hound. Of sizing and
sorting of hounds; the middle-sized hound recommended. Of the large
deep-mouthed hound for hunting the stag and otter. Of the lime
hound; their use on the borders of England and Scotland. A physical
account of scents. Of good and bad scenting days. A short
admonition to my brethren of the couples._
[Illustration]
The Chase I sing, hounds, and their various breed,
And no less various use. O thou, great Prince!
Whom Cambria’s towering hills proclaim their lord,
Deign thou to hear my bold, instructive song.
While grateful citizens, with pompous shew,
Rear the triumphal arch, rich with the exploits
Of thy illustrious house; while virgins pave
Thy way with flowers, and, as the royal youth
Passing they view, admire, and sigh in vain;
While crowded theatres, too fondly proud
Of their exotick minstrels, and shrill pipes,
The price of manhood, hail thee with a song,
And airs soft-warbling; my hoarse-sounding horn
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 14-38.]
Invites thee to the chase, the sport of kings;
Image of war, without its guilt. The Muse
Aloft on wing shall soar, conduct with care
Thy foaming courser o’er the steepy rock,
Or, on the river bank, receive thee safe,
Light-bounding o’er the wave, from shore to shore.
Be thou our great protector, gracious youth!
And if, in future times, some envious prince,
Careless of right, and guileful, should invade
Thy Britain’s commerce, or should strive, in vain,
To wrest the balance from thy equal hand,
Thy hunter-train, in cheerful green array’d,
A band undaunted, and innured to toils,
Shall compass thee around, die at thy feet,
Or hew thy passage through the embattled foe,
And clear thy way to fame: inspired by thee,
The nobler chase of glory shall pursue,
Through fire, and smoke, and blood, and fields of death.
Nature, in her productions slow, aspires,
By just degrees, to reach perfection’s highth:
So mimick art works leisurely, till time
Improve the piece, or wise experience give
The proper finishing. When Nimrod bold,
That mighty hunter, first made war on beasts,
And stain’d the woodland green with purple dye,
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 39-63.]
New, and unpolish’d, was the huntsman’s art;
No stated rule, his wanton will his guide.
With clubs and stones, rude implements of war,
He arm’d his savage bands, a multitude
Untrain’d: of twining osiers form’d, they pitch
Their artless toils, then range the desert hills,
And scour the plains below: the trembling herd
Start at the unusual sound, and clamorous shout,
Unheard before; surprised, alas! to find
Man now their foe, whom erst they deem’d their lord;
But mild, and gentle, and by whom, as yet,
Secure they grazed. Death stretches o’er the plain,
Wide-wasting, and grim slaughter, red with blood:
Urged on by hunger keen, they wound, they kill;
Their rage, licentious, knows no bound: at last,
Incumber’d with their spoils, joyful they bear,
Upon their shoulders broad, the bleeding prey.
Part on their altars smokes a sacrifice
To that all-gracious Power, whose bounteous hand
Supports his wide creation: what remains,
On living coals they broil, inelegant
Of taste, nor skill’d, as yet, in nicer arts
Of pamper’d luxury. Devotion pure,
And strong necessity, thus first began
The chase of beasts; though bloody was the deed,
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 64-88.]
Yet without guilt: for the green herb, alone,
Unequal to sustain man’s labouring race,
Now every moving thing that lived on earth,
Was granted him for food. So just is Heaven,
To give us in proportion to our wants.
Or chance, or industry, in after-times,
Some few improvements made; but short, as yet,
Of due perfection. In this isle, remote,
Our painted ancestors were slow to learn,
To arms devote, of the politer arts
Nor skill’d, nor studious; till, from Neustria’s coasts,
Victorious William to more decent rules
Subdued our Saxon fathers, taught to speak
The proper dialect; with horn and voice
To cheer the busy hound, whose well-known cry
His listening peers approve with joint acclaim.
From him successive huntsmen learn’d to join,
In bloody social leagues, the multitude
Dispersed, to size, to sort their various tribes,
To rear, feed, hunt, and discipline the pack.
Hail, happy Britain! highly favour’d isle,
And Heaven’s peculiar care; to thee ’tis given
To train the sprightly steed, more fleet than those
Begot by winds, or the celestial breed
That bore the great Pelides through the press
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 89-113.]
Of heroes arm’d, and broke their crowded ranks;
Which, proudly neighing, with the sun begins
Cheerful his course; and ere his beams decline,
Has measured half thy surface unfatigued.
In thee alone, fair land of liberty!
Is bred the perfect hound, in scent and speed
As yet unrivall’d; while in other climes
Their virtue fails, a weak degenerate race.
