98 The Dog Book 



working singly or in braces, hunted and stood for the gun. But that this 

 could not long continue we can readily understand, for netting was the style 

 of the market supplier, and as the setter could stand or set the birds as 

 well as the pointer, it very naturally came about that with the increased use 

 of the shotgun the fanciers of the setter used him in place of a pointer. We 

 incline to think that it was a very quick change, for thirty years later, 1808, 

 an anonymously published volume of poetry with the title of "Fowling** 

 gives quite a different complexion to the use of the different dogs with the 

 gun. In Scott's " British Field Sports," London, 18 18, there are a few 

 quotations from " Fowling,*' one of which is credited " Vincent's Fowl- 

 ing." We have never seen any other mention of the book or poem. 

 The poem is divided into five "books" descriptive of grouse, partridge, 

 pheasant, woodcock, and duck and snipe shooting, and the manner in which 

 each sport is handled leaves no question as to the thorough knowledge of 

 the author, who in his preface acknowledges that Somerville's "The Chase** 

 was the incentive which prompted him to write on fowling. He draws 

 attention to the fact that he has not copied Somerville in introducing foreign 

 modes, for " it was a home scene he wished to delineate and nature and sport 

 were the only figures in the picture." From the book on grouse-shooting 



we extract as follows: 



"No tow'ring trees 

 In these rude solitudes diffuse a shade: 

 There loss not felt, while my observant eye 

 Follows my ranging setters. How they wind 

 Along the bending heath! and now they climb 

 The rocky ridge, where mid the broken crags 

 The whortle's purple berries peep. 'Take heed I* 

 The pack is near at hand ; the wary dogs 

 Draw slowly on. They stand immovable, 

 Backing the leader. Now my pulse beat quick 

 With expectation, but by practice trained 

 At once subside, that coolness may assist 

 My steady aim. Meantime my well-trained dogs 

 Enjoy their sett : I hie them in : the birds 

 On sounding pinions rise, jet not so swift 

 But that the whistling shot o'ertake their flight. 

 One flutt'ring beats the ground with broken wing 

 And breast distained by blood ; the rest far off 

 Urg'd on by fear, skim o'er the distant moors, 

 'Till by the haze obscured, my eye no more 

 Discerns their flight." 



