Alexandria Gazette & Daily Advertiser

From the West Chester Federalist.

THE SPORTSMAN.
Many years ago Mr. Printer, I belonged to a jovial company of fox hunters, that was formed in Chester and Montgomery counties. Many is the morning that, with the earliest dawn, we have been hard at the brush: the horns sounding so shrilly, and echo full cry, their voices mingling from hill to hill—the hounds in the hark-away of the huntsman: and the steed, his neck like the rainbow, springing hedges and ditches, as if eager for the game. Ah! sir, we have no such sport now-a-days. Dogs, horses and men have all degenerated.

Yet while I sigh for the joys that are gone forever, I recall the remembrance of past pleasures with delight: and if you are disengaged enough to listen to the story of a garrulous old man, I will relate to you an incident that occurred while you were "mewling in your nurse's arms."

A friend of mine on the borders of Montgomery county, sent me word that he had got a famous hound, of a new breed, worth any dozen of the company's pack, and insisted that, before our general hunt, I should come up and spend the night with him and in the morning we would take out Jowler, and run down a fox—just to show his dog's superiority. I did not need a second invitation, I assure you, but waited upon him in the highest expectation of sport.

During the evening my friend launched out in the praises of his hound; I expressed some doubts from the looks of the dog, but he was half angry: There was never one, he said, so true—so fleet—so quick of scent— and so he continued on until the evening was far spent; and I thought, to be sure, that Nimrod himself was never blessed with so fine a hunter. Indeed I dreamed of the matter, and a little after midnight awakened the whole family by the cry of bark-away for I verily thought we were in full chase.

The morning came, and we started, after giving orders for a large chicken pie to be prepared for our afternoon repast. It was not long before the dog took to the woods, and his voice, clear—eager—shrill, burst upon the ear.

"Aye, I told you so," said my friend, exultingly; "a fine fellow—none of your Chester pack like him; —Now puss will buy it, I'll warrant you." We put spurs to our horses, but found as we approached, that the dog did not seem to move. "He has him already," said my friend, his eye sparkling with delight. We reached the spot and behold! the dog had fallen into a hole, from which the limestone had been quarried, and could not get out. Evidently chagrined, my friend told me it was an accident that might have happened to the best dog in Christendom. I repeated my doubts, but his confidence seemed undiminished. He sprang from his horse—lifted Jowler from the pit, patted him a little, and bid him again—"to the woods."

It was a quarter of an hour before we heard the voice of this favourite again. At length in a valley some distance on our right, we heard him open with great spirit. Hope and joy again lighted up the countenance of my friend. We stopped a moment to mark the course puss was taking, and soon followed at full speed. Alack a day! the voice again became stationary: and reaching the place, lo! poor Jowler had come to a stone wall which he could not leap, and did not choose to go round; there, sitting on his rump, he was howling most piteous musick.

In short, the dog was not worth a baubee, with all his pretensions. He was a right promise much and do little. Our sport was baulked, for that day. We got home before the pie was ready: but I never could bring my friend, who was somewhat opinionated, to own but that Jowler was a good hunter.

Now Mr. Miner, if we caught no fox, the jaunt was not entirely lost to me: for I learned not to give too much credit to specious appearances—new things—and flattering promises.

When I see a young merchant at the very outset in business, assuming a very consequential air—talking largely of his profits—setting up his carriage, and handling his hardware with gloves, lest he should soil his hands. "Promise much, and do little," think I, and old Jowler instantly occurs to my recollection.

When I see a young farmer who has just come to his patrimonial estate—tearing down the mansion—busily engaged in planning pleasure houses to build more fashionably—selling the comfortable family carriage and buying a new gig of half the value, but twice the cost—and neglecting the wheat, the barley, and the clover fields: "Take care young man," think I, "that's not the dog your father hunted with."

When I see a fair faced—well dressed—pretty spoken girl, who can quote Scott and Byron. I like it well, for it is delightful to see a lady with a cultivated mind, though, to be sure, I would rather, if I was a young man, have the girl I loved, quote Cowper and Hannah More. But if chance should throw me unexpectedly into her parlour, and I find her slip shod, her hair uncombed—reading some favourite romance. "Promise much and do little," think I, and the fox hunt rushes at once upon my mind.