The word “Enterprise,” which, it has just been observed, marks the character of the civilized man as distinguished from the savage, might also be used with some degree of strictness to characterise man as distinguished from the lower animals. Their instincts enable some of them, as the bee and the beaver, to perform works of wondrous ingenuity; but none of them step beyond what has been the vocation of their species since it existed. The bounds of human exertion, on the other hand, are apparently illimitable. Its achievements in one generation, though deemed wonderful, are outstripped in the next; and the latest successful efforts of courage and skill serve to give us confidence that much or all which yet baffles man’s sagacity and power in the realm of nature shall be eventually subjected to him; he is a being of Enterprise.
If endowed simply with bounded instincts he might have remained the wild inhabitant of the forest covert, or continued the rude tenant of the savage hut; his limitless, or, at least, indefinite and ever-progressing mental capacity, has empowered him to overcome obstacle after obstacle in the way to his increasing command over Nature; the triumphs of one generation have been handed down to the next, and the aggregate to those ages succeeding; and the catalogue of these “Triumphs of Enterprise” would now form a library of incalculable extent, since it would lead reflection into every path of the dominions of history and natural philosophy, of science and art.
The rudest display of this great characteristic of man is the assertion of his superiority to the rest of the animal world, and seems to offer a primary claim to observation. The stronger and fiercer animals would be the first enemies with which man had to struggle. With his conquest of their strength and ferocity, and subjection of some of their tribes to his use and service, his empire must have begun. Had we authentic records remaining of the earliest human essays towards taming the dog, domesticating the cat, and training for beneficial use or service the goat, the sheep, and the ox, the horse and the elephant, the camel, the llama, and the reindeer, such a chronicle would be filled with interest. Fable, however, surrounds the scanty memorials that remain of this as well as of higher departments of human discovery in the primeval ages. Abundant material exists in ancient history for a narrative of the more exciting part of these triumphs—the successful display of man’s courage as opposed to the mightier strength of the more ferocious animals; but the accounts of such adventures in later times are less doubtful, and a brief recapitulation of a few of them will serve equally well to introduce the “Triumphs of Enterprise.”
GENERAL PUTNAM,
Who signalised his courage in the struggles with the French on the continent of North America about the middle of the last century, removed after the war to the State of Connecticut. The wolves, then very numerous, broke into his sheepfold, and killed seven fine sheep and goats, besides wounding many lambs and kids. The chief havoc was committed by a she-wolf, which, with her annual litter of whelps, had infested the neighbourhood. The young were generally destroyed by the vigilance of the hunters, but the mother-wolf was too wary to come within gun-shot, and upon being closely pursued would fly to the western woods, and return the next winter with another litter of whelps. This wolf at length became such an intolerable nuisance that Putnam entered into a combination with five of his neighbours to hunt alternately until they could destroy her; two, by rotation, were to be constantly in pursuit. It was known that having lost the toes of one foot by a steel trap she made one track shorter than the other. By this peculiarity the pursuers recognised in a light snow the route of this destructive animal. Having followed her to Connecticut river and found that she had turned back in a direct course towards Pomfret, they immediately returned, and by ten o’clock the next morning the bloodhounds had driven her into a den about three miles from Putnam’s house. The people soon collected with dogs, guns, straw, fire, and sulphur, to attack the common enemy. With these materials several unsuccessful efforts were made to force her from her den; the dogs came back badly wounded, and refused to return to the charge; the smoke of blazing straw had no effect, nor did the fumes of burnt brimstone, with which the cavern was filled, compel the wolf to quit her retirement. Wearied with such fruitless attempts, which had been continued until ten o’clock at night, Putnam tried once more to make his dog enter, but in vain. He proposed to his negro to go down into the cavern and shoot the wolf, but the negro dared not. Then it was that Putnam, declaring he would not have a coward in his family, and angry at the disappointment, resolved himself to destroy the ferocious beast or to perish in the attempt. His neighbours strongly remonstrated against the perilous undertaking; but he, knowing that wild animals are intimidated by fire, and having provided several slips of birch bark, the only combustible material which he could obtain that would afford light in this deep and darksome cave, prepared for his descent. Having divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, and fixed a strong rope round his body by which he might at a concerted signal be drawn out of the cave, he fearlessly entered head-foremost with the blazing torch in his hand.
The aperture of the den, on the east side of a very high ledge of rocks, was about two feet square; thence it descended obliquely fifteen feet, then running horizontally about ten more it ascended gradually sixteen feet towards its termination. The sides of this subterranean cavity were composed of smooth and solid rocks, which seem to have been driven from each other by some great convulsion of nature. The top and bottom were of stone, and the entrance to it in winter being covered with ice was exceedingly slippery. The cave was difficult of access, being in no place high enough for a man to stand upright, nor in any part more than three feet wide.
Having groped his passage to the horizontal part of the den, the most terrifying darkness appeared in front of the dim circle of light afforded by his torch. “It was silent as the tomb; none but monsters of the desert had ever before explored this solitary mansion of horror,” says the relator. Putnam cautiously proceeded onward; came to the ascent, which he mounted on his hands and knees, and then discovered the glaring eyeballs of the wolf, which was sitting at the extremity of the cavern. Startled at the sight of the fire, she gnashed her teeth and gave a sullen growl. As soon as he had made the discovery he gave the signal for pulling him out of the cavern. The people at the mouth of the den, who had listened with painful anxiety, hearing the growling of the wolf, and supposing their friend to be in danger, drew him forth with such quickness that his shirt was stripped over his head and his body much lacerated. After he had adjusted his clothes and loaded his gun with nine buck shot, with a torch in one hand and his musket in the other, he descended a second time. He approached the wolf nearer than before. She assumed a still more fierce and terrible appearance, howling, rolling her eyes, and gnashing her teeth. At length, dropping her head between her legs, she prepared to spring upon him. At this critical moment he levelled his piece and shot her in the head. Stunned with the shock, and nearly suffocated with the smoke, he immediately found himself drawn out of the cave. Having refreshed himself and permitted the smoke to clear away, he entered the terrible cave a third time, when to his great satisfaction he found the wolf was dead; he then took hold of her ears, and making the necessary signal, the people above, with no small exultation, drew the wolf and her conqueror both out together.