Hark! there goes the bell, recalling us at once from our day-dream. Who

the mischief can have come to trouble us just now? What is this? Fire

and faggots! “Your vote and interest are respectfully solicited in

favour of Mr Macwheedle.” Why, the man is a rank Radical, and moreover

coquetting with the Papists! John, fling this card into the

waste-basket, and tell the gentlemen who brought it, with our

compliments, that we are particularly engaged at present, but shall not

fail to give our earnest attention to the subject. And stay, as the day

is hot, you may as well offer them a glass of beer. No one shall say

that we were guilty of discourtesy, though we were very nearly on the

point of desiring them to go to Jericho. For have they not cost us a

long journey, in bringing us back from Loch Awe before our time?

Vain would it be for us to retrace our steps, and conjure up again the

eidolon of Mr Colquhoun in desperate battle with the fish. More happy

than ourselves, he is doubtless at breezy Sonachan, whilst we are in the

city, panting for a mouthful of refreshing air. But though we cannot

remember him in person, we have his book beside us; and a better, more

useful, or more entertaining companion for a sportsman cannot anywhere

be found. Sporting treatises ought, generally speaking, to be received

with considerable caution. Let any man, who is either an angler or a

shot, reflect seriously on the enormous amount of exaggeration in which

he has indulged whilst detailing the particulars of his prowess, and he

will, if he has in him any candour at all, understand the force of our

observation. Almost every one of us—and we are no exception—are in the

habit of viewing our own exploits through the medium of powerful

magnifying glasses. In doing so, we merely obey a law of nature which

exhorts men to maintain their dignity and reputation; and there is no

point whatever upon which people are so touchy as their success in

sporting. To doubt, far less contradict, a gentleman who proffers for

your acceptance the narrative of an enormous basketful killed a

fortnight ago in the Tweed; or that of a red-deer, stopped at full speed

in the Athole forest, at a distance of four hundred yards, by the rifle

of the historian, and so huge that Crerar absolutely swooned at the

sight of it; or of myriads of grouse, brought down right and left,

without a single failure, is a hideous breach of manners. If, in your

heart, you believe that your informant is a much inferior sportsman to

yourself, you must meet him by overpowering statements; and it is very

singular that, after having twice told a fabulous Iliad of your

exploits, you end by thoroughly believing it. The boundary line between

the realm of fact and that of fiction is very indistinct; we ought

rather to say that it is nowhere absolutely marked, and that there

exists a large tract of debatable land which may be plausibly claimed

for either. For example, we are not at this moment certain whether we

ever shot a hooper or not. We have, indeed, in our mind, a dream or

vision of a star lit loch, with six beautiful white creatures feeding in

a bay. We remember how we crept along, behind a dyke, our heart

throbbing so hard as almost to choke us; and we can recall the agonising

moment when a stick broke beneath the pressure of our knee, before we

came within gunshot, and when the sentinel bird looked up as if

conscious of the approach of an intruder. We remember how we levelled

and fired. We remember also the dash in the water, and the whirr of

wings; and if we do not remember having brought down a second swan, as

it wheeled in circle, it is simply because we are somewhat dubious as to

the real existence of the first. We should cut but a poor figure if we

were questioned on oath as to that transaction. Sometimes the vision

comes so clear that we have no doubt whatever that we killed both the

swans. One lay dead-still in the bay, its wings distended, and its long

neck sunk below the surface. The other fluttered a little way out, but

we recovered him by means of a retriever. Then the question rises—which

retriever was it, for we have had four of them in our day? Was it

Neptune, unparalleled among the reeds at the divine season of the

flappers? Or was it Grog, who was never known to lose a wounded hare? Or

was it Cato, the curly, who could do everything but speak? Or was it

Captain, who is at this moment the inheritor of our best affections? We

cannot tell. It is impossible for us to say when or where it occurred.

Sometimes we think it was in the Highlands, and then we fix upon Loch

Sloy. At other times, it seems to us that we slew the swans in Saint

Mary’s Loch, just below the Coppercleugh. Occasionally we are inclined

to think that we only shot one of them; and, when very much out of

spirits, we have seriously asked ourselves, whether we ever saw a wild

swan, except stuffed, in a museum. Being in this state of perplexity,

our practice is to split the difference of belief, and to maintain, on

ordinary occasions, that we have shot one hooper. Of course, after a few

tumblers with a sporting friend, we have no hesitation in bringing

forward the second bird; but never, in any instance, have we violated

our convictions by increasing the number to three. With this example in

our mind, we always deal leniently with sportsmen. If a gentleman is so

enthusiastic as to go out to Caffraria, Upper Egypt, or the Cordilleras,

solely for the purpose of killing rhinoceroses, crocodiles, or condors,

why should we doubt the truth of any narrative which he may be pleased

to compile? How do you know that he did _not_ shoot fifteen lions in the

course of a summer’s evening, or that he did _not_ ride across the Nile

on the back of an enormous crocodile. To question his veracity is simply

to commit that impertinence which we have seen practised by snobs, who,

not content with your statement of the day’s sport, make a point of

peering into your pannier, or examining the contents of your game-bag.

Such hounds were intended by nature never to rise above the rank of a

water-bailiff. They ought to be summarily dealt with, and dismissed to

their kennel, with the reverse of a benison on their heads, and perhaps

with a hint to their rear.

Mr Colquhoun has this virtue, that he keeps his imagination more

entirely in check, as regards matters of fact, than any sportsman with

whose writings we are acquainted. He does not make up his bag or fill

his creel in a random way; nor does he add to the narrative of one day,

quite enough distinguished by its own achievements, the events of

another, which perhaps took place a year before. Neither does he commit

the error, so common, of representing every day as a triumph. Read the

accounts of most modern anglers, and you are led to conclude that they

never, in the whole course of their lives, have failed in filling their

baskets; whereas every adept with the rod is well aware that the days of

disappointment greatly outnumber those of success. The men of the

fowling-piece or rifle never miss. If they are in the Highlands, there

is always a plethora of grouse and red-deer; if in Central Africa, you

would suppose they were practising in a menagerie, and you conclude that

there must be prime pluffing in Polito’s. This, of course, is nonsense;

and in our humble opinion, it is calculated to act disadvantageously on

the character of young sportsmen. Sporting, in all its branches, is an

art which requires to be thoroughly studied on principle; and it is very

wrong to excite in the youthful mind expectations which cannot be

fulfilled. A boy of fourteen should not be told that he is adequate to

the capture of a salmon; or that he has only to go to a certain river

and throw in his line, in order to secure one. All education is

progressive. He should be entered with minnows, and so made acquainted

with the science of bait-fishing; he should be furthered with beardies,

encouraged with eels, and in due time initiated into the mystery of

capturing a trout with the fly. After that, all is plain sailing. But he

should be made to feel practically the difficulties which attend even

the rudiments of sport—not be impressed with the idea that there exist

no difficulties whatever. We have known many a fine young fellow, who

might have become a capital sportsman, stopped at the commencement of

his career by the disgust engendered by failure. The imagination of the

lad has been so excited by flowery narratives that he cannot summon up

patience enough to bide his appointed time: he must either succeed at

once, or he abandons the pursuit for ever. We regret to observe that the

habits of athletic sport, once so common to the youth of Scotland, are

rather on the decline; and our regret arises from the conviction that

the fine bodily training which is given by field sports contributes very

much to the development of a strong and manly mind. It is not difficult

to say, after the perusal of any book, whether the writer is or is not a

sportsman. If the former, there is a raciness in his style, a

familiarity with nature, and a power of illustration, which immediately

rivet your attention. Had Scott not been a sportsman, we should have

lost one great charm of his novels. He of the back slums, on the

contrary, who never wandered by the water-side, or took the hill with

the gun upon his shoulder, is always a feeble writer. There is something

sickly about his sentiment; he is vapid, dull, and queasy. His ideas of

vegetation are drawn from a window-box with some stunted specimens of

mignonette, striving, in spite of soot, to struggle into blossom,—or, at

best, from a suburban horse-chestnut. He derives his images of animated

life from a rabbit-hutch, or an occasional visit to a slaughter-house.

He has no taste for the roaring of the seas, the rushing of the blast,

or the thunders of a swollen cataract. He seeks repose, maunders about

tranquillity, and presents you with the sketch of a lake; which, on

examination, you discover to be the accurate portraiture of a

horse-pond. Surely the development of ideas is as important a point as

the mere acquirement of information. The one is to be gathered in the

field, the other in the schools; and we are not sure that, if we were

assured that all the boys were trained timeously to fishing, we should

not be inclined to vote for a general prolongation of the holidays.

We must really crave pardon of Mr Colquhoun for having left him in this

unceremonious manner. Another batch of canvassers, on the Seceding

interest, having probably received notice of our imprudent act of

hospitality, has just invaded the premises, and we have had great

trouble in getting rid of them at a considerable expenditure of liquor.