In vain malignant steams, and winter fogs,
Load the dull air, and hover round our coasts;
The huntsman, ever gay, robust, and bold,
Defies the noxious vapour, and confides
In this delightful exercise, to raise
His drooping head, and cheer his heart with joy.
Ye vigorous youths, by smiling fortune bless’d
With large demesnes, hereditary wealth,
Heap’d copious by your wise forefathers’ care,
Hear, and attend; while I the means reveal
To enjoy those pleasures, for the weak too strong,
Too costly for the poor: to rein the steed
Swift-stretching o’er the plain, to cheer the pack,
Opening in concerts of harmonious joy,
But breathing death. What though the gripe severe
Of brazen-fisted time, and slow disease
Creeping through every vein, and nerve unstrung,
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 114-138.]
Afflict my shatter’d frame, undaunted still,
Fix’d as the mountain ash, that braves the bolts
Of angry Jove, though blasted, yet unfall’n;
Still can my soul, in fancy’s mirrour, view
Deeds glorious once, recall the joyous scene
In all its splendours deck’d, o’er the full bowl
Recount my triumphs pass’d, urge others on
With hand and voice, and point the winding way:
Pleased with that social sweet garrulity,
The poor disbanded veteran’s sole delight.
First, let the kennel be the huntsman’s care;
Upon some little eminence erect,
And fronting to the ruddy dawn; its courts
On either hand wide opening to receive
The sun’s all-cheering beams, when mild he shines,
And gilds the mountain tops. For much the pack
(Roused from their dark alcoves) delight to stretch
And bask in his invigorating ray:
Warn’d by the streaming light, and merry lark,
Forth rush the jolly clan; with tuneful throats
They carol loud, and, in grand chorus join’d,
Salute the new-born day. For not alone
The vegetable world, but men and brutes
Own his reviving influence, and joy
At his approach. Fountain of light! if chance
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 139-163.]
Some envious cloud veil thy refulgent brow,
In vain the Muses aid, untouch’d, unstrung,
Lies my mute harp, and thy desponding bard
Sits darkly musing o’er the unfinish’d lay.
Let no Corinthian pillars prop the dome,
A vain expense, on charitable deeds
Better disposed, to clothe the tatter’d wretch
Who shrinks beneath the blast, to feed the poor,
Pinch’d with afflictive want: for use, not state,
Gracefully plain let each apartment rise.
O’er all let cleanliness preside; no scraps
Bestrew the pavement, and no half-pick’d bones,
To kindle fierce debate, or to disgust
That nicer sense, on which the sportsman’s hope,
And all his future triumphs, must depend.
Soon as the growling pack, with eager joy,
Have lapp’d their smoking viands, morn or eve,
From the full cistern lead the ductile streams,
To wash thy court, well-paved; nor spare thy pains,
For much to health will cleanliness avail.
Seek’st thou for hounds to climb the rocky steep,
And brush the entangled covert, whose nice scent
O’er greasy fallows, and frequented roads,
Can pick the dubious way? Banish far off
Each noisome stench, let no offensive smell
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 164-188.]
Invade thy wide inclosure, but admit
The nitrous air, and purifying breeze.
Water and shade no less demand thy care:
In a large square the adjacent field inclose;
There plant, in equal ranks, the spreading elm,
Or fragrant lime; most happy thy design,
If, at the bottom of thy spacious court,
A large canal, fed by the crystal brook,
From its transparent bosom shall reflect
Downward thy structure and inverted grove.
Here, when the sun’s too potent gleams annoy
The crowded kennel, and the drooping pack,
Restless and faint, loll their unmoisten’d tongues,
And drop their feeble tails, to cooler shades
Lead forth the panting tribe; soon shalt thou find
The cordial breeze their fainting hearts revive:
Tumultuous soon they plunge into the stream,
There lave their reeking sides, with greedy joy
Gulp down the flying wave; this way and that,
From shore to shore, they swim, while clamour loud,
And wild uproar, torments the troubled flood;
Then on the sunny bank they roll and stretch
Their dripping limbs; or else in wanton rings
Coursing around, pursuing and pursued,
The merry multitude disporting play.
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 189-213.]
But here, with watchful and observant eye,
Attend their frolicks, which too often end
In bloody broils and death. High o’er thy head
Wave thy resounding whip, and, with a voice
Fierce-menacing, o’er-rule the stern debate,
And quench their kindling rage; for oft, in sport
Begun, combat ensues; growling they snarl,
Then on their haunches rear’d, rampant they seize
Each other’s throats, with teeth and claws, in gore
Besmear’d, they wound, they tear, till on the ground,
Panting, half dead, the conquering champion lies:
Then sudden all the base ignoble crowd,
Loud-clamouring, seize the helpless worried wretch,
And, thirsting for his blood, drag different ways
His mangled carcase on the ensanguined plain.
