IN 1853 I removed to
Soval, where I remained till the Lews and I parted in 1869. I was
monarch of all I surveyed, and my survey consisted, as far as my
recollection goes, of some 75,000 acres, according to the Ordnance
survey. A great deal of the ground was of little use for game, as there
were several large villages or towns, as they are called, well
populated, and a great number of minor hamlets. All along the west coast
the towns came very thick, and in the immediate neighbourhood of those
townships game could not be expected to abound. For several years I had
no comrade, and I had my little principality, very like Robinson Crusoe,
entirely to myself. By road, from Balallan Bridge to Sharbost, the
extreme bounds of the shooting was over thirty miles—very grand, indeed;
but how were you to get at the ground to shoot it ? True, at that time
there was very little indeed to shoot on the western parts; and towards
Dalbeg and Sharbost one might travel miles without seeing a grouse,
though there were woodcocks and snipes and plover. The first thing to do
was to make out some abode from whence one could get at the larger
portion of the ground, which from Soval was entirely impossible. How
curious it is that in Scotland the lodge is always placed as far from
the centre of the ground as possible!
At that time there was i^o
inn, as there now is, at Garrynahine; therefore I was constrained to
build myself a bothy, kennel, and stable on the top of Diensten Hill,
about seven miles from Soval, whence I could get at the heart of the
shooting, and which was about three miles and a half from the best
river; and in this said bothy I located a keeper. In the neighbourhood
of Diensten, too, were to be found the few deer that were then on the
ground; for at that time the only part of the Lews that was forested was
Kenraisort, and there were deer going over parts of the Soval ground at
particular seasons, passing from south to north, and vice versa; and the
stags obtained were good. I therefore never killed the hinds, but let
them increase, in hopes of attracting the travelling stags, which
succeeded very well till the foresting Aline and Harris so diminished
their migration that it all but ceased. Diensten Hill—where, as I said,
I built my bothy— commanded one of the finest, if not the finest, view
in the country. The whole line of Park, Lewis, and Harris, and the TJig
Hills, lay like a panorama before it, and of a fine day it was truly
such a view as was seldom looked at; but it had its disadvantages. This
same hill, when it was not fine—which it is not always in the
Hebrides—was about the windiest spot in that very windy country.
Diensten bothy did not originally cost a great deal, but its
repairs-did. In roofs and windows I hardly know what it did not cost.
They were perpetually blowing off or in. On one particular occasion I
had just considerably enlarged the bothy, and newly thatched it from end
to end; when, as we were all located there for the opening of the grouse
campaign in the Diensten district, it began to blow a little after
daybreak. My then keeper, John Munro, came to me, advising the party to
get up, as he thought the bothy was going. The thatch certainly was, and
he had been three times blown off the top of the bothy into his garden
trying to secure it. I got up to see what was going on, as the others
were too lazy; and lo! there was the roof making its way, by instalments,
fast back through the air to the place whence it came, the side of a
well-heathered hill. (N.B. Our roof was of heather). We breakfasted
early that morning alfresco.
From Diensten it was
about, eleven or twelve miles across the muir to Dalbeg, where lived a
great ally of mine, the then ground officer, an excellent man, John
M’Kenzie, who was of much assistance to me in grouse preservation, and
who had a comfortable slate-roofed house, where I used to locate for a
week or a fortnight at a time for shooting purposes, and where also I
built a kennel.
Having thus rendered it
possible to get at my ground, I then turned my mind to see what was to
be done with it as far as grouse were concerned. The prospect was not
promising, for the stock of birds, from the causes already given, was,
for the extent of ground, miserably small. On large tracts there were
actually none, and the first time I shot from: Callernish Inn to Dalbeg,
some eight miles across the muir, my grouse-bag consisted of one old
cock. Fortunately we had three or four very good breeding seasons, one
after another. A great deal of the ground consisted of flats and glens,
surrounded with hills. I do not think there ever was more beautiful
hunting country formed for the different varieties of winged vermin and
other enemies to grouse, that abounded; and, but for the great number of
peat bogs and peat mosses, which were a great protection, I think birds
never could have held their ground. In my opinion, Highlanders—certainly
Hebrideans—are not the best trappers in the world; they have not system
enough for the work, and are not early trained up to it. I once remarked
to a Hebridean keeper the number of hawks I had seen on such and such
ground, and recommended attention to it, when he silenced me by saying
that "hawks did not pay for shoe-leather.” An eagle is worth money to
stuff; an otter’s skin fetches a good price, and this accounts much for
the keenness after them. There is also one thing to be said about
trapping in those parts. There are no trees on which to set traps, and
wood is a scarce article. They can then only be set on cairns or piles
of either stones or peats, which attract the attention of the natives to
a certainty, and the traps stand a very poor chance. But somehow we
managed, at their breeding time, by degrees to get rid of a great many
hawks, ravens, and crows. I decidedly objected to the destruction of
eagles; for who does not like, even at the cost of several grouse, to
see an eagle soar? Besides, I don’t believe they do such a great deal of
harm; I will back the gulls against them any day. Against those birds I
declared war to the knife. There was a beautiful freshwater loch,
Trialaval by name, in the centre of the shooting, shaped something like
a star, with numerous bays and outlets, or rather inlets, for burns. It
was some three or four miles long, but how many round I never could make
out, for it was almost impossible to get round it, unless one knew the
particular fords to cross the different streams that ran into it. On
this loch were several islands, on which nested every species of gull
that can possibly be imagined. It was really an extraordinary sight to
go up there at the time the young gulls were coming out, and watch them
taking their first lessons in the air and on the water, and getting
ready for their migration to the sea, some three or four miles off.