One gentleman in a fustian jacket tried to engage us in a discussion on

the subject of education; but, as his grammar was singularly imperfect,

we could not accurately comprehend his meaning. We parted, however, good

friends, notwithstanding that one acute Diomede tried to make a Glaucus

of us in the matter of a bran-new hat which happened to be exposed in

the lobby. Nathless we managed to retain our basnet, and the

‘prentice-cup went its way. We have said already that Mr Colquhoun’s

book may be relied on for accuracy of fact; but we should by no means

wish to impress our readers with the idea that he is at all deficient in

imagination, where imagination can be legitimately employed. Some of his

descriptions indeed are very beautiful, and recall the picturesque

scenery of the Highlands to the mind as vividly as the inspired pencil

of Horatio Macculloch can present it to the eye. But he never

condescends to make pictures merely for effect; and perhaps it is this

absence of exaggeration which gives such a stamp of truthfulness to his

volume. Neither does he affect the magnificent in sporting—a fault which

is rather conspicuous in some other writers whom we could name. After

reading the lucubrations of some sportsmen, and hearing them discourse,

you would conclude that they never condescended to expend powder and

lead upon a lesser object than a red-deer, and that they would consider

it highly derogatory to exert their energies on the capture of trout, in

the unavoidable absence of salmon. That is all fudge. Deer-stalking is

an excellent thing in its way, and may indeed be considered as the

highest branch of the art venatorial as practised in these islands; but

there is not one sportsman out of five hundred who ever had the

opportunity of levelling his rifle at a stag, and not one out of a

thousand who can pursue the sport systematically. Besides this, the

habitual deer-stalker must be a person endowed with uncommon stamina.

Quickness of vision—accuracy of aim—caution and perseverance—are

admirable things; but the stalker of the deer in his native solitudes

must moreover possess the inestimable gifts of muscle and wind in larger

proportion than is usually allowed to the inhabitants of cities. He must

account it nothing to lie half immersed for hours in a bog or burn,

without even the trifling excitement of an occasional glimpse of an

antler; he must be prepared to crawl up or rush down precipices, as the

exigency of the case or the movements of the deer may require; and he

must, moreover, make up his mind to return homewards many an evening,

after having been on the hills before cock-crow, wet, weary, and

famishing, without a single incident to console him for all his great

exertion. Now, there are very few people who will willingly submit to

this; and we cannot wonder at it, if other sport can be obtained with a

less expenditure of labour. We never knew a deer-stalker yet who had

lost his rest for grouse-shooting; and we have known several who, from

choice, would rather stalk a curlew than a stag. Your “whaup,” indeed,

is a most difficult fellow to circumvent. Seated on the sea-beach, he

might defy the approach of Sir Tristrem; indeed, to have shot a whaup in

the month of October is an exploit of which any man has just reason to

be proud. The true sportsman piques himself on the universality of his

skill, not in exclusive addiction to one particular pursuit. Therefore,

as a general rule, you may set down every writer on sporting subjects

who affects to be more magnificent in his views than his neighbours,

either as an impostor, who in reality knows little, or as a monomaniac,

whose general experiences of the chase are worthless, and who cannot

serve as an adequate guide.

No branch of sporting comes amiss to Mr Colquhoun, who is also an

accomplished naturalist. Great on the lake and salmon-river, he is

knowing at the “lochan” and the burn; and is aware that oftentimes as

much dexterity is required for the capture of a half-pounder, as might

suffice for the hooking of the lordliest fish that ever threaded the

rapids of the Dee. Even the piscatory student who knows Stoddart by

heart—and Tom has long been considered as quite at the summit of his

craft—may obtain many a valuable wrinkle from Colquhoun, who is fertile

in devices little known to the majority of practical anglers. It is the

fashion of some of the brethren of the wand to speak superciliously of

sea fishing, as if no sport could be obtained except in fresh water. Now

we admit at once that finer fishing is required in fresh than in salt

water; but there are times when the latter may be resorted to both with

profit and amusement. What the _haaf_ or deep-sea fishing may be we know

not; but in the lochs which indent the western shores of Scotland

excellent sport may be obtained. We take leave to draw the attention of

our sporting friends, who about this time of the year repair to the

Highlands, to the following extract from the volume before us:—

“The sea loch has a character peculiarly its own—no wooded islands, no

green or pebbly margin, like its inland sister, except, perhaps, for a

short time at full tide; and the dark mountain more often rises

abruptly from its side in craggy and bold relief. It is a novel sight

for the traveller, whom the refreshing evening breeze has tempted out

of the neighbouring inn, at the landlord’s recommendation, to try his

fishing luck with such a clumsy rod and tackle as he had never dreamt

of before. The awkward-looking herring ‘skows,’ well matched with

their black or red sails, scudding in all directions; the nasal twang

of the Gaelic, as they pass the bow or stern of his boat, shooting

their nets; the hardy weather-beaten face of the Highlander, always

civil in his reply, and courteous in pointing out the most likely

ground to the ‘stranger’—reiterating his injunctions (when his stock

of English extends no further) ‘to keep on the _broo_,’ yet plainly

showing that he expects the like courtesy in return, and that the

least slip on your part would immediately make him change his

tone,—all this can hardly fail to impress on the mind of the

imaginative, that the spirit of the Highlands, though dormant, is not

dead, and to carry back his fancy to the old times of clans, caterans,

and claymores.

“The fishing of the sea loch is not nearly so scientific as that of

the inland. The great art lies in being thoroughly acquainted with the

best state of the tide for commencing operations—in having a perfect

knowledge of the fishing-ground, and being able to set your long-line

with neatness and despatch. Having lived for a couple of years on the

banks of two sea-lochs, I had every opportunity (which I did not

neglect) of practising the different kinds of fishing, and making

myself master of the most propitious times of the tide for doing so

with success.

“Trolling for sea-trout may be ranked at the head of this fishing; but

before attempting to describe it, I shall mention two curious facts

relative to the sea-trout and salmon, which it is difficult to account

for. One is, that the former will take greedily in one loch, while you

may troll a whole day in its next neighbour, though full of them,

without getting a single bite. This was precisely the case in the two

lochs alluded to. The other, that although you may see the huge tails

and back-fins of salmon rising all round, I never heard of one taking

the bait; and during the whole of my trolling in the salt water, I

have only killed one grilse. This is the more strange, as the salmon

is not at all shy of the spinning-bait in the fresh-water loch.

“The best time to begin fishing for sea-trout is at the turn of the

tide when it begins to ebb: the same rod and tackle as when trolling

from a boat in fresh water. The herring-fry, salted, are the most

killing bait, (also excellent for large fish in fresh-water lochs,)

although minnows are very good; a sand-eel may also do, the black skin

pulled over the head so as to show nothing but the white body: this

shines very bright, but, as it does not spin, is far less deadly than

the others. A boatman who thoroughly knows the fishing-ground is

indispensable, as it is much more difficult to find out than in the

fresh water. Strong eddies formed by the tide are often good places;

also any bays, especially if mountain-burns run into them. The largest

size of sea-trout are caught in this way; and, when hooked, from the

depth and _strength_ of the water, make capital play. Large lythe also

are frequently taken; these are like passionate boxers—fight furiously

for a short time, after which they are quite helpless.

“If there is a good pool at the mouth of any mountain-burn, by going

down with your fly-rod during a ‘spate,’ or coming down of the water

after heavy rain, _and when the tide is at the full_, you may have

excellent sport. The trout are all floundering about, ready to take

your fly the moment it touches the water. This only lasts for a short

time, as they all leave the pool at the receding of the tide. I say

nothing of sea-trout or salmon flies, which vary so much in the

different lochs, rivers, and streams, that every angler should be able

to dress them for himself. Any fishing-tackle maker will be happy to

teach him _for a consideration_. He has then only to learn from an

approved hand near, what flies are best for the loch or stream he

intends to fish, and tie them accordingly.”

