CHAPTER VIII. Hunting and Shooting

HUNTING AND SHOOTING

Leamington—Moors—Orkney and Shetland—Balloon—Telotype

I returned to my mother and sister, who then occupied Claverdon, much in need of a little rest. I was also conscious that with all my varied experiences I was ignorant of the very A B C of the life of an English country gentleman, such as most of the friends of my family had been familiar with from childhood. I was totally unused to hunting, and I had no proper experience of shooting. This deficiency was remedied during the next three or four years. Under the advice of my eldest brother, I bought a hunter and a hack, and began to hunt at the rate of about three days per fortnight in Warwickshire, at neighbouring meets.

The next year I established myself at Leamington, jobbed horses, and hunted methodically. There was a small “Hunt Club,” supposed to be somewhat select, to which I belonged, and where I dined when not otherwise engaged. The hunting men most to the fore in Leamington in those days included some who had considerable gifts, each in their respective ways. Foremost among them was Jack Mytton, son of the more famous Jack Mytton (1796-1834) who was notorious for his daring feats and other extravagances, who wasted a large fortune and died unhappily. His life has been published; a brief account of it may be read in the Dictionary of National Biography. The son’s career seemed moulded on that of his father, and he too wasted a fortune that had somehow accrued to him, and died prematurely. There was no question as to his ability and power over others.

A more or less unfortunate fate befell most of my other companions at the Hunt Club. Many of the small party who habitually dined there were social favourites, and two at least of them were of more than average social rank. Five of these men contrived to ruin themselves by betting and gambling, and to end unhappily. For all that, they were bright companions in the heyday of their fortunes. They lived in good style and as a rule not very prodigally, though all had fits of recklessness. One of the most valuable qualities in a man of moderately independent means who has to live in a society of this kind is a carelessness to the attraction of gambling.

A Leamington friend, Fazakerley, asked me to the Highlands to shoot. His moor was called Culrain; it was about fifteen miles long by three broad, and the small house on it was three miles from Bonar Bridge. I bought a beautiful Irish setter which a friend chose for me, and we shot in the leisurely fashion of those days, when driving game was never practised. I slept in a neighbouring bothy, for the house was small, and I quickly obtained some knowledge of English sport on the moors. At the end of the season, the weather being still fine, I made my way to John O’Groat’s House, opposite the Orkneys, whence, after being wind-bound for a while, I sailed in the post boat, which was then the only means of conveying letters from island to island, and so reached the so-called “Mainland,” and settled at Kirkwall.

The next year I started before the grouse season began, and spent a most interesting summer among the Shetlands, using rowboats as the usual means of conveyance, and occupying myself with seal-shooting and bird-nesting. I could write much about all this, and on the weird experiences of a fisher society living in a treeless land, with whale-jaws for posts, and with no knife in their pockets larger than a penknife, having only tobacco and string to cut with it. Their social hierarchy was such, that a man who had been to Hudson’s Bay had taken, to speak in the language of a University, a “Poll Degree.” Those who had visited Baffin Bay were considered to have gained “Honours.”

A shoal of whales (the cawing whale, averaging perhaps 20 feet in length) came ashore whilst I was in Shetland, and I hurriedly rode several miles to be in time to see them. Nearly one hundred were lying dead on the beach, but they looked small as they were scattered over the shore of the bay. The excitement of driving in the shoals is said to be an event not easily forgotten. It was all over by the time I arrived.

I would not shoot a seal now, but youths are murderous by instinct, and so was I. There was much of interest in the conditions under which they were shot. The early rise in the long summer day, the row to the leeward side of a likely holm, or small island; creeping up to a good vantage point and waiting there until the head of a seal is seen to bob up; then stalking the animal by running from cover to cover whenever he sinks out of sight. Then, on reaching the beach, going cautiously between the big boulders to a good shooting-place and poking the rifle over one of the stones, shielding it and self from sight as carefully as possible. There one has to wait, perhaps with the tide coming in over one’s legs, until in the course of his antics the seal’s head rises within sure shooting distance; then a careful aim, and a bang. The boatmen hearing the sound, come rowing as hard as they can round the corner, lest the seal should sink and be lost. He ought to be shot dead, or not touched at all. The oozing blubber of the animal makes a circular calm round the spot where he is shot, with the bloodstain in the middle. A boat-hook secures the seal even if he should have sunk four or five feet. His market value is a few shillings; the boatmen get him as their perquisite.