O breasts of pity void! to oppress the weak,
To point your vengeance at the friendless head,
And, with one mutual cry, insult the fall’n!
Emblem too just of man’s degenerate race.
Others apart, by native instinct led,
Knowing instructor! ’mong the ranker grass
Cull each salubrious plant, with bitter juice
Concoctive stored, and potent to allay
Each vicious ferment. Thus the hand divine
Of Providence, beneficent and kind
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 213-236.]
To all his creatures, for the brutes prescribes
A ready remedy, and is himself
Their great physician! Now grown stiff with age,
And many a painful chase, the wise old hound,
Regardless of the frolick pack, attends
His master’s side, or slumbers, at his ease,
Beneath the bending shade; there, many a ring
Runs o’er in dreams; now on the doubtful foil
Puzzles perplex’d, or doubles intricate
Cautious unfolds; then, wing’d with all his speed,
Bounds o’er the lawn to seize his panting prey,
And in imperfect whimp’ring speaks his joy.
A different hound, for every diff’rent chase,
Select with judgment; nor the timorous hare
O’ermatch’d destroy, but leave that vile offence
To the mean, murd’rous, coursing crew, intent
On blood and spoil. Oh blast their hopes, just Heaven!
And all their painful drudgeries repay
With disappointment, and severe remorse.
But husband thou thy pleasures, and give scope
To all her subtle play: by nature led,
A thousand shifts she tries; to unravel these
The industrious beagle twists his waving tail,
Through all her labyrinths pursues, and rings
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 237-260.]
Her doleful knell. See there, with countenance blithe,
And with a courtly grin, the fawning hound
Salutes thee, cowering, his wide opening nose
Upward he curls, and his large sloe-black eyes
Melt in soft blandishments, and humble joy;
His glossy skin, or yellow-pied, or blue,
In lights or shades by nature’s pencil drawn,
Reflects the various tints; his ears and legs,
Fleckt here and there, in gay enamell’d pride
Rival the speckled pard; his rush-grown tail
O’er his broad back bends in ample arch;
On shoulders clean, upright and firm he stands;
His round cat foot, straight hams, and wide-spread thighs,
And his low-dropping chest, confess his speed,
His strength, his wind, or on the steepy hill,
Or far-extended plain; in every part
So well proportion’d, that the nicer skill
Of Phidias himself can’t blame thy choice.
Of such compose thy pack: but here a mean
Observe; nor the large hound prefer, of size
Gigantick; he in the thick-woven covert
Painfully tugs, or in the thorny brake
Torn and embarrass’d, bleeds: but if too small,
The pigmy brood in every furrow swims;
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 261-285.]
Moil’d in the clogging clay, panting they lag
Behind inglorious; or else shivering they creep,
Benumb’d and faint, beneath the shelt’ring thorn.
For hounds of middle size, active and strong,
Will better answer all thy various ends,
And crown thy pleasing labours with success.
As some brave captain, curious and exact,
By his fix’d standard forms, in equal ranks,
His gay battalion, as one man they move,
Step after step, their size the same, their arms
Far gleaming, dart the same united blaze:
Reviewing generals his merit own;
How regular! how just! and all his cares
Are well repaid, if mighty George approve.
So model thou thy pack, if honour touch
Thy generous soul, and the world’s just applause.
But above all take heed, nor mix thy hounds
Of diff’rent kinds; discordant sounds shall grate
Thy ears offended, and a lagging line
Of babbling curs disgrace thy broken pack.
But if the amphibious otter be thy chase,
Or stately stag, that o’er the woodland reigns;
Or if the harmonious thunder of the field
Delight thy ravish’d ears; the deep-flew’d hound
Breed up with care, strong, heavy, slow, but sure,
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 286-310.]
Whose ears, down-hanging from his thick round head,
Shall sweep the morning dew; whose clanging voice
Awake the mountain echo in her cell,
And shake the forests: the bold Talbot kind
Of these the prime, as white as Alpine snows;
And great their use of old. Upon the banks
Of Tweed, slow-winding through the vale, the seat
Of war and rapine once, ere Britons knew
The sweets of peace, or Anna’s dread commands
To lasting leagues the haughty rivals awed,
There dwelt a pilfering race; well train’d and skill’d
In all the mysteries of theft, the spoil
Their only substance, feuds and war their sport:
Not more expert in every fraudful art
The arch felon was of old, who by the tail
Drew back his lowing prize: in vain his wiles,
In vain the shelter of the covering rock,
In vain the sooty cloud, and ruddy flames,
That issued from his mouth; for soon he paid
His forfeit life; a debt how justly due
To wrong’d Alcides, and avenging Heaven!