These latter remarks savour too much of the old school. It may be useful

in the case of emergency to be able to busk a fly; but we are free to

confess that it is upwards of twenty years since we attempted such an

operation. In the days of our youth we were accounted rather a good hand

at dressing, and could turn out, on occasion, an excellent fac-simile of

a bumbee. But we discovered anon, that to busk our own flies was a

frightful loss of time, and necessitated the collection of an infinite

quantity of feather, fud, floss, carpet, and twistings, which very soon,

without any manipulation on our part, produced abundance of insect life

in the shape of moths. Therefore, one fine morning we pitched the whole

contents of our poke out of the window, and have since had recourse for

our supplies to the regular professional artists. Every man who knows

anything at all about fishing is competent to the selection of his own

flies; and notwithstanding all that has been written to the contrary, we

assert, from our own experience, that it is not necessary to carry with

you a very diversified stock. For trouting, eight or ten of the most

approved sorts of flies are amply sufficient: of course you must take

care to have them of different sizes. There is more variety in salmon

flies; but if you attend properly to colour, you may easily, at a

moderate expense, furnish such a pocket-book as will enable you to fish

with success in every river in the kingdom, provided you know how to

handle your rod. We by no means undervalue local information. If you can

pick up an intelligent poacher, or in default of him a gamekeeper, you

can readily, for the matter of a mutchkin, ascertain what colour is

considered most killing on the particular river which he depopulates;

and you will find something in your book which will correspond

accurately enough. If you are short of flies, the same free-tacksman of

the stream will, for a shilling or two, tie you as many as you may

require. And do not be afraid that he will lack the material. The

feathers of the bubbly-jock make admirable wings—a red cock, adorned

with a ruff of hackles, sounds his trumpet upon every midden; and your

unlicensed acquaintance usually contrives to put by various sylvan furs

and plumage, during the season when game fetches a good price in the

metropolitan market. Trust to him for having retained sundry _souvenirs_

of grouse, blackcock, mallard, and plover—besides a hare’s lug, in

affectionate remembrance of some departed maukin. And do not, unless you

are a justice of the peace, be hard upon the poor fellow for obeying, in

a moderate way, the impulses of his nature. He is not by any means to be

confounded with those brutal bludgeoneers who harbour in towns, and go

out methodically in gangs to poach. He is simply an Indian in

disposition, very kind to his colley and affectionate to his child,

passionately fond of tobacco, whether in the shape of snuff or pigtail,

and on the best possible terms with a brother Celt, whose dwelling is

supposed to be subterraneous, and impregnable to the curiosity of the

exciseman. We say, do not be hard with him, for were he merely a

clodhopper, he could not busk a fly.

There is also another kind of fishing to be had in the salt-water lochs,

which is not without its attraction, although, as Mr Colquhoun observes,

it is not the daintiest in the world. We mean the fishing with the

long-line which we have seen practised with great success both in Loch

Long and Loch Fine, and which is worth the attention of the sportsman.

Let us hear our author upon it.

“The eel-line, already noticed, is precisely the long-line in

miniature with the exception of the hooks, which are such coarse,

blunt-looking weapons, that the wonder is how they catch at all. They

are sold for a mere trifle at any of the shops in the seaport towns,

and tied on with a wax end, but sometimes only with a knot of the

twine itself: a turn of the wire on the shank enables you to do this.

A baiting-basket is required, one end for the line, the other for the

baited hooks, which are placed in regular rows. My line had only three

hundred hooks, but some have double that number. Herring, cut into

small pieces, are the best bait: I required about a dozen for one

setting, provided I eked out with mussels, but eighteen or twenty were

necessary if the line was baited exclusively with herring. Mussels,

however, drop off the hook so easily, that when herring can be

procured they are seldom used. Seeing the long-line baited, set, and

drawn, will thoroughly teach any one who has an idea of

fishing—_writing_ how to do so, never will. It generally took me about

an hour and a half to bait mine; so I taught a boy, who, after two or

three lessons, could bait as well as myself.

“The best time to set the long-line is after low water, when the tide

has flowed a little, and brought the fish with it. To know the

different ‘hauls’ is most important, as your success in a great

measure depends upon the selection of a good one. After the line is

set, _it should be left exactly one hour_; and, if you have hit upon a

shoal, you will most likely half fill the boat. I have several times

killed about a dozen, from twenty to fifty pounds’ weight, besides

quantities of smaller. The fish for the most part taken are cod, ling,

haddock, skate, large flounders, and enormous conger-eels—some of the

latter more than half the length of your boat, and as thick as a man’s

leg. These would generally be thrown back again, were it not for the

havoc they make among the other fish, and the damage they do to the

set lines. Their throats, therefore, are cut as soon as they are

pulled up, after which operation they will live for hours. The skate

is also very tenacious of life; and nothing can be more absurd than

the grotesque pompous faces it will continue to exhibit for some time

after being deposited in the boat.”

Here Mr Colquhoun becomes slightly libellous—comparing the countenances

of the unhappy skate to those of functionaries on the bench. Now we

happen to have seen a moribund skate or two, but we never were impressed

with such resemblance. We admit, however, that we have seen countenances

under wigs look exceeding dolorous and fish-like when their party was

going out of office.

But enough of this kind of fishing, which is, after all, too strictly

professional for our taste. We prefer the rod and fly; and even in the

salt water the angler may use such implements, though in a coarser form

than that to which he is accustomed.

“Of all apologies for a fly, this (the white feather) is the

clumsiest. It is only a swan’s or goose’s feather tied round a large

and very coarse bait-hook, without the least pretence to art: any man

who had never dressed a fly in his life would be as successful in the

attempt as the most finished performer. The rod and line are in

perfect keeping with the fly; a bamboo cane, or young hazel tree, with

ten or twelve yards of oiled cord, and a length or two of double or

triple gut next the hook: no reel is used.

“The fish generally caught in this way are lythe and seithe, although

mackarel will rise freely also. When fishing for the former, good

double gut may be strong enough; but if large fish are expected, I

should always recommend triple. Seithe take best in the morning and

evening, and a light breeze is rather an advantage: although the fly

is sometimes sunk a little with lead, it is more often fished with at

the top. You may begin at any state of the tide, and row over all the

sunk banks and places where the fish frequent, at a slow rate, with

three or four rods placed regularly in the stern of the boat. When a

small seithe is hooked, pull it in at once, and out with the rod again

as fast as possible; sometimes nearly all the rods have a fish at the

same time. In lythe fishing, you need not launch your boat until

lowwater; sink the fly with a couple of buckshot, and troll on the

brow where it descends perpendicularly; this is easily seen at that

state of the tide. When you hook a large fish, try to prevent it

getting down, or you may be obliged to throw the rod overboard, in

case the lythe should break away; but, if you can manage to swing it

about at the top for a short time, it will soon be unable to offer any

resistance.

“Trolling with the white feather has this recommendation, that it may

be enjoyed by an invalid or party of ladies—and, certainly, a more

delightful way of spending the cool of a summer evening cannot be

imagined; rowing slowly along those romantic shores—hearing the

distant gurgle of the dwindled mountain-brook in its steep descent,

and ever and anon passing the blue curling smoke of a shepherd’s or

fisherman’s grass-topped hut upon the banks.”

Four times has that detestable door-bell rung; and on each occasion we

have heard the murmur of voices below, the shuffling of feet, and the

tinkling of tumblers. Our hospitality, we begin to fear, has been

grossly abused—all the canvassers in the neighbourhood are flocking to

our tap—and we are not without some misgivings that we may have incurred

the statutory penalties for treating. There goes the bell again! Who the

deuce can it be now? Surely we have liquored impartially every Trojan

and Tyrian in the district. Well—who is it?

“The Chairman of Mr Macwheedle’s Committee.”

Tell the Chairman of Mr Macwheedle’s Committee that we are at this

moment slightly delirious, and practising with pistols in the attics.

Hint to him, moreover, that we have an unfortunate habit of firing down

into the lobby whenever we hear a noise, and that we may possibly

mistake him for a rhinoceros. And give no more beer, on any account, to

any human being. We trust, now, we may be permitted to remain

undisturbed, and finish our article in peace.

On glancing round the attic, we observe that our rifle, and

double-barrelled Dickson, have lain untouched since November last. We

must look to this gear speedily; for time is stealing on, and the

twelfth of August will be upon us before we have recovered from the heat

of these elections. We intend, weather permitting, to knock down on that

day as many brace as may correspond with Lord Derby’s majority—and the

news of the result of the first contested election in England should

arrive about this time. Indeed, we suppose it has arrived, for there is

an unusual sound in the street, and a bawling as of triumphant

partisans. We open the window, peer over, and behold a frantic

Constitutionalist gesticulating like a windmill. What is the row down

there? “THE TWO CONSERVATIVE CANDIDATES RETURNED FOR LIVERPOOL BY AN

IMMENSE MAJORITY!” Heaven be praised! Mr Cardwell has got his gruel at

last. Go home, our fine fellow, and try, if possible, to keep sober. At

the same time, we consider it necessary to dedicate a special bumper in

honour of this event, for first blood is always a great point in a

battle. With three cheers, which startle the swallows from their

equanimity, we drink to the health of the electors of Liverpool, who

have so nobly done their duty; and to that of Messrs Turner and Forbes

Mackenzie, their staunch and worthy representatives.

If this sort of thing goes on, we shall have work before us on the

Twelfth. On that day, many an unfledged sportsman will take the hillside

for the first time; and for their benefit we transcribe a few sentences,

by way of precept, from Mr Colquhoun’s book. Let them, however, read

diligently the whole of his chapter upon grouse and black game shooting,

and we promise them that, by adopting his suggestions, they will bring

home a heavier bag than they could secure by following the advice of any

other mentor.

