246 WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. 



greater value in those times than all a mouthing demagogue 

 could utter in a year. 



He was elected Colonel, married happily, a genuine Ken- 

 tucky girl, and was universally venerated and idolized, though 

 yet scarcely past his prime. His modesty was unconquera- 

 ble, and he shrunk from all honors which he could possibly 

 avoid. 



Strange to say, not even the endearments of his happy 

 home, the love of his fellow citizens, or the charms of a society 

 daily increasing in refinement, could win him from that sin- 

 gular passion for solitary hunting, — which seems to be general 

 and peculiar to the Hunter-Naturalist, in whatever guise he 

 may be found — for which Harrod was so remarkable. He 

 would still, rifle in hand, bury himself for weeks, and even 

 months, in some unpenetrated fastness of the wilderness, from 

 whence he would return as unexpectedly as he went, laden 

 with the trophies of the hunt. 



Once he thus disappeared, never to return ! By what 

 casuality of the chase, or in what deadly contest with his 

 Indian foes, no one could ever more than conjecture. 



Thus died a true hero ! — as he would no doubt have chosen 

 best to die, — amidst those wild, stern scenes he had so dearly 

 loved, and in fair battle with the chances that he gloried most 

 in daring. Face to face, with God, the ancient nature and 

 his foe, his noble heart was stilled, and his strong arm fell 

 nerveless ! 



The wintry winds have moaned through stately mausole- 

 ums, indeed, but never yet wailed they a grander requiem, 

 above a nobler grave, than that wild spot of rocks and forest 

 where James Harrod lies ! He left, I believe, one daughter ; 

 and a large and respectable family, descended from her, still 

 live in Harrodsburg and the neighborhood. 