I heard a story about the domesticity of the seal, as having recurred, with variations in detail, at more than one place. A young seal was caught and became quite at home with the fisherman, coming to his house for company, for warmth in the winter-time, and for food. It was petted until its size made it too big for a pet and troublesome to the children. Then the fisherman, sad at heart, took it with him in his boat, far away to the fishing-ground, and threw it overboard. Some days later, when the family were at supper, rather dismal at the loss of their old friend, they heard the familiar sound of scuffling and scratching, and on opening the door, in flopped the seal.

I used to watch the breeding-places of the sea birds, of which there were multitudes, of perhaps twenty different kinds. The stormy petrels make their nests deep in beaches of shingle. An intelligent man initiated me into the way of taking them. We crept as silently as might be to where the twitterings could be heard, and, having carefully located the spot, tossed away the shingle as fast as we could, and usually found the bird on its nest. Its oily smell is very strong and rank. The popular belief is that if you cram a wick between the beak and down the gullet of a dried-up petrel and light it, the bird will burn like a lamp.

The hardships of what was called deep-sea fishing were great. It was conducted in open whale-boats with six rowers, who were generally thirty-six hours absent, and sometimes longer. In bad weather they had to keep to their oars, and could get little or no sleep all the time. I was told that on returning they went half stupid to bed, and, partly awakening to feed from time to time, slept for full twenty-four hours on end.

I could tell many tales of what I heard and saw, such as that at one lighthouse (I think in North Ronaldshay) the keeper, wishing to alleviate the solitude of his life, cast about for a suitable pet. That which he selected did credit to his genius. It was a toad in a bottle, requiring no care, little if any food, easily placed on any shelf, and always showing its bright eye.

When I finally left Shetland, which was after the grouse season, I took as a present to my brother for the large pool at Edstone, a crate full of many different kinds of sea birds, which I was assured would live in fresh water and pick up snails in the garden, as tamed gulls do. The railway people put the crate in a very exposed truck on a chill autumn night, which killed three-quarters of them at least. The remainder throve at Edstone for a while, the latest survivor being an oyster-catcher, who came to his end thus. It had been freezing hard in the night, followed by soft snow, and then re-freezing. Next morning they found the tracks of a fox on the snow-covered ice, going to a place where the yellow legs and nothing else of the bird remained frozen in. The oyster-catcher’s legs had been entrapped by the frost, and his body had been snapped up by the fox.

During the many weeks and months that I spent in London between 1846 and 1850, which is the time to which this chapter refers, I took walks with friends, and sometimes rides with Harry Hallam, once on a most pleasant riding tour with him in South Wales, and I went to meets of the Queen’s Stag Hounds.

Among many other things, I was eager to know the sensations of ballooning; I venture to give my own impression of it. There were occasional nightly ascents from the then existing Cremorne Gardens, and foolishly thinking that I could sneak in under cover of darkness, I engaged a seat. The evening arrived, and I found it was advertised as a Gala Festival, and I was anything but secluded from observation. A number of fireworks were attached to the car, and after an oration from the aeronaut, up we went. It was very curious to observe the up-turned faces of the crowd below, which seemed to recede, for I had no sensation of being myself in movement. The fireworks went off, and doubtless made an effective display, and then all seemed singularly still. I was surprised at feeling no giddiness, but the car is so deep and the swelling of the balloon so voluminous that there is always much to steady the eye. The chief cause of giddiness when standing on a small isolated platform seems to lie in the absence of anything for the eye to “hold on by,” meaning by this, anything that shows a sensible change of perspective, however slightly the body may move. Consciousness of altering one’s position is due to two things, the change in perspective, and the sensations arising in the well-known “semicircular canals” of the ear. When the latter sensation is present unaccompanied by the former, mental distress results.

The balloon was open below, and owing perhaps to some optical illusion, it seemed to be filled with a singularly pure and beautiful medium. The quietness and sense of repose were the chief feelings that I experienced; next the clearness with which some noises, such as the barkings of dogs, reached us when we were still at a considerable height. Besides myself, there were only the aeronaut and his boy; the former alternately boisterous and maudlin. He told me that his wife frequently dreamed that he would come to an ill end, and so he did, breaking his thigh not long after in a balloon descent and dying from it. The “bump-bag” and the grapnel were new to me. The bump-bag is useful in permitting a quick descent to be made in order to catch a particular field in the line of drift. More gas is let out than is necessary for a normal descent, then when the car is still some feet above the ground the bump-bag rests on it, its weight is removed, and the lightened balloon descends slowly through those remaining few feet.