Veil’d in the shades of night, they ford the stream,
Then prowling far and near, whate’er they seize
Becomes their prey; nor flocks nor herds are safe,
Nor stalls protect the steer, nor strong-barr’d doors
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 311-335.]
Secure the favourite horse. Soon as the morn
Reveals his wrongs, with ghastly visage wan,
The plunder’d owner stands, and from his lips
A thousand thronging curses burst their way:
He calls his stout allies, and in a line
His faithful hound he leads; then, with a voice
That utters loud his rage, attentive cheers:
Soon the sagacious brute, his curling tail
Flourish’d in air, low-bending plies around
His busy nose, the steaming vapour snuffs
Inquisitive, nor leaves one turf untried;
Till, conscious of the recent stains, his heart
Beats quick; his snuffling nose, his active tail,
Attest his joy; then, with deep-opening mouth,
That makes the welkin tremble, he proclaims
The audacious felon; foot by foot he marks
His winding way, while all the listening crowd
Applaud his reasonings. O’er the watery ford,
Dry sandy heaths, and stony barren hills,
O’er beaten paths, with men and beasts distain’d,
Unerring he pursues; till at the cot
Arrived, and seizing by his guilty throat
The caitiff vile, redeems the captive prey:
So exquisitely delicate his sense!
Should some more curious sportsman here inquire,
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 336-360.]
Whence this sagacity, this wond’rous power,
Of tracing step by step, or man or brute;
What guide invisible points out their way,
O’er the dank marsh, bleak hill, and sandy plain?
The courteous Muse shall the dark cause reveal.
The blood that from the heart incessant rolls
In many a crimson tide, then here and there,
In smaller rills disparted, as it flows,
Propell’d, the serous particles evade
Through the open pores, and, with the ambient air
Entangling, mix: as fuming vapours rise,
And hang upon the gently-purling brook,
There by the incumbent atmosphere compress’d.
The panting chase grows warmer as he flies,
And through the net-work of the skin perspires;
Leaves a long streaming trail behind, which, by
The cooler air condensed, remains, unless
By some rude storm dispersed, or rarefied
By the meridian sun’s intenser heat:
To every shrub the warm effluvia cling,
Hang on the grass, impregnate earth and skies:
With nostrils opening wide, o’er hill, o’er dale,
The vigorous hounds pursue, with every breath
Inhale their grateful steam; quick pleasures sting
Their tingling nerves, while they their thanks repay,
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 361-385.]
And in triumphant melody confess
The titillating joy. Thus on the air
Depend the hunter’s hopes. When ruddy streaks
At eve, forebode a blust’ring stormy day,
Or lowering clouds blacken the mountain’s brow;
When nipping frosts, and the keen biting blasts
Of the dry parching east menace the trees,
With tender blossoms teeming, kindly spare
Thy sleeping pack, in their warm beds of straw
Low-sinking, at their ease; listless they shrink
Into some dark recess, nor hear thy voice,
Though oft invoked; or, haply, if thy call
Rouse up the slumbering tribe, with heavy eyes,
Glazed, lifeless, dull, downward they drop their tails
Inverted; high on their bent backs erect
Their pointed bristles stare; or ’mong the tufts
Of ranker weeds, each stomach-healing plant
Curious they crop, sick, spiritless, forlorn.
These inauspicious days, on other cares
Employ thy precious hours; the improving friend
With open arms embrace, and from his lips
Glean science, season’d with good-natured wit.
But if the inclement skies and angry Jove
Forbid the pleasing intercourse, thy books
Invite thy ready hand, each sacred page
[Sidenote: BOOK I THE CHASE v. 386-399.]
Rich with the wise remarks of heroes old.
Converse familiar with the illustrious dead;
With great examples of old Greece or Rome
Enlarge thy free-born heart; and bless kind Heaven,
That Britain yet enjoys dear liberty,
That balm of life, that sweetest blessing; cheap,
Though purchased with our blood. Well bred, polite,
Credit thy calling. See! how mean, how low,
The bookless, sauntring youth, proud of the skut
That dignifies his cap, his flourish’d belt,
And rusty couples gingling by his side.
Be thou of other mould; and know, that such
Transporting pleasures, were by Heaven ordain’d
Wisdom’s relief, and Virtue’s great reward.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BOOK II]
Argument.