Well, I settled the whole
community by year after year systematically destroying their eggs, till,
as Paddy said, “I made them lave that" so completely that they
disappeared; and I know that as they became scarcer the grouse increased
considerably.
Haying thus taken
measures, as far as practicable, against the increase of vermin, I
proceeded, as far as I could, to divide all the ground into separate
beats, never shooting the same ground over twice for grouse. For some
seasons, as far as I could possibly manage it, I never shot hens, but
killed every old cock I could get at, in season or out of season, on the
ground; poached him, in short, anyhow I could. I shot the broods always
lightly, and thus, by degrees, spread the birds out over the whole
ground, so that parts of the north ground, where there was really
nothing at first, became as good as the south; but the process was very
slow indeed, and it entailed great labour. To shoot the ground in this
way, we had often—besides driving some six or seven miles along the
road, where we left our trap to return in — to walk three, four, five,
or six miles to our beat, shoot that beat, and then walk the same
distance back across the muir to our road or our bothy. Few men could do
this, or would do it if they could; and therefore, though I should have
been glad of a companion, the sort I wanted was hard to find.
I said above that I never
went over the same ground twice for grouse; but, in the woodcock season
I again went over much of the ground, particularly the glens, and then I
never spared an old coat. Thus I gradually cleared the ground of that
worst of all vermin.
There were two great
difficulties to contend with in getting up game in the Lews—viz.,
egg-stealing and heather-burning. And first as to egg-stealing. In the
spring of the year, just about the breeding season, it is the custom for
the women and children—the men being occupied at the different fishing
stations—to go out to the shealings, as they are called, with their
cattle. These shealings are temporary turf cabins, scattered all over
that part of the muir allotted for grazing to the different townships,
or towns, which extend over a large portion of the shooting. It is
necessary that this should be done, as otherwise all those parts of the
„ muir near the towns which should be reserved for autumn and winter
feeding, would be grazed off early, and the remoter parts left
untouched. Now, conceive a whole population of women and children let
loose over your ground in the nesting and hatching season! .The
consequence is, that a general search is made for the nests, which sharp
eyes soon find. When found, the nest is watched till pretty full of
eggs, when a snare is set for the hen, who is soon caught and eaten, and
then the eggs are taken. Against this system no amount of keepering can
avail. The wholesale destruction that takes place may be conceived. In
some places it amounts almost to annihilation, and accounts in some
measure for the number of single cocks seen about. If even, any
egg-stealers be caught, the difficulty of punishing the culprits is
great; and so is the expense, for the canny Scot wisely introduces a
clause into your lease that the expenses of the prosecution are to be
borne by the renter of the shooting, though he can only prosecute
through the Fiscal, whose duty it is, ex officio, to perform that
office. I, therefore, always eschewed prosecutions ; and, at last, by
being well known to the general population over my shooting, having been
the means of doing them some little service, having popular keepers who
well knew the habits of the people, and by a little bribery of so much
per brace to the herd of every shealing, I was able, in some degree, to
stop the wholesale destruction that sometimes takes place. But still,
the system of shealing —which cannot be prevented, though it might be
very much modified—is a bar to that steady increase of grouse that good
preservation might otherwise produce.
Now, as to the other
difficulty, of heather-burning, there was too much and too little burnt.