We drifted for an hour or more in the quiet dim night, learning our course by watching what could be seen of the country below, for of course there is nothing in the balloon itself to tell whether it is moving backwards, forwards, or sideways. It drifts with the air, so relatively to the air it is perfectly still. When it was time to descend, the valve was opened and bits of torn-up paper thrown out, which dashed upwards, as it were. In other words, we dashed downwards through them. At length we approached what the aeronaut thought would be a suitable field to descend upon, and let go the grapnel, which is a light but strong steel anchor with four pointed arms. It failed to catch hold, and we went drifting on towards a large decorous family mansion, with hothouses by the side and a lawn in front; sheep were placidly lying in the field. The horrid grapnel bobbed and scratched the ground among the sheep, fortunately without hooking one, and caught in the fence round the lawn. Then the valve was opened wide, letting out volumes of stinking gas; the rooks in a neighbouring rookery which we had brushed on our way, were vociferous, the dogs everywhere about barked furiously, and the natives in the neighbouring village were awakened and ran to the scene.

In the midst of the hubbub the hall door opened wide and let out a glare of light, in which a portly butler with two man-servants in livery appeared to be framed, looking horrified, as well they might be, by the sudden disorderly invasion of visitants from the sky. After some delay, we were invited to enter, and found the unhappy owner of the mansion in his dining-room by his uncleared late dessert, with decanters of wine, utterly perplexed as to the character of the welcome he ought to offer. The aeronaut gulped the wine offered to him, declaring with much rigmarole that it was a scientific (!) ascent. I cowered, and was utterly ashamed. After a miserable hour’s delay, and thanks chiefly to the exertions of the boy, a postchaise was procured, the balloon was packed into its own car together with all its gear, and the car was hoisted on the roof of the chaise. The boy insinuated himself somewhere, and the aeronaut and I reached London in the small hours of the morning. I was so afraid of meeting in society the ill-used master of the mansion that I determinedly abstained from finding out who he was. The moral that I drew from the trip is, that the ascent and travel in calm weather in a balloon is most delightful; the return to earth most disagreeable, and dangerous in even a slight wind.

Among the many trifling events that occurred about that time, I may mention a yachting fiasco. I had a fancy to see Iceland, and, having had a little yachting experience on a brief third visit to Shetland, whither I and a companion sailed in an old Revenue cutter, hired I forget at what port, and being assured that with a similar vessel the trip might safely be made, I went to Ryde to hire one. The owner of a cutter that seemed suitable made no difficulty, so I hired it for a month. On arriving on board, in order to test the capabilities of the vessel and its crew, I told the captain to set sail to Hastings. He was suave, but pointed out the impossibility with the then wind and tide of getting there. I did not clearly understand his arguments, but answered, “Never mind; it will suit me equally well to go in the opposite direction to Penzance.” The captain was still suave, but even more obstructive than before; at length it turned out that he had no idea of sailing beyond the Solent and its neighbourhood. Being resourceful, I accordingly went to Lymington, and used the yacht as an hotel, getting a couple of days’ hunting in the New Forest, and compromising about the hire of the yacht.

It will be thought from what appears in this chapter that I was leading a very idle life, but it was not so. I read a good deal all the time, and digested what I read by much thinking about it. It has always been my unwholesome way of work to brood much at irregular times.

The one definite scientific piece of work in these years that is worth mentioning refers to the then newly introduced electric telegraph. I had always a liking for electricity, and had some cells in a drawer of my study table with wires leading from them through the woodwork, to which apparatus could be attached. All this would be thought very elementary now, but some new things have to be done by such means when a science is in its infancy. I wished to print telegraphic messages and to govern heavy machinery by an extremely feeble force.

The method adopted may be explained thus. Suppose a telegraphic needle of the most delicate construction conceivable, having the three possible movements of right, neutral, left, to be momentarily lifted off its support by an arm that squeezes it against a little cushion above. However delicate the needle may be, its projecting ends will be stiff enough to push another freely suspended (but non-magnetic) needle of a much stronger and heavier build, in the same direction as itself. This process may be repeated on a third needle of considerably larger size and greater strength; and if desired, on a fourth. The force required to keep all this going is independent of that which moves the first needle, and is applied by a reciprocating beam worked by ordinary power. The synchronising of the two stations is a simple matter, no great precision being wanted in order that the electric impulses should be delivered to the first needle at the right times. Without going further into this long bygone matter, I may say that I printed what I had to tell in a pamphlet entitled the Telotype (No. 1 in the text of my Memoirs in the Appendix). The pamphlet was post-dated, after the manner of some publishers, as being in June 1850. It was really printed in 1849; I had left England for my travels on April 5, 1850. The pamphlet had long since gone into the limbo of the forgotten, so it was a surprise to me, not many years ago, to meet one of the most prominent electricians of the day, who told me that he had seen and procured it for the library of the Electrical Society. Moreover, he spoke appreciatively of my youthful attempt. Requiescat in pace. There was more in the pamphlet than is described above.