“Most young shots are not content unless they are upon the moor by

peep of day, on the long-anticipated 12th of August. And what is the

result? They have found and disturbed most of the packs before they

have well fed, and one half will rise out of distance, and fly away

unbroken. Had the moor been left quiet till eight or nine o’clock,

four double shots might have been obtained at almost every pack, and

many would have been scattered for the evening shooting. It will

generally be found that if two equal shots, upon equal moors, uncouple

their dogs, one at five o’clock and the other at eight, and compare

notes at two in the afternoon, the lazy man will have the heaviest

game-bag, and his ground will be in best order for the deadly time of

the day, to say nothing of his competitor’s disadvantage from having

fruitlessly wasted his own strength and that of his dogs, when many of

the packs would not allow him to come within reach. My advice,

therefore, to the young grouse-shooter, is always to wait till the dew

is dry on the heather. If he starts at eight o’clock, and travels the

moors as he ought, there is time enough before dark to put his powers

to the proof, however he may pique himself upon them. I do not mean to

say he must run over the ground, but keep up a steady, determined

walk, up hill and down hill, without flagging for an instant, unless

the dogs come upon the scent of game. Of all sports, grouse-shooting

is the most laborious. None can stand a comparison with it except

deer-stalking; and yet the veriest “soft,” puffing and blowing at

every step, may put off a whole day upon the moors—travelling them, I

will not call it—and boast after dinner that “he wonders how people

can find grouse-shooting so toilsome and fatiguing—_fox-hunting_ is

much more so.””

This, however, with all deference to Mr Colquhoun, requires to be

received with qualification. One man may work himself very nearly to

death at grouse-shooting with no more success than another who takes it

leisurely. If you go out with numerous relays of dogs, letting loose a

couple, or perhaps three high-bred and far-ranging pointers at a time,

you will undoubtedly, on any average moor, get exercise enough to knock

you up long before the day is over. You must necessarily walk up to

every point, whether it be a real one or not; and great is your travel

accordingly. Our method is different. We never let out more than one dog

at a time. The very best of dogs are not improved by emulation,

especially at the beginning of the season. They stand upon the honour of

their noses; and, rather than not make points, will take up the faintest

scent out of sheer jealousy of each other; whereas a single dog knows

that he is in a situation of trust, and will not willingly betray you.

Contrary to the popular dogma, we prefer a setter to a pointer. The

former is a more intelligent and docile animal than the latter, and, if

you take proper pains with him, will always understand you better, and

accommodate himself accordingly. The only disadvantage of setters is

that they require water, and are liable to be much distressed when the

moor is particularly dry. Still we give them the preference over the

other; and, if you have your dog fully under command, you will kill as

many birds over him, with infinitely less fatigue to yourself, as if you

were to let out three. Of course you must take care not to let him be

overworked; for there are limits to the endurance of every living

creature, however willing he may be. A really good dog will not give in

readily, for he enjoys the sport as much as you do yourself. And here we

would entreat our young friends to beware how they are harsh to their

dogs. Be kind to your dog, and he will love you more sincerely and less

selfishly than almost any human being. Do not be in a hurry to conclude

that he is stupid. Nature has gifted him with a nose in many respects

superior to your own; and he is far more likely to be in the right than

you are. Some faults there are undoubtedly which you must check, but

never with unnecessary harshness. No more hideously brutal picture can

be conceived than that of a hulking fellow in fustian, with a flushed

face and angry voice, belabouring a prostrate pointer.

Mr Colquhoun has some very sensible observations on the instinct of

dogs, which we transcribe for the benefit of those who think that a

pointer or a setter can display no sagacity except in the field.

“It is often amusing to hear those who know little about the subject

describing the ‘almost reason’ of the St Bernard’s dog, and not

unfrequently of the Scotch ‘colley.’ It appears to me that the

instinct of these animals is more prominently forced upon their

notice, and they do not take the trouble to watch and discover it in

the other species. Sagacity is more equally distributed among the

different varieties of the dog than such casual observers are aware

of; but it, of course, takes different directions, according to the

temper, habits, and treatment of the animal. It would be a waste of

time so far to control the keen tempers of sporting-dogs (by which I

mean setters and pointers) as to make them perform the duties of a

well broke phlegmatic retriever. The instinctive power may therefore

appear greater in one than the other; but from the quiet, easy temper

of the retriever, it is much less difficult to develop and make use of

his instinct in that particular way: while the setter and pointer,

owing to their more active life and hunting propensities, may often

pass unnoticed, even by their masters, though every time they are in

the field displaying as much tact as the most cautious retriever.

Their sagacity is never thought of; and the only praise they get is

that they are ‘excellent dogs;’ which means _that they find plenty of

game_.

“There is another reason why sporting-dogs appear more deficient in

sense than some others, and that is their mode of life. Confined

always in the kennel unless when seeking game, all their powers are

employed to this end. There are, however, abundant proofs that, when

made companions, and suffered to occupy a place upon the hearth-rug,

they are capable of the same attachment, and would equal in sagacity

the much-lauded dogs of St Bernard. Indeed, the usual mode of

imprisoning sporting-dogs is so great a disadvantage, that I have seen

some, with excellent noses, and every requisite for the moors, grow

sulky, and refuse to hunt with their usual freeness, unless left in a

great measure to themselves. This, I know, arose partly from a want of

proper management, and not keeping the medium between encouraging

kindness and merited correction; for too much lenity is nearly as

injurious to a dog as over-severity: sulkiness will often be the

effect in the one case, shyness in the other. Still, if the dog were

allowed to be the companion of his master, he would both acquire sense

and tact in half the time, and would not give half the trouble either

by shyness or sulkiness; whereas it will generally be found that a

kennel-dog is long past his best before he excels in that sagacity on

the moor which so greatly assists him in finding game.”

In short, the dog who knows his master, and is familiar with his ways,

will always do his work more satisfactorily than the poor beast who has

passed the greater number of his days in the monotony of the kennel, and

who never has had the advantage of being introduced to human society.

We have not, however, adverted to the points raised by Mr Colquhoun as

to taking the moors early. There can be no doubt that he is right, in

the advice which he tenders to young sportsmen. Early-rising we believe

to be a virtue, though one which we do not practise with sufficient

exactitude; and we have heard it stated, on credible authority, that

nature looks lovely at sunrise. But for all that, there is no occasion

whatever for awakening the echoes by a premature discharge of musketry.

Grouse must breakfast like other living creatures, and it is but fair to

allow them, on this the day of their annual massacre, the privilege of a

matutinal picking. As to your own breakfast, we certainly should not

recommend you to victual yourself as if you were stowing away provisions

to last you for a couple of days; but, on the other hand, go not forth

famished. Mr Colquhoun recommends you to forego the companionship of a

flask. We dissent. If the weather is boiling, and if you are not

accustomed to violent exercise, you must necessarily drink something;

and the safest beverage is water slightly tinctured with spirits. Beer

blows you up, and porter makes you sleepy. Cold tea is trash. Of course

you will take care not to increase your hereditary thirst by cramming

yourself at luncheon with ham, or any of those high-spiced delicacies

which Italian warehousemen especially recommend for the moors. Eat

anchovies, and in a quarter of an hour after you have resumed your beat,

you will find that you had better have tasted of the apples of the Dead

Sea. And here we shall remark that the proceedings of the previous

evening have often much to do with these distressing symptoms of thirst.

Of all days in the year we regard the eleventh of August as that which

should be most soberly observed; and we earnestly counsel our young

friends, if they have any regard for their own comfort, to resist on

that evening the most pressing hospitality which may be offered them by

a seasoned Thane. Besides this, young sportsmen are commonly nervous

enough on their first field-day, without doing anything additional to

make their hand unsteady; and it is well known to authorities, that,

whereas the man who begins by shooting well in the morning commonly

continues to do so throughout the day, the unfortunate lad who

signalises himself by a series of misses at the commencement very rarely

regains coolness enough to enable him to do any execution. He becomes

flurried and anxious, takes no deliberate aim, fires at any kind of

distance, and, not unfrequently, puts the life of Ponto into jeopardy

extreme.

Black-cock shooting is a much tamer sport than that afforded by the

quest of the grouse. Nevertheless, as an old cock is a handsome bird to

look at, and withal heavy, though he makes but an indifferent addition

to the table, the young sportsman is usually desirous to bring him to

bag. On this subject we have a word or two to say. Great care should be

taken not to disturb the young broods before the twentieth of

August—indeed, in our opinion, the twentieth of August is quite early

enough to begin. The places where black game hatch, and in which the

young broods continue until they are well grown, are quite distinct from

those frequented by the grouse. You may expect to find the former in

tracts of rushy ground, in little glens where the fern grows abundantly,

or in low brushwood; whereas the latter are always to be sought for

among the heather. Young black game lie so close that it is sometimes

easy to take them with the hand just under the nose of the

pointer—indeed the pointer is often tempted to break rules, and make a

grab at the living simpleton who will not flutter up. At the

commencement of the season it is always best to keep the higher ground,

so that the dogs may not interfere with the black in their quest for the

red game; and afterwards, in every case where the birds are not fully

grown, we supplicate for mercy for the maternal grey hen. Indeed, the

sportsman will find it to his advantage to give her a reprieve; for

young black game are very helpless creatures, and, if deprived of their

mother’s superintendence before they are well fledged, are apt to fall

victims to some of their natural enemies, who are perpetually on the

prowl. As for the old cocks, down with them whenever you can. They are

quite able to look after themselves, are exceedingly wary, and, if you

happen to find them in the bracken or brushwood, will afford you a

charming right and left. Towards the close of the season, stalking

blackcock is a very exciting sport. It requires great caution and

skill—for our sable acquaintances are knowing strategists, and always

appoint a sentinel. Driving blackcock is another method which we have

practised with considerable success, both in Argyllshire and on the

Border, where this species of game especially abounds; and we can answer

for the excellence of the sport. These remarks apply to the

circumventing of the old birds—the pursuit of young black game is very

tame work. They always rise within easy distance, and fly so steadily

that the merest tyro can bring them down; whereas the acuter grouse,

after he has been once or twice disturbed, seems to form a very accurate

estimate of the nature and purposes of a gun, and endeavours to get out

of your way without cultivating a nearer acquaintance.

We are bound to confess that we never shot a ptarmigan; and, judging

from Mr Colquhoun’s account of two expeditions which he made in search

of that Alpine bird, we have little inclination to follow his example.

The ptarmigan, or white grouse, is only found near the summits of the

loftiest mountains in Scotland; and, when roused, he has a playful habit

of crossing from one peak to another, so that, if you wish to follow him

up, you must ascend a second Jungfrau. Now, we have no idea of this kind

of elevation; for one would require to be a sort of Giant of the Hartz,

able to stride from mountain to mountain, in order to pursue such

erratic game. Alpine hares are more to the purpose; and as we believe

English sportsmen are not well acquainted with the habits of this

animal, which, of late years, has been greatly on the increase in some

districts of Scotland, we may perhaps transcribe with advantage the

remarks of Mr Colquhoun.

“The white hare inhabits many of our mountains. It is not confined,

like the ptarmigan, to the tops of the highest and most inaccessible,

but, on the contrary, is often met with on grouse-shooting ranges,

where there are few crags or rocks to be seen. I have frequently shot

it on flats, between the hills, where it had made its form like the

common hare; and, though I have more often moved it in rocky

places—where it sometimes has its seat a considerable way under a

stone—I do not think it ever burrows among them, as some suppose; for,

although hard pressed, I have never seen it attempt to shelter itself,

like a rabbit, in that way. Indeed there would be little occasion for

this, as its speed is scarcely inferior to the hares of the wood or

plain, and it evidently possesses more cunning. When first started,

instead of running heedlessly forward, it makes a few corky bounds,

then stops to listen, moving its ears about; and, if the danger is

urgent, darts off at full speed, always with the settled purpose of

reaching some high hill or craggy ravine. If not pressed, it springs

along as if for amusement; but takes care never to give its enemy an

advantage by loitering.

“I put up one on the 16th March 1840, when inspecting the

heather-burning on my moor, at Leny in Perthshire, which (contrary to

their usual practice) kept watching, and allowed me several times to

come within a hundred yards. I was at first surprised, but the

explanation soon occurred to me that it had young ones in the heather.

I had thus a good opportunity of noticing the commencement of its

change of colour. The head was quite grey, and the back nearly so;

which parts are the last to lose, as well as the first to put on, the

summer dress. I shot one nearly in the same stage, on the 22d November

1839. The only difference was that the whole coat of the former

appeared less pure. This is easily accounted for, as in winter the

creature, though recovering a fresh accession of hair, loses none of

the old, which also becomes white; whereas in spring it casts it all,

like other animals. Thus, by a merciful provision, its winter covering

is doubly thick; while, at the same time, being the colour of snow,

(with which our hills are generally whitened at that time of year,) it

can more easily elude its numerous foes. The same remark applies to

the ptarmigan.

“During a mild winter, when the ground is free from snow, the white

hare invariably chooses the thickest patch of heather it can find, as

if aware of its conspicuous appearance; and to beat all the bushy

tufts on the side and at the foot of rocky hills at such a time

affords the best chance of a shot. The purity or dinginess of its

colour is a true criterion of the severity or mildness of the season.

If the winter is open, I have always remarked that the back and lower

part of the ears retain a shade of the fawn-colour; if, on the

contrary, there is much frost and snow, the whole fur of the hare is

very bright and silvery, with scarcely a tint of brown. When started

from its form, I have constantly observed that it never returns,

evidently knowing that its refuge has been discovered. It will

sometimes burrow in the snow, in order to scrape for food and avoid

the cold wind, as well as for security. These burrows are not easily

discovered by an unaccustomed eye; the hare runs round the place

several times, which completely puzzles an observer, and then makes a

bound over, without leaving any footmark to detect her retreat. It is

hollowed out, like a mine, by the hare’s scraping and breath, and the

herbage beneath nibbled bare.

“When deer-stalking in Glenartney last autumn, I was quite amazed at

the multitude of Alpine hares. They kept starting up on all sides—some

as light-coloured as rabbits, and others so dark as to resemble little

moving pieces of granite. I could only account for their numbers from

the abundance of fine green food, and the absence of sheep; which are

as much avoided by hares as by deer, from their dirting the ground

with their tarry fleeces.

“An eye-witness, on whom I can depend, gave me a curious account of

the tactics of a hill-hare, which completely baffled the tyrant of the

rocks. Puss, as is her wont when chased by an eagle, sheltered herself

under a stone. The eagle took post at a little distance, and watched

long, exactly like a cat waiting for a mouse. Although her fierce foe

was out of sight, the hare seemed to have a _mesmeric_ knowledge of

his vicinity, for she never would move so far from her hiding-place as

to be taken by surprise. Several times she came out to feed, but the

moment the eagle rose she was safe again. At last her pursuer got

tired, and flew away. The white hare has always a refuge of this kind

where eagles haunt.”

We may add that the Alpine hare is now most abundant in some districts

of Perthshire, and that it is easily shot, by the sportsman taking post

at the outlet of one of the large enclosures of hill pasture, while the

ground within is beat. This, of course, is inglorious shooting; but

fellows who are not up to the ready use of firearms like it; and we

should be inclined to bet that even Mr John Bright would, once out of

twenty-five trials, contrive to hit a hare. We shall not rashly

predicate the like of his friend Mr Welford, unless the hares were taken

sitting; and, even in that case, we have great doubts whether the

arch-enemy and would-be extirpator of game would succeed; for we have an

idea that he entertains a vague notion that the recoil of a

fowling-piece is something absolutely terrific.

By the way, what has become of Welford? It is now several years since we

had occasion to notice his work on the game-laws with marked amenity;

but, since then, we have lost sight of that Pleiad. Is it possible that

he can have been converted to our views, in consequence of his having

been graciously permitted by the member for the West Riding to sport

over his extensive estates? We hope so, and do not despair to see him

ere long upon the mountains with a philabeg girt round his loins. Having

begun such a crusade against the _feræ naturæ_, he ought to consummate

it with his own hand. Theseus was supposed to have rid the Peloponnesus

of ravening beasts—why should not Welford exterminate the objects of his

wrath, and put an end to the ornithology of Great Britain?

So long as moor and loch remain—and it will be a considerable time

before the one is thoroughly reclaimed, and the other thoroughly

drained, in Scotland—there is little probability that any of the animals

native to our country will utterly perish before the exertions of the

Manchester gentry. Indeed it is worth while remarking that modern

improvement, by replacing the woods, has again brought back to districts

the game which for centuries had disappeared. Within our recollection, a

roe-deer had never been seen by a living man south of Forth; now they

are not uncommon within twelve miles of Edinburgh, and probably will

soon spread to the Border, and beyond it. The roe is no great delicacy

for the table—though the Germans think otherwise, and dress it with

considerable skill—nor might it satisfy the requirements of an

aldermanic appetite; but no one who has seen those elegant creatures

bounding through a Highland wood, or stealing out at evening to feed

beyond the coppice, can deny the charm which they add to the beauties of

our northern landscape. We fairly confess that we never, even in the

heyday and excitement of our youth, have shot a roe without experiencing

a pang of regret. But roes, according to the views of Welford, must not

be allowed to multiply indefinitely; and therefore we have endeavoured

at times, when they became too thick, and would persevere in barking the

trees, to do our duty. We shall not extract anything from Mr Colquhoun’s

chapter upon roe-hunting, which we recommend to the attention of those

who may shortly have occasion to try that sport; but we cannot pass over

a little Highland picture in which the roe is a prominent figure.