_Of the power of instinct in brutes. Two remarkable instances in
the hunting of the roebuck, and in the hare going to seat in the
morning. Of the variety of seats or forms of the hare, according to
the change of the season, weather, or wind. Description of the
hare-hunting in all its parts, interspersed with rules to be
observed by those who follow that chase. Transition to the Asiatick
way of hunting, particularly the magnificent manner of the Great
Mogul, and other Tartarian princes, taken from Monsieur Bernier,
and the History of Gengis Cawn the Great. Concludes with a short
reproof of tyrants and oppressors of mankind._
[Illustration]
Nor will it less delight the attentive sage,
To observe that instinct, which, unerring, guides
The brutal race, which mimicks reason’s lore,
And oft transcends. Heaven-taught, the roebuck swift
Loiters at ease before the driving pack,
And mocks their vain pursuit; nor far he flies,
But checks his ardour, till the steaming scent,
That freshens on the blade, provokes their rage.
Urged to their speed, his weak deluded foes,
Soon flag fatigued; strain’d to excess each nerve,
Each slacken’d sinew fails; they pant, they foam:
Then o’er the lawn he bounds, o’er the high hills
Stretches secure, and leaves the scatter’d crowd,
To puzzle in the distant vale below.
[Sidenote: BOOK II THE CHASE v. 15-38.]
’Tis instinct that directs the jealous hare
To choose her soft abode: with step reversed,
She forms the doubling maze; then, ere the morn
Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close recess.
As wandering shepherds, on the Arabian plains,
No settled residence observe, but shift
Their moving camp; now, on some cooler hill,
With cedars crown’d, court the refreshing breeze;
And then, below, where trickling streams distil
From some penurious source, their thirst allay,
And feed their fainting flocks. So the wise hares
Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious eye
Should mark their haunts, and by dark treacherous wiles
Plot their destruction; or, perchance, in hopes
Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead,
Or matted blade, wary and close they sit.
When spring shines forth, season of love and joy,
In the moist marsh, ’mong beds of rushes hid,
They cool their boiling blood: when summer suns
Bake the cleft earth, to thick wide-waving fields
Of corn full grown, they lead their helpless young:
But when autumnal torrents, and fierce rains
Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank
Their forms they delve, and cautiously avoid
[Sidenote: BOOK II THE CHASE v. 39-63.]
The dripping covert; yet when winter’s cold
Their limbs benumbs, thither, with speed return’d,
In the long grass they skulk, or, shrinking, creep
Among the wither’d leaves: thus changing still,
As fancy prompts them, or as food invites.
But every season carefully observed,
The inconstant winds, the fickle element,
The wise experienced huntsman soon may find
His subtle, various game; nor waste in vain
His tedious hours, till his impatient hounds,
With disappointment vex’d, each springing lark
Babbling pursue, far scatter’d o’er the fields.
Now golden autumn from her open lap
Her fragrant bounties showers; the fields are shorn;
Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer views
The rising pyramids that grace his yard,
And counts his large increase; his barns are stored,
And groaning staddles bend beneath their load.
All now is free as air, and the gay pack
In the rough bristly stubbles range, unblamed;
No widow’s tears o’erflow, no secret curse
Swells in the farmer’s breast, which his pale lips
Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord awed:
But courteous now, he levels every fence,
Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud,
[Sidenote: BOOK II THE CHASE v. 64-88.]
Charm’d with the rattling thunder of the field.
Oh bear me, some kind power invisible,
To that extended lawn, where the gay court
View the swift racers, stretching to the goal!
Games more renown’d, and a far nobler train,
Than proud Elean fields could boast of old.
Oh! were a Theban lyre not wanting here,
And Pindar’s voice, to do their merit right!
Or to those spacious plains, where the strain’d eye,
In the wide prospect lost, beholds at last
Sarum’s proud spire, that o’er the hills ascends,
And pierces through the clouds. Or to thy downs,
Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed beagle climbs,
With matchless speed, thy green aspiring brow,
And leaves the lagging multitude behind.
Hail, gentle dawn! mild blushing goddess, hail!
Rejoiced, I see thy purple mantle spread
O’er half the skies, gems pave thy radiant way,
And orient pearls from every shrub depend.
Farewell, Cleora; here deep sunk in down,
Slumber secure, with happy dreams amused,
Till grateful steams shall tempt thee to receive
Thy early meal, or thy officious maids,
The toilet placed, shall urge thee to perform
The important work. Me other joys invite,
[Sidenote: BOOK II THE CHASE v. 89-113.]