That season the mantas were abundant; the strikes, rides, and kills,
thrilling. Elliott’s bloodlust, however, seems appalling. Fearing loss of a har-
pooned manta, the intrepid sailor blasted its head with his shotgun, pro-
ducing ‘‘a jet of blood...cast several feet into the air’’ (). Nonetheless
the manta surged on, thrashing, bashing its head against the boat’s bow.
Finally it surfaced, writhing on its back, its ‘‘feelers thrown aloft above his
head, like giant hands upraised in supplication. There was something al-
most human in the...expression of his agony.’’ Elliott had a moment of
sympathy: ‘‘a feeling quite out of keeping with the scene stole over me while
I meditated the final blow.’’ But ‘‘it passed away in an instant’’ (–). The
poor manta was relieved of its torture and, with a great deal of difficulty,
towed to shore. The following summer Elliott, ailing, went to the shore to
recuperate—and to continue devil-fishing. At the conclusion of one of his
lengthy June diary entries there finally appears a justification for kill-
ing manta rays—that is, other than amusement: ‘‘the highest relish (it is,
in fact, whale-fishing in miniature).’’ Certainly it was not ‘‘objectionable on
the score of cruelty; it is not killing in mere wantonness,’’ he offered lamely.
Rather, the manta’s ‘‘liver yields an oil useful for many agricultural pur-
poses’’—he did not specify which—‘‘and the body cut into portions conve-
nient for transportation, and carted out upon the fields, proves an excellent
fertilizer of the soil’’ (). Gentlemen sportsmen have ever required com-
parable practicality in defense of their amusements—that is, anything but
the feeding of themselves. Devil-fishing in Carolina took sparingly from the
sea and returned generously to starving soils, we are to understand. The ar-
gument compares with the stalking and killing of predators on land, which
provided relish while protecting humans and their domestic animals and
crops.
Similarly, if any American needed blessings upon the absurdity of fox-
hunting, there was available to him the great bard of English field sports,
William Somerville (–), author of ‘‘The Chace’’ (), which A. B.
Longstreet reproduced at length to begin his picaresque ‘‘The Fox-Hunt’’
inGeorgia Scenes():
But yet, alas! The wily fox remain’d
A subtle, pilfering foe, prowling around
In midnight shades, and wakeful to destroy.
In the full fold, the poor defenceless lamb,
Seized by his guileful arts, with sweet warm blood
Supplies a rich repast. The mournful ewe,