The sheep-farmer, who paid high rents —as he said, at least,—not being
bound by his lease to burn only a certain portion of the ground yearly,
and that only as sanctioned by the keepers, of course practically burnt
as he liked. It was all very well recommending him from head-quarters
not to burn but as agreed upon between him and the shooting tenant; but
self-interest is self-interest; and, though I generally pulled well with
the sheep-farmers, still, very often, just what ought not to have been
burnt was burnt. Now, as to the poor tenants’ grounds, it was precisely
the reverse. They did not care much about burning, but, as to the rank
old heather that ought to have been burnt, I never could get them to
burn that, because they declared it was the only protection they had for
their sheep in winter; and it would have been as wrong as it would have
been impolitic in me to have used anything like coercion with them.
Between the two systems, however, we throve badly. Over large tracts we
had either no heather or too much.
My factotum at this time
was one Cameron, who had been Burnaby’s henchman, and was a
jack-of-all-trades, and at that time a considerable favourite. He was a
mainland man, somewhere from Lochiel’s country, and I christened him
“Lochiel.” He was a very clever fellow, and could do anything he liked.
He was a good walker, and knew a good deal more about shooting than he
cared to let you know. He pretended never to have handled a gun, but he
could shoot very well. He had a good eye for a deer, though he always
professed “being no acquaint with them.” He was the second best
fisherman I ever saw in my life. My old Davie at Killarney was the best;
but then I don’t think Cameron ever let any one know how well he could
fish, or how long a line he could throw. He was a very good boatman, and
held a boat for fishing—a very great art—better than anyone I have ever
fished with, except the aforesaid old Davie. He was a very good
carpenter, and decidedly handy at anything. He was fond of his pony and
his dogs, and took good care of them. But then he had a fault, and it
was a strange one. It was not whisky, it was not temper; but he passed
his whole life thinking and contriving how he could save himself trouble
and avoid doing any particular thing that he knew must be done. He was a
lazy man, of great energy if he liked. Sandie, too, came into my service
about this time, as a watcher in the far west side at Dalbeg; but it is
not the time to speak of him yet.
My dog-team was not at
this time what it afterwards became; I was only getting my kennel up.
True I had Old Tom, a host in himself, then young, and his little son
Jock, the offspring of his youth; Grouse, the first, a beautiful black
and tan setter, that I bought of Burnaby, and as good as gold; a wild
demon of a black, white, and tan setter bitch; Lady, a very good black
and tan setter bitch, given me by poor Douglas of Scatwell, who had a
nice kennel of beautiful Gordons; and Dick, a great big handsome liver
and white setter, very useful in his way. His nose was wonderful, and I
always took him out with little Jock. Dick telegraphed grouse at
extraordinary distances, when Jock bulleted in for a quarter of a mile
and took you to the birds. Between them they were very effective. But,
before concluding this account of my dog-team, I must say a word or two
about my dear Old Tom and his pedigree.
Fifty-four years ago,
when at Cambridge, I purchased, on the recommendation of a Yorkshire
friend, a very thoroughbred-looking, handsome, and excellent
pointer-dog, called Clinker, whose breed, derived from that of the
celebrated Colonel Thornton, had been in my friend’s family many years.
This dog died a few months afterwards of dysentery; but the terms of his
purchase having been that I was to have a bitch puppy of the same breed,
in the spring of 1818 a beautiful little one arrived at my rooms, and
commenced our long acquaintance by tearing an Herodotus to pieces. Die
(so we called her) was a most precocious animal, played all sorts of
tricks, was lost, cried, found, and then, spite of all college
authorities, domesticated as the faithful companion of my every hour.
Beautiful, faithful, sagacious, perfect in the field, Die was allowed to
be the handsomest and best pointer in the University and its vicinity.
There may be some persons living still who remember her and her picture
(as painted by one whose real vocation certainly was animal painting). I
refused for her what then were fabulous prices; but no gold would have
tempted me to sell poor Die, whom, on my going abroad, I gave to my dear
friend, her painter, who loved and valued her equally with myself. With
him she passed the remainder of her days, well known both in
Staffordshire and Cheshire ; and from a daughter of hers, very like
herself and called after her, I bred a litter of puppies by my
black-and-tan pointer, Fowler (from liis performances called the
Professor by those who may yet remember him in Ireland and in Norfolk).
And here comes a singular
link in the pedigree. Shortly after littering young Die took the
distemper, and, being obliged to leave home, I left her and her litter
in charge of my cousin’s huntsman, who falsely reported her and her
young dead. One had survived, which he sold to a neighbour. Of this
neighbour I some years afterwards purchased Whack, one of the best (if
not the best) muir dogs I ever owned, and, after many pressing inquiries
as to his parentage, it came out that his dam was my purloined puppy,
his sire a fox-hound. This accounted to me for a something in Whack that
was constantly reminding me of poor old Die. I crossed Whack with Meg,
an excellent and fine bitch from the Eokeby kennels. