THE HERNSHAW.
We should scarcely have thought it possible to find a man who would not know a hawk from a heron when he saw it, and Hamlet evidently considered that such an one would not be in his right mind, for he says of himself:—
“I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”—Hamlet, Act ii. Sc. 2.
He referred here to an old proverbial saying, originally “he does not know a hawk from a hernshaw,” that is, a heron; but the word was thus corrupted before Shakespeare’s day. (See ante, [p. 75].)
HERON-HAWKING.
John Shaw (M.A., of Cambridge), who published a curious book in 1635, entitled “Speculum Mundi,” tells us therein that “the heron or hernsaw is a large fowle that liveth about waters,” and that “hath a marvellous hatred to the hawk, which hatred is duly returned. When they fight above in the air, they labour both especially for this one thing—that one may ascend and be above the other. Now, if the hawk getteth the upper place, he overthroweth and vanquisheth the heron with a marvellous earnest flight.” This old passage contrasts quaintly with the animated description of heron-hawking in Freeman and
Salvin’s modern treatise.[128] Those who have taken part in the sport cannot fail to be interested in a truthful narrative of what they must so often have witnessed; while those who have never seen a trained falcon on the wing will learn a good deal from the following excellent description:—
“‘Well, then, here goes,’ says the falconer; and having let the heron get a little past, off go the hoods. For a moment one hawk looks up, and is cast off; the other a moment or two afterwards. They both see him; now for a flight. The heron was about 250 yards high, and perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. The hawks had gone up about a quarter of the way before the heron saw them in hot pursuit. ‘Now he sees them!’ is exclaimed; and the riders rattle their horses as hard as they can, over deep sand-hills, down wind. The heron, in the meanwhile, vomits up his fish to lighten himself, and begins ringing-up down wind. It is a curious thing to see the different manœuvres of the birds. With his large wings, the heron can mount very fair, and has a far better chance of beating off the hawks than if he flew straight forward. This he knows full well by instinct, and puts on accordingly all sail for the upper regions, generally in short rings. Hawks make larger rings as a general rule, if, like these, they are good ones. Those have but a bad chance with a
good heron if they adopt the same tactics that he does in mounting. This the two old hawks know full well. So far they have been pretty near together, but, seeing the prey beginning to mount, they separate, each their own way, now taking a long turn down wind, and then breasting the wind again. ‘De Ruyter’ makes the best rings, and after having gone a mile, there is a shout—‘Now “De Ruyter” is above him!’ and the hawk is seen poising herself for a stoop; down she comes, with closed wings, like a bullet, and hits the heron; it is too high to see where, but the scream the quarry gives is tremendous. Hurrah! there’s a stoop for you! Both hawk and heron have descended some yards; the former, from the impetus of her stoop, much beneath the heron, but she shoots up again to a level. In fact, it was a perfect stoop. Though so near the heron, she does not attempt a little stoop, but again heads the wind so that the heron appears to be flying the hawk. ‘Sultan’ is now above both, and makes her stoop, but not so good as her partner’s. However, she makes two quickly, and is within an ace of catching; but the good heron will not give an inch, and ‘Sultan’ will have to give another ring for another stoop. But where is ‘De Ruyter’ all this time? She has made a long ring, and is now a long way above them. She makes another full stoop, and this time there is no mistake about it, for she hits the heron so hard that he is nearly stupefied. ‘Sultan’ joins in the fray and
catches. Whoo-whoo-o-p! down they come. Down they all three go together, till, just before reaching the ground, the two old hawks let go of their prey, which falls bump. Before he has had time to recover himself, in a moment the hawks are on him, ‘De Ruyter’ on the neck, and ‘Sultan’ on his body. Hurrah for the gallant hawks! and loud whoops proclaim his capture. ‘Wouldn’t take £100 for them,’ says their owner, who has ridden well, judiciously as well as hard, and has got up in time to save the heron’s life. He gives the hawks a pigeon, and puts the heron between his knees in a position so that he can neither spike him nor the hawks with his bill. He has two beautiful long black feathers, which are duly presented to Prince Alexander—alas! now no more—who is well up at the take. These feathers are the badge of honour in heron-hawking in Holland, as the fox’s brush is in hunting in England. The hawks are fed up as speedily as possible, the heron has a ring put round his leg, and is let loose, evidently not knowing what to make of it.