animal of all others that is most completely and popularly identified
with the Swiss mountains, whose cliffs and crags not a traveller
approaches without straining his eyes in quest of its graceful form. He
strains them, most often, in vain—unless, indeed, he has sufficient
confidence in the steadiness of his head, and the sureness of his foot,
to accept the practical hunter’s guidance, and ascend amidst the
glaciers and precipices which are the home of the Alpine antelope. Even
then he may wander long before getting sight of a herd. They are
believed by many to be much less numerous than is really the case,
because even summer travellers see little or nothing of them. One may
repeatedly visit hunting-grounds in which a score of head or more are
known constantly to dwell, and see not one. They lie for the greater
part of the day behind stones and bushes, and are difficult to detect.
In wooded districts, they conceal themselves in great herds in the
innermost depths of the forest. Dr Tschudi denies that there are any
grounds for the apprehensions that have been expressed of their
approaching extinction, and believes that as long as the Alps stand they
will shelter chamois. The nature of their retreats and favourite haunts,
the perils of the chase, its unprofitable nature, the protection
afforded them by the game-laws, which restrict chamois-hunting to the
twelve weeks comprised between the 1st September and the 25th
November,[5] combine to persuade him that sooner might hares, foxes, and
martens, dwellers in the immediate vicinity of man, become extinct, than
the keen-scented, wary, and extraordinarily agile animal, whose hunter
risks his neck every time that he goes in its pursuit.
“There—where that good climber, the Alpine goat, dares not ascend, on
the most inaccessible grass plots of the steepest peaks, on the narrow
stripes of turf, scarcely a foot wide, which run like ribbons from cliff
to cliff—the chamois comfortably grazes, getting fat upon the scanty but
strong and nourishing vegetation of the Alps, until in autumn he weighs
sixty, eighty, and even a hundred pounds. An instance is known to us
when a Glarus hunter shot a beast that weighed a hundred and twenty-five
pounds. It was the great “Rufelibock,” long celebrated in those
mountains, which for many years had been in the habit of coming low down
towards the valley, mocking all the efforts of the hunters, until at
last the cunning Bläsi proved more than his match.”
Besides the hunter’s bullets, the bear, and the lynx, the chamois has to
fear birds of prey (at least when it is young, and even when it is old,
if the _geier_ catches it in some convenient spot for throwing it over a
precipice); and it sometimes—but this is only a very occasional
occurrence—gets its horns inextricably entangled in the branches of fir
trees, when cropping from them in winter the long green lichens, remains
hanging there, and starves. Dr Tschudi once found a skeleton of a
chamois that had thus perished, in an erect attitude. Excepting under
such circumstances, he does not believe that chamois die of hunger,
although a Bernese hunter told him that he had once, in the spring,
found, under a great fir-tree, the bodies of five, which had been snowed
up and starved. They had eaten all the leaves and bark within their
reach, but the snow had lasted longer than the provender. An avalanche
sometimes sweeps away a whole herd; and loose stones, which in spring
and summer are constantly falling from the heights, take their
proportion of victims. Finally, it now and then happens—but this is very
rare—that a chamois, pursued by the hunter, leaps upon some ledge or
pinnacle, whence it is impossible for it either to advance or retreat.
In such cases, the courageous animal does not stand helpless and
hopeless—like goats, which often remain in such a position until their
herd rescues them at risk of his own life—but dares a desperate leap at
the nearest landing-place, and is dashed to pieces in the ravine. A
chamois clears, without hesitation, a chasm sixteen or eighteen feet
wide, and leaps with impunity down a height of twenty-four feet.
Chamois-hunting, once an imperial sport in the Tyrol, is rather too
dangerous and fatiguing for gentlemen sportsmen of the present day, and
is not very often followed in Switzerland by any but poor men, who,
adopting the pursuit for the sake of profit, soon become
enthusiastically addicted to it. They are usually tough, hardy, sober
people, sharp-sighted, able to look down a thousand feet of precipice
without feeling dizzy, daring, and especially cool, and possessed of
good lungs and iron muscles. They need to be first-rate shots, and
better climbers than any mountain goat; for the goat is free and
unencumbered in its movements, whilst the hunter is loaded with gun,
provisions, and ammunition, and often, on his return from the chase,
with a couple of chamois weighing something like a hundredweight and a
half. He disembowels them, ties their hind legs together, and slings
them over his head in such a manner that their feet lie forward upon his
forehead, and their hind quarters rest against his shoulders. Thus
burthened, he performs leagues over the most perilous paths. The profits
of the severe labour and hourly risk are wretchedly small. The chamois,
when shot, is worth but from three to six dollars; the meat is sold at
fivepence to sevenpence a pound; the skin for from seven to fourteen
shillings; the horns fetch a florin. Now and then a hunter accumulates
what may be considered a large fortune in the Swiss mountains; but this
is only by dint of rigid economy. These men are very temperate, and
seldom touch wine. Thus did David Zwicky, a renowned chamois-hunter in
the canton of Glarus, leave, at his death (a violent one, like that of
most of those Helvetian Nimrods), seven thousand florins and twelve
fowling-pieces. This, however, was a rare instance. It is less the gain
than the excitement that fetters the hunter to his hazardous trade. How
eagerly he pursues it may be judged from the following anecdote: “A
hunter, who had his leg amputated at Zurich, sent to his surgeon, two
years later, as a mark of gratitude, the half of a chamois he himself
had shot, observing, at the same time, that the sport was not so good,
now that he had a wooden leg, but that he hoped still to knock over many
a chamois. _At the time of the amputation this man was seventy-one years
of age._” A strong testimony in favour of the healthfulness of mountain
air, frugal fare, and hard exercise.
Dr Tschudi devotes a chapter to a selection from the most authentic of
the innumerable tales current in Switzerland concerning chamois-hunters’
perils and adventures. He receives most of such stories with caution,
because, in the course of repetition, they are apt to become interwoven
with romance—the more so, as the heroes of many of them did not survive
to tell their own tale. “An abbot of Engelberg considered himself
fortunate when he did not lose in one year more than five of the
inhabitants of his valley—killed while chamois-hunting; and at the
present day every year claims more than one or two victims. Before the
end of October 1852, three Swiss chamois-hunters had lost their
lives—amongst them Hans Laumer, the well-known guide, who fell off the
Jungfrau over a precipice two thousand feet deep.” Dr Tschudi assures
his readers that they may rely on the truth of the sketches of
celebrated hunters, with which he pleasantly fills a section of his
second circle. The most striking of these sketches, whose incidents were
supplied to the doctor by an eyewitness—a friend and brother
naturalist—relates to Colani, the most famous chamois-hunter of the
present century, who dwelt above the village of Pontresina, not far from
the Reseggio glacier and from the colossal Bernina, in the south-eastern
nook of the Grisons that borders upon Lombardy and the Tyrol. This
Colani was a desperate bandit, who had attained the exclusive right to
many square leagues of mountain, and suffered none to encroach upon his
hunting-ground. He had a sort of Far-West morality, by which he
perfectly justified himself in planting a bullet in the body of any
intruder on his usurped domain. In the mountains near his cottage he had
about two hundred half-tame chamois, which he calculated to yield him
annually sixty young ones, and of which he annually shot a like number
of old bucks. It was very unsafe to carry a gun over his ground. The
story went that a room in his house was adorned exclusively with the
arms and equipments of the strange hunters he had shot (mostly
Tyrolese); and the people of Bevers and Campogask believed he had thirty
men’s lives upon his soul, which nobody doubted would ultimately become
the property of the Evil One. Dr Tschudi does not attempt to decide how
much or how little of these reports was true, contenting himself with
remarking that in a more extensive circle Colani was much esteemed, and
that his relatives were of the best repute; but he was choleric, and
violent almost to madness when in anger. He dwelt in his mountain
retreat like some dreaded chieftain, and seemed to stand, in a manner,
above the law. He waylaid a physician, who had summoned him before a
tribunal on a charge of illegal practice of medicine, and dealt him a
blow in the face with his fist which smashed his spectacles and left him
senseless.