“Day was just breaking when I crossed the river Tulla, on my way to

Peter Robertson’s cottage. He was standing before his door, consoling

himself for his early start by a pipe of very strong tobacco. The

morning was all we could wish—calm, grey, and mild. As we passed the

banks of the loch, roe-deer were quietly cropping the greensward,

which sloped to the water’s edge, and now and then a fine buck would

raise his head, and look listlessly over his shoulder, as if wondering

what business we had to be so early astir. The blackcock, surrounded

by his hens, was crooning his antics on the tops of the knolls, and

was answered by the redcock, with many a cheery but eccentric call,

from the more distant heights. A male hen-harrier was flitting

stealthily above the heather, seeking his breakfast where it could

easily be found, with small chance of human company at his morning

meal. Now and then an Alpine hare would canter lazily away, or raise

herself upon her hind-legs to listen, moving about her inquisitive

ears.”

A perfect and most graphic Highland picture.

To the naturalist, the most puzzling of all questions is to define

accurately the limits between instinct and reason, as the terms are

commonly understood. We have long ago given up the attempt in absolute

despair. Take, for example, the case of the rooks. They can distinguish

Sunday from the rest of the week as accurately as any precentor, and are

perfectly aware that, on that day, no gun will be levelled at them. You

may make demonstrations with a stick if you please, but the rooks will

not fly away. They merely retort with a caw of utter scorn. But on

Monday morning the Lord of Rookwood is a changed being. He will not on

any account let you within a hundred yards of him; and so excessively

acute is he, that you would almost swear he scents the powder in your

pocket. So is it with the roes. When wandering unarmed through a

Highland wood, you are almost certain to fall in with several of these

beautiful creatures, who regard you almost without alarm, and glide

slowly into the shaw. They know quite well that you are not there with

any murderous design, and they neither fear nor avoid you. Not so if you

carry a gun. In that case, you may look long enough about you before you

will descry the white spot, which is the distinguishing mark of the

roe-deer. They whom you seek are lying close in the brackens, perhaps

but a very few yards from you, but they will not stir till you are gone.

Beating for roe is stupid work. We do not see the fun of standing for

half the day in a pass waiting for a chance shot, with no other

regalement for the ear than the hoarse braying of the beaters, and their

everlasting shouts of “Shoo!” A much better method is that of stirring

the roe with a foxhound, when he glides from thicket to thicket, in

advance of his pursuer, whose clear note indicates his approach, and

gives you sufficient warning. But enough on this head.

We have already, in former articles, while reviewing the works of Mr St

John and the Stuarts, had occasion to enter pretty fully into the

subject of deer-stalking. Therefore we shall not again go over that

ground, although tempted to do so by Mr Colquhoun’s admirable chapter

devoted to that noble sport, in which he lays down, with great

perspicuity, all the rules which ought to be observed by the stalker. To

such of our readers as aspire to have their exploits chronicled in the

columns of the _Inverness Courier_, (the best sporting register in

Scotland,) we recommend Mr Colquhoun’s book, advising them to study it

well before they venture forth into the mountains. It is true that no

theory can supply the lack of practice; still, deer-stalking is

eminently an art; and there are distinct rules for following it, which

must not be disregarded. Mr Colquhoun is more concise than any former

writer, and we prefer him, as a guide, to Mr Scrope.

There is a very curious chapter devoted to the chase of the wild goat,

which may now be considered among the _feræ naturæ_ of Scotland. They

exist in some of the islands of Loch Lomond, and, if we mistake not, on

the hills of Ross-shire, near Loch Luichart. Some years ago, there were

several wild goats on the tremendous precipices at the entrance of the

Bay of Cromarty; but they were assailed in their fastnesses both from

sea and land, and, for aught we know, may have been exterminated. We

beg, however, to caution our English friends against firing at every

goat they may chance to fall in with in their rambles among the hills.

In many parts of the Highlands goats are kept as stock—indeed, it is

probable that the kind now considered as wild were originally stragglers

from some flock. In the course of two or three generations they have

lost all trace of a domestic character, and can neither be claimed nor

reclaimed. But it is not safe for sportsmen to exercise their judgment

upon this point, without distinct local information, lest, perchance,

they should happen to smite down an appropriated Billy in his pride. We

have known some awkward mistakes occurring with regard to geese, who had

somewhat imprudently exhibited themselves on the bosom of a mountain

tarn.

We cannot read the chapter entitled “Crap-na-Gower,” containing an

account of an exterminating warfare against the goats on one of the Loch

Lomond islands, without wishing that they had been allowed to remain, at

whatever injury to the trees. Mr Colquhoun, who always writes as a

humane gentleman ought to do, virtually admits that he does not plume

himself on the share which he took in that crusade; and there is

something very melancholy in the picture which he draws of the

death-scene of the last Billy. We can fully understand the feeling which

prompts men of an exceedingly tender and sensitive disposition to

abstain from field sports altogether. The idea of giving pain to any

living creature is to them intolerable; and we believe there are few

sportsmen who have not in their own minds experienced occasional

misgivings. Abhorring, as we do, all manner of cruelty, it does seem at

first sight strange and unnatural, that a person feeling thus, should

seek amusement or recreation in depriving living creatures of their

existence. But we altogether deny that there is any ferocity in the

chase. We are led to it by a natural instinct, powerful in the savage,

but which civilisation has no power to obliterate; and that instinct was

doubtless given to us, as were the brute creation to man, for wise and

useful purposes. Those who argue that there is inhumanity in field

sports, seldom reflect on their own inconsistency. Either they must

maintain—which none of them do—that wild animals should be allowed to

multiply indefinitely, in which case foxes, foumarts, and stoats, would

share in the general amnesty, not to mention such an increase in the

number of hares as would annihilate agriculture; or they must, as some

of them certainly do, assert their right to cut off a branch of creation

from the earth. The argument for field sports lies midway between

unrestricted multiplicity and total extermination. Now, surely it is

better that a grouse should have its lease of life and enjoyment, and

afterwards be swiftly shot down for the use of man, than that there

should be no grouse at all. Your modern advocate for total clearance is,

in fact, as gross a barbarian as the brute who deliberately sets his

foot upon a nest of eggs, for the avowed purpose of preventing so much

development of animal existence. He is, in heart at least, a

chick-murderer. He opposes himself to the economy of creation; and

would, on his own responsibility, make a new arrangement of the zoology

of the globe, on principles entirely his own.

It would be a great relief to us if those Homeridæ, who have been

screaming satirical panegyrics on Macwheedle beneath our window, for the

last hour or two, would withdraw themselves and their minstrelsy. Such

canorous vagabonds do a great deal of mischief. The satirified

individual, who is, in reality, a very poor creature, suddenly finds

himself swelled into importance, by being chaunted ironically in the

streets; and is apt to imbibe the notion that he is, after all, a fit

and proper person to be returned to Parliament. So far as we have been

able to gather the meaning of the words, these effusions seem to be

couched in the veriest doggrel; but, for all that, they are emanations

from the popular mind, symptomatic of the coming result of the poll, and

we so receive them. Against Macwheedle we are ready to lay any manner of

odds, for no minstrel’s throat, as yet, has vibrated decidedly in his

praise. We hope, however, that the shilling, which we willingly tender,

may procure us immunity, for an hour or two, from this hideous irruption

of song.

Hitherto we have adverted mainly, for the benefit of those who are

untried in the ways of the Moor and the Loch, to the earlier sports of

the season; because we are in favour of what Dandie Dinmont termed a

“regular entering,” and have no idea of dispensing with principles at

the commencement of the sportsman’s career. Old hands know perfectly

well what is before them. Such a work as this, which we are reviewing,

may possibly confirm some of their theories, or it may reveal to them

the cause—especially in winter shooting—of some errors into which they

may have inadvertently fallen from too slight notice of the habits and

peculiar sensitiveness of their game. Mr Colquhoun’s observations on

this point are peculiarly valuable; for, dwelling on the banks of one of

the most beautiful of our Scottish lochs, he has had ample opportunity

to study the movements of the aquatic birds which congregate there in

the winter season. The reader must not expect to find such narratives of

wholesale slaughter among ducks and widgeon as embellish the pages of

Colonel Hawker. Punt-shooting is limited to the sea-shores and harbours;

and we can readily conceive it to be an exciting occupation for those

who are hardy enough to take the mud at midnight, regardless of the

state of the thermometer. But duck-shooting, on a Highland loch,

partakes more of the nature of stalking, and calls forth in an eminent

degree the skill and resources of the hunter.

“Having now equipped our wildfowl shooter, we will again bring him to

the shore. His first object should be to see his game without being

seen himself, even if they are at too great a distance to show signs

of alarm. To effect this he must creep cautiously forward to the first

point that will command a view of the shore for some distance; then,

taking out his glass, he must reconnoitre it by inches, noticing every

tuft of grass or stone, to which wildfowl asleep often bear so close a

resemblance, that, except to a very quick eye, assisted by a glass,

the difference is not perceptible. If the loch be well-frequented, he

will most likely first discover a flock of divers, but must not be in

a hurry to pocket his glass, until he has thoroughly inspected the

shore, in case some more desirable fowl may be feeding or asleep upon

it. I will suppose that he sees some objects that _may_ be wildfowl.

Let him then immediately direct his glass to the very margin of the

loch, to see if anything is moving there. Should he find it so, he may

conclude that it is a flock of either duck, widgeon, or teal; those

first perceived resting on the shore, and the others feeding at the

water’s edge—of course not nearly so conspicuous. If there is no

motion at the margin of the loch he must keep his glass fixed, and

narrowly watch for some time, when, if what arrested his attention be

wildfowl asleep, they will, in all probability, betray themselves by

raising a head or flapping a wing.

“He must now take one or two large marks, that he will be sure to know

again, as close to the birds as possible; and also another, about two

or three hundred yards immediately above, further inland. Having done

this, let him take a very wide circle and come round upon his inland

mark. He must now walk as if treading upon glass; the least rustle of

a bough, or crack of a piece of rotten wood under his feet, may spoil

all, especially if the weather be calm. Having got to about one

hundred yards from where he supposes the birds to be, he will tell his

retriever to lie down; the dog, if well trained, will at once do so,

and never move. His master will then crawl forward, until he gets the

advantage of a bush or tuft of reeds, and then raise his head by

inches to look through it for his other marks. Having seen them, he

has got an idea where the birds are, and will, with the utmost

caution, endeavour to catch sight of them. I will suppose him

fortunate enough to do so, and that they are perfectly unconscious of

his near approach. He must lower his head in the same cautious manner,

and look for some refuge at a fair distance from the birds, through

which he may fire the deadly sitting shot. After creeping serpent-like

to this, he will again raise his head by hair-breadths, and, peeping

through the bush or tuft, select the greatest number of birds in line;

then drawing back a little, in order that his gun may be just clear of

the bush for the second barrel, after having fired the first through

it, will take sure aim at his selected victims. Should he

unfortunately not find an opening to fire through, the only other

alternative is by almost imperceptible degrees to raise his gun to the

right of the bush, and close to it; but in doing this the birds are

much more likely to see him, and take wing. Never fire _over_ the

bush, as you are almost certain to be perceived whenever you raise

your head: more good shots are lost to an experienced hand by a rapid

jerk, not keeping a sufficient watch for stragglers, and over-anxiety

to fire, than in any other way. Having succeeded in getting the

sitting shot, the fowl, especially if they have not seen from whence

it comes, will rise perpendicularly in the air, and you are not

unlikely to have a chance of knocking down a couple more with your

second barrel; but if they rise wide, you must select the finest old

mallard among them, or whatever suits your fancy. Directly upon

hearing the report, your retriever will run to your assistance, and,

having secured your cripples, you will reload, and, taking out your

glass, reconnoitre again; for though ducks, widgeon, &c., should fly

out upon the loch at the report of your gun, yet the diver tribe, if

there are only one or two together, are perhaps more likely to be

under water than above when you fire: but more of them by and by.

“Another invariable rule, in crawling upon ducks, is always, if

possible, to get to leeward of them; for although I am firmly of

opinion that they do not wind you like deer, as some suppose, yet

their hearing is most acute. I have seen instances of this that I

could hardly otherwise have credited. One day I got within about sixty

yards of three ducks asleep upon the shore; the wind was blowing very

strong, direct from me to them, a thick hedge forming my ambuscade.

The ground was quite bare beyond this hedge, so I was obliged to take

the distant shot through it. In making the attempt, I rustled one of

the twigs—up went the three heads to the full stretch; but when I had

remained quiet for about five minutes, they again placed their bills

under their wings. Upon a second trial, the slight noise was

unfortunately repeated—again the birds raised their heads; but this

time they were much longer upon the stretch, and seemed more uneasy.

Nothing now remained but to try again: my utmost caution, however, was

unavailing—the birds rose like rockets. I never hesitate concealing

myself to windward of the spot where I expect ducks to pitch, feeling

confident that, unless I move, they will not find me out. I have often

had them swimming within twenty-five yards of me, when I was waiting

for three or four in line, the wind blowing direct from me to them,

without perceiving, by any signs, their consciousness of an enemy’s

vicinity.”

Macwheedle himself, by all that’s impudent! Nay, then, it is full time

for us to take our farewell of Mr Colquhoun, and address ourselves to

our public duty. We shall meet the honourable candidate in that style of

diplomacy which was imparted to us by old Talleyrand, and in which, we

flatter ourselves, we have no equal, with the exception, perhaps, of the

accomplished Dunshunner. That gay individual is, doubtless, at this

moment wooing some bashful constituency—we trust with prospects of

better success than attended his last adventure. When the elections are

over, we shall lose not a moment in hastening to the Highlands—there, by

glen and river, loch, moor, and mountain, to obliterate all memory of

the heat and hurry of the hustings; and we hope, before the year is

over, to hear from the lips of many of our friends, who are now looking

forward with anxiety to their first sporting season, an acknowledgment

of the benefit which they have derived from the practical lessons of our

author. Now, then, for an interview with the too insinuating Macwheedle.

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

BOOK XI. CONTINUED—CHAPTER XVII.

When the scenes in some long diorama pass solemnly before us, there is

sometimes one solitary object, contrasting, perhaps, the view of stately

cities or the march of a mighty river, that halts on the eye for a

moment, and then glides away, leaving on the mind a strange,

comfortless, undefined impression.

Why was the object presented to us? In itself it seemed comparatively

insignificant. It may have been but a broken column—a lonely pool with a

star-beam on its quiet surface—yet it awes us. We remember it when

phantasmal pictures of bright Damascus, or of colossal pyramids—of

bazaars in Stamboul, or lengthened caravans that defile slow amidst the

sands of Araby—have sated the wondering gaze. Why were we detained in

the shadowy procession by a thing that would have been so commonplace

had it not been so lone? Some latent interest must attach to it. Was it

there that a vision of woe had lifted the wild hair of a Prophet?—there

where some Hagar had stilled the wail of her child on her indignant

breast? We would fain call back the pageantry procession—fain see again

the solitary thing that seemed so little worth the hand of the

artist—and ask, “Why art thou here, and wherefore dost thou haunt us?”

Rise up—rise up once more—by the broad great thoroughfare that stretches

onward and onward to the remorseless London——Rise up—rise up—O solitary

tree with the green leaves on thy bough, and the deep rents in thy

heart; and the ravens, dark birds of omen and sorrow, that built their

nest amidst the leaves of the bough, and drop with noiseless plumes down

through the hollow rents of the heart—or are heard, it may be, in the

growing shadows of twilight, calling out to their young!

Under the old pollard tree, by the side of John Avenel’s house, there

cowered, breathless and listening, John Avenel’s daughter Nora. Now,

when that fatal newspaper paragraph, which lied so like truth, met her

eyes, she obeyed the first impulse of her passionate heart—she tore the

wedding ring from her finger—she enclosed it, with the paragraph itself,

in a letter to Audley—a letter that she designed to convey scorn and

pride—alas! it expressed only jealousy and love. She could not rest till

she had put this letter into the post with her own hand, addressed to

Audley at Lord Lansmere’s. Scarce was it gone ere she repented. What had

she done?—resigned the birthright of the child she was so soon to bring

into the world—resigned her last hope in her lover’s honour—given up her

life of life—and from belief in what?—a report in a newspaper! No, no;

she would go herself to Lansmere; to her father’s home—she could

contrive to see Audley before that letter reached his hand. The thought

was scarcely conceived before obeyed. She found a vacant place in a

coach that started from London some hours before the mail, and went

within a few miles of Lansmere; those last miles she travelled on foot.

Exhausted—fainting—she gained at last the sight of home, and there

halted, for in the little garden in front she saw her parents seated.

She heard the murmur of their voices, and suddenly she remembered her

altered shape, her terrible secret. How answer the question, “Daughter,

where and who is thy husband?” Her heart failed her; she crept under the

old pollard tree, to gather up resolve, to watch and to listen. She saw

the rigid face of the thrifty prudent mother, with the deep lines that

told of the cares of an anxious life, and the chafe of excitable temper

and warm affections against the restraint of decorous sanctimony and

resolute pride. The dear stern face never seemed to her more dear and

more stern. She saw the comely, easy, indolent, good-humoured father;

not then the poor, paralytic sufferer, who could yet recognise Nora’s

eyes under the lids of Leonard, but stalwart and jovial—first bat in the

Cricket Club, first voice in the Glee Society, the most popular

canvasser of the Lansmere Constitutional True Blue Party, and the pride

and idol of the Calvinistical prim wife. Never from those pinched lips

of hers had come forth even one pious rebuke to the careless social man.

As he sate, one hand in his vest, his profile turned to the road, the

light smoke curling playfully up from the pipe, over which lips,

accustomed to bland smile and hearty laughter, closed as if reluctant to

be closed at all, he was the very model of the respectable retired

trader in easy circumstances, and released from the toil of making money

while life could yet enjoy the delight of spending it.

“Well, old woman,” said John Avenel, “I must be off presently to see to

those three shaky voters in Fish Lane; they will have done their work

soon, and I shall catch ’em at home. They do say as how we may have an

opposition; and I know that old Smikes has gone to Lonnon in search of a

candidate. We can’t have the Lansmere Constitutional Blues beat by a

Lonnoner! Ha, ha, ha!”

“But you will be home before Jane and her husband Mark come? How ever

she could marry a common carpenter!”

“Yes,” said John, “he _is_ a carpenter; but he has a vote, and that

strengthens the family interest. If Dick was not gone to Amerikay, there

would be three on us. But Mark is a real good Blue! A Lonnoner,

indeed!—a Yellow from Lonnon beat my Lord and the Blues! Ha, ha!”

“But, John, this Mr Egerton is a Lonnoner?”

“You don’t understand things, talking such nonsense. Mr Egerton is the

Blue candidate, and the Blues are the Country Party; therefore how can

he be a Lonnoner? An uncommon clever, well grown, handsome young man,

eh! and my young lord’s particular friend.”

Mrs Avenel sighed.

“What are you sighing and shaking your head for?”

“I was thinking of our poor, dear, dear Nora!”

“God bless her!” cried John, heartily.

There was a rustle under the boughs of the old hollow-hearted pollard

tree.

“Ha! ha! Hark! I said that so loud that I have startled the ravens!”

“How he did love her!” said Mrs Avenel thoughtfully. “I am sure he did;

and no wonder, for she looks every inch a lady; and why should not she

be my lady, after all?”

“He? Who? Oh, that foolish fancy of yours about my young lord? A prudent

woman like you!—stuff! I am glad my little beauty is gone to Lonnon, out

of harm’s way.”

“John—John—John! No harm could ever come to my Nora. She’s too pure and

too good, and has too proper a pride in her, to”—

“To listen to any young lords, I hope,” said John; “though,” he added,

after a pause, “she might well be a lady too. My lord, the young one,

took me by the hand so kindly the other day, and said, ‘Have not you

heard from her—I mean Miss Avenel—lately?’ and those bright eyes of his

were as full of tears as—as—as yours are now.”

“Well, John, well; go on.”

“That is all. My lady came up, and took me away to talk about the

election; and just as I was going, she whispered, ‘Don’t let my wild boy

talk to you about that sweet girl of yours. We must both see that she

does not come to disgrace.’ ‘Disgrace!’ that word made me very angry for

the moment. But my lady has such a way with her, that she soon put me

right again. Yet, I do think Nora must have loved my young lord, only

she was too good to show it. What do you say?” And the father’s voice

was thoughtful.

“I hope she’ll never love any man till she’s married to him; it is not

proper, John,” said Mrs Avenel, somewhat starchly, though very mildly.

“Ha! ha!” laughed John, chucking his prim wife under the chin, “you did

not say that to me when I stole your first kiss under that very pollard

tree—no house near it then!”

“Hush, John, hush!” and the prim wife blushed like a girl.

“Pooh,” continued John merrily, “I don’t see why we plain folks should

pretend to be more saintly and prudish-like than our betters. There’s

that handsome Miss Leslie, who is to marry Mr Egerton—easy enough to see

how much she is in love with him—could not keep her eyes off from him

even in church, old girl? Ha, ha! What the deuce is the matter with the

ravens?”

“They’ll be a comely couple, John. And I hear tell she has a power of

money. When is the marriage to be?”

“Oh, they say as soon as the election is over. A fine wedding we shall

have of it! I dare say my young lord will be bridesman. We’ll send for

our little Nora to see the gay doings!”

Out from the boughs of the old tree came the shriek of a lost spirit—one

of those strange appalling sounds of human agony, which, once heard, are

never forgotten. It is as the wail of Hope, when SHE, too, rushes forth

from the coffer of woes, and vanishes into viewless space;—it is the

dread cry of Reason parting from clay—and of Soul, that would wrench

itself from life! For a moment all was still—and then a dull, dumb,

heavy fall!

The parents gazed on each other, speechless: they stole close to the

pales, and looked over. Under the boughs, at the gnarled roots of the

oak, they saw—grey and indistinct—a prostrate form. John opened the

gate, and went round; the mother crept to the roadside, and there stood

still.

“Oh, wife, wife!” cried John Avenel, from under the green boughs, “it is

our child Nora! Our child—our child!”

And, as he spoke, out from the green boughs started the dark ravens,

wheeling round and around, and calling to their young!

* * * * *

And when they had laid her on the bed, Mrs Avenel whispered John to

withdraw for a moment; and, with set lips but trembling hands, began to

unlace the dress, under the pressure of which Nora’s heart heaved

convulsively. And John went out of the room bewildered, and sate himself

down on the landing-place, and wondered whether he was awake or

sleeping; and a cold numbness crept over one side of him, and his head

felt very heavy, with a loud booming noise in his ears. Suddenly his

wife stood by his side, and said in a very low voice—

“John, run for Mr Morgan—make haste. But mind—don’t speak to any one on

the way. Quick, quick!”

“Is she dying?”

“I don’t know. Why not die before?” said Mrs Avenel between her teeth.

“But Mr Morgan is a discreet, friendly man.”

“A true Blue!” muttered poor John, as if his mind wandered; and rising

with difficulty, he stared at his wife a moment, shook his head, and was

gone.

An hour or two later, a little covered taxed-cart stopped at Mr Avenel’s

cottage, out of which stepped a young man with pale face and spare form,

dressed in the Sunday suit of a rustic craftsman; then a homely, but

pleasant, honest face, bent down to him smilingly; and two arms,

emerging from under covert of a red cloak, extended an infant, which the

young man took tenderly. The baby was cross and very sickly; it began to

cry. The father hushed, and rocked, and tossed it, with the air of one

to whom such a charge was familiar.

“He’ll be good when we get in, Mark,” said the young woman, as she

extracted from the depths of the cart a large basket containing poultry

and home-made bread.

“Don’t forget the flowers that the Squire’s gardener gave us,” said Mark

the Poet.

Without aid from her husband, the wife took down basket and nosegay,

settled her cloak, smoothed her gown, and said, “Very odd!—they don’t

seem to expect us, Mark. How still the house is! Go and knock; they

can’t ha’ gone to bed yet.”

Mark knocked at the door—no answer. A light passed rapidly across the

windows on the upper floor, but still no one came to his summons. Mark

knocked again. A gentleman dressed in clerical costume, now coming from

Lansmere Park, on the opposite side of the road, paused at the sound of

Mark’s second and more impatient knock, and said civilly—

“Are you not the young folks my friend John Avenel told me this morning

he expected to visit him?”

“Yes, please, Mr Dale,” said Mrs Fairfield, dropping her curtsey. “You

remember me! and this is my dear good man!”

“What! Mark the poet?” said the curate of Lansmere, with a smile. “Come

to write squibs for the election?”

“Squibs, sir!” cried Mark indignantly.

“Burns wrote squibs,” said the curate mildly.

Mark made no answer, but again knocked at the door.

This time, a man, whose face, even seen by the starlight, was much

flushed, presented himself at the threshold.

“Mr Morgan!” exclaimed the curate, in benevolent alarm; “no illness

here, I hope?”

“Cott! it is you, Mr Dale! Come in, come in; I want a word with you. But

who the teuce are these people?”

“Sir,” said Mark, pushing through the doorway, “my name is Fairfield,

and my wife is Mr Avenel’s daughter!”

“Oh, Jane—and her baby too! Cood—cood! Come in; but be quiet, can’t you?

Still, still—still as death!”

The party entered, the door closed; the moon rose, and shone calmly on

the pale silent house, on the sleeping flowers of the little garden, on

the old pollard with its hollow core. The horse in the taxed-cart dozed,

unheeded; the light still at times flitted across the upper windows.

These were the only signs of life, except when a bat, now and then

attracted by the light that passed across the windows, brushed against

the panes, and then, dipping downwards, struck up against the nose of

the slumbering horse, and darted merrily after the moth that fluttered

round the raven’s nest in the old pollard.