48 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
time that he could stand alone until the present time, 
and not a pen has inked paper to record his exploits. 
“Solitary and alone” has he traced his game through 
the mazy labyrinth of air; marked, I hunted ;—I found; 
—I conquered;—upon the carcasses of his victims, and 
then marched homeward with his spoils: quietly and 
satisfiedly, sweetening his path through life; and, by its 
very obscurity, adding the principal element of the sub- 
lime. 
It was on a beautiful southern October morning, at 
the hospitable mansion of a friend, where I was staying 
to drown dull care, that I first had the pleasure of see- 
ing Tom Owen. | 
He was, on this occasion, straggling up the rising 
ground that led to the hospitable mansion of mine host, 
and the difference between him and ordinary men was 
visible at a glance; perhaps it showed itself as much in 
the perfect contempt of fashion that he displayed in the 
adornment of his outward man, as it did in the more ele- 
vated qualities of his mind, which were visible in his 
face. His head was adorned with an outlandish pattern 
of a hat—his nether limbs were encased by a pair of 
inexpressibles, beautifully frmged by the briar-bushes 
through which they were often drawn; coats and vests, 
he considered as superfiuities; hanging upon his back 
were a couple of pails, and an axe in his right hand, 
formed the varieties that represented the corpus of Tom 
Owen. 