“The well-known naturalist, Dr Lenz, hunted in the year 1837 with
Colani, and has communicated to us an authentic account of the last
expedition of the prince of hunters; an account highly characteristic of
the nature of the mountains, and of the hunters’ life in that wildest
part of Switzerland. Accompanied by his friend, A. von Planta, Dr Lenz
called upon Colani, and requested to be allowed to go out with him
chamois-hunting, promising him two dollars for every day they were out,
the same sum for every chamois he shot in their presence, and four
dollars and the game for every one they themselves should shoot. The
hunter accepted the offer. He was then a man of sixty-six,
broad-shouldered, sturdy, deep-breasted, with rather a long face, a dark
complexion, black hair, an aquiline nose, and brown, bold, wary eyes,
whose expression betrayed his passionate character. He lived on bread,
milk, and whey. Before or during the hunting-time he never drank wine.
The meat of chamois and marmots was his favourite food. He spoke
Italian, German, and French, and was skilled in the manufacture of
sun-dials, surgical bandages, and fire-arms. He domineered over his
neighbours with very little ceremony. They must let his two tame chamois
feed in their gardens, and when a woman would not submit to this, and
poisoned the animals—she very soon died, Colani was accustomed smilingly
to relate.
“In vain had Dr Lenz and Planta been warned not to have anything to do
with Colani. Their desire for sport was too strong, and the prospect of
accompanying him too alluring. They started the next morning—a store of
salt, and of smoked chamois and marmot meat, in the hunter’s game-bag.
They had gone but a short way, when, in a deep ravine, closed in rear by
the Reseggio glacier, they came upon five chamois, and the friends were
about to open the campaign, when Colani said: ‘All very fine, but this
is my salt-lick, where I allow no chamois to be shot.’ Then he desired
to see ‘whether the gentlemen could shoot,’ and placed a stone, the size
of a man’s fist, at a distance of a hundred and fifty paces, as a mark,
which both hit.”
Despising the marmots that darted about amongst the rocks, the party
continued their ascent of the vast icefield, occasionally catching sight
of large and small herds of chamois, until, after an hour’s further
march, they came upon a group of thirteen, grazing on a bit of turf hard
by the rocks. But Colani again forbade them to fire, his object being
rather to earn his handsome day’s wage than to destroy his game, so that
the two friends had the pleasure of seeing forty beautiful chamois trot
by in file—the young always behind the old ones—without being allowed to
fire a shot. Without a single head of game, they betook themselves to a
cowherd’s hut to pass the night. Amongst their provisions was a small
wine-keg, the bung of which, driven hard in, they all in turn
endeavoured to extract, with their fingers, and by the help of stones,
&c. “I will get it out!” cried Colani; and griping the hard wooden
stopper with his sixty-six-year-old teeth, turned the keg in his hands,
and had uncorked it in an instant.
“The next morning the mountaineer took his companions to the Brüneberg,
set one to watch, and led the other along a steep narrow crest of rock,
whence they discerned several distant herds of chamois. Colani amused
himself by taking Dr Lenz into several places of deadly peril. Once,
when both lay looking over a cliff a thousand feet deep, endeavouring to
spy out game, Lenz suddenly heard a violent rustling noise, and at the
same moment a tremendous yell from Colani. Lenz drew himself back in a
fright, and saw an enormous vulture sweeping, with the swiftness of an
arrow, close over his head. Colani had observed the vulture’s
premeditated attack, and by his shout had saved his companion from
certain destruction. Before the hunters could use their guns, the bird
had disappeared. Lenz thanked the mountaineer for his rescue, but at the
same time observed to him, that he had not come into the mountains to be
served up for breakfast to a nestful of young vultures, but to shoot
chamois, whereupon Colani promised to take him, the next day, to the
Bernina, where they abound.”
The next day was lost, however, in the fruitless pursuit of two bears,
of which they could not get even a sight. The morning after, they were
on foot at four o’clock, ascending a mountain. After breakfasting on
milk and cheese in a shepherd’s hut, they separated, Planta remaining
behind, Colani and Lenz pushing forward, through wind and snow showers,
until the sun, rising above the mountains, gave promise of a fine day.
