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, 1818, 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!’ 
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, yet 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.” 