Lenz got impatient, and told Colani that if he did not get a shot that
day he would give up the chase. Colani replied that he would have taken
them to the Bernina, but they had preferred coming to the Campogask
mountains in quest of bears. There were few chamois where they then
were, and those hard to get at, nevertheless he would take him to some,
if he had courage to follow. In another half-hour he came in sight of
the spot where he expected to find game, and saw five head. “There they
are,” he cried; “at nine o’clock they will lie down; we may wait half an
hour here;—but the road to yonder place is frightful. I have been over
it only once in my life.”
“Colani went in front, his gun slung over his shoulder, came to a huge
perpendicular wall of rock, and stepped upon a narrow ledge which ran
along it. The path was hideously dangerous. The loose earth crumbled
away at every step; in the incalculable depth below them the loftiest
trees appeared no bigger than a man’s finger; in their front the shelf
grew narrower, and seemed at last quite to disappear; they passed over
several crevices, through which they looked down into the valley. With
his face half-covered, Lenz followed Colani. On reaching the end of the
line of precipice: ‘Have a care!’ cried the hunter, as he grasped, there
where the path ceased, a rocky point, planted his foot firmly, and swung
himself over the chasm to the farther side of the rock, leaving his
companion to follow his example. With the courage of despair, Lenz did
so, without accident, and almost to the astonishment of Colani, who
remarked, with great _naïveté_, ‘I hardly thought we should have got as
far as this together—but now to the chamois; we have circumvented them
finely!’ In another half-hour they were on the top of the mountain on
which they had seen the chamois, and at last they discerned a large and
a small one lying amongst the Alpine roses at their feet, on the brink
of a deep precipice. With a beating heart Lenz fired over Colani’s
shoulder. The large chamois sprang to the height of a man from the
ground, turned over, and fell backwards over the precipice. Colani,
resting his gun on an unsteady block of stone, fired at the small one,
and missed. Lenz was for going down into the ravine, to fetch his game,
but Colani opposed this, and, with looks that told of a conscience ill
at ease,—‘What lies in that grave,’ he said, ‘lies safely buried!’
Several years before, a Grison hunter had disappeared at that place, and
no trace of him had ever been found. Lenz fancied a smell of human
blood.”
Continuing their walk, or rather their scramble, the two men reached a
dismal valley, strewn with blocks of stone, and surrounded by
cloud-capped peaks. Suddenly Colani threw himself behind a stone, and
made a sign to Lenz to do the same.
“‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Lenz, surprised.
“Colani answered not, but gazed hard through his field-glass, clenched
his fist violently, and muttered an execration. At last Lenz discovered,
high up amongst the rocks, a diminutive human figure. Colani, almost mad
with fury, continued to grind out his ‘_Verdamms!_’ ‘I do not know the
fellow,’ he at last exclaimed; ‘but, thank God, he has not seen us yet!
Now he looks down through his glass.’ As he spoke, the hunter’s clenched
teeth and savage glances justified apprehensions of the worst kind.
“‘As soon as yonder man moves off,’ he whispered, ‘we must circumvent
him.’
“‘Nothing of the sort, Colani,’ said Lenz, gravely. ‘I came to shoot
chamois, not men.’ Meanwhile the strange hunter disappeared. Colani
sprang up. ‘Follow me,’ he cried: ‘in a quarter of an hour the man will
be on yonder ridge; we must be there in ten minutes.’ They ran
themselves out of breath, and in ten minutes got over a distance which,
under ordinary circumstances, they would have taken half an hour to
perform. On reaching the summit they sank, utterly exhausted, behind a
mass of rock. But the strange hunter was near at hand. His approach
revived them.
“Colani cocked his piece and took aim at the man. Quietly, but
resolutely, Lenz seized the barrel, changed its direction, and said, in
an authoritative tone,
“‘Stop; I will suffer no murder in my presence.’
“Colani cast a dangerous glance at him; but then he held out his hand
and said, ‘We will not quarrel.’ Meanwhile the hunter had disappeared
amongst the rocks. With a malicious laugh, Colani crept round, bidding
Lenz remain where he was. The stranger had sat down rather lower, on the
edge of a rock, and was gazing through his glass into the valley. ‘I do
not know the fellow,’ said Colani; ‘but I will go down and pay him a
visit. Hold yourself ready to fire.’
“‘I will have nothing to do with your quarrels,’ replied Lenz; ‘but I
shoot down the first man who meddles with me.’
“With triggers cocked, Colani crept down like a cat. When only at three
paces from the inoffensive stranger, he stepped suddenly from behind the
rocks, and raised his fist against him. But he silently let it fall
again. The pair gazed at each other for a moment; then Colani leant his
gun against the rock, and sat down beside the hunter, took his gun from
his hands and examined it, whilst they took snuff together. Lenz
expected he would next ask for the game-bag, and then treacherously push
the man over the precipice; but they remained friends.
“The strange hunter, a stout old man, about sixty-five years old, was a
native of the village of Bevers, and a particular friend of Colani’s;
but nevertheless, knowing how spiteful he was, he never risked himself
on his hunting-ground. He had heard that Colani was gone to the Bernina,
and seized the opportunity of shooting a chamois. But he had disguised
himself, so that no one might betray him to Colani.”
Soon after this the hunting party was broken up, for it appeared to Lenz
as if Colani would not have been much grieved to see him fall over a
precipice, and as if he did all in his power to disgust him with his
mountains and chamois. The next day Lenz left the Engadine with Planta;
but for the next month he felt in every limb the consequences of his
unusual fatigues. Colani fell ill in consequence of them, and died five
days afterwards. This remarkable hunter had shot, since his twentieth
year, at which period he usurped the sovereignty of the mountains, no
less than two thousand seven hundred chamois (to say nothing of the many
he had killed before attaining that age)—a number which no other hunter
ever nearly approached.
The second part of Dr Tschudi’s book—which might rather be called a
brief appendix, since it comprises but one-fifteenth part of the
volume—is allotted to the domestic animals of the Alpine country—to
cattle, goats and sheep, horses and dogs. It contains particulars
interesting to the farmer as well as to the naturalist; but the length
to which this paper has already extended forbids its further
prolongation.
THE ROMANS IN SCOTLAND.[6]
Some forty years ago, in the windy muirlands of the parish of Lesmahago,
in Lanarkshire, a stepping-stone in a burn, where the cattle crossed
from one field to another, attracted attention by an odd phenomenon. A
smooth, rounded, moderate-sized stone it had appeared, since it had been
noticed at all—coloured a greenish brown by infusoria, like the other
water-worn lumps of clay-slate in the district. But this stone was seen
to receive a peculiar indentation on its surface from the pressure of
the cattle’s feet, not of a kind exemplified on water-worn stones in
general. As to the inquiring peasant, in whom this phenomenon created a
curiosity not to be gratified without an excavation, the annals of
archæology are silent. It is only known that the curiously indented
stone was removed with some difficulty, when, behold, it resolved itself
into the figure and material of a plated claret jug, from which the
silver had, by long exposure, been removed. This was odd enough—a claret
jug in such a place, and trodden on, for no one knew how many years, by
cattle and their herds! But a deeper mystery remained behind, for, on
examination, the vessel was found to be an undoubted Roman work, to be
made of bronze, in that beautiful egg-shape, sweeping with an ogee curve
towards the neck, so remarkable in the best Etruscan vases; while on the
gracefully-formed handle there was a piece of legendary sculpture,
harmonising in the artistic beauty of its outlines with the form of the
vessel. It may now be seen in the Hunterian Museum in Glasgow, with the
indentation made by the hoofs of cattle on its side, and the beautiful
little bit of sculpture—seemingly Mercury in the upper department, and
Minerva with the helmet and bird of wisdom in the lower—as it was buried
among the pebbles of the burn in Lesmahago—for how long, let the person
who may have dropped it there tell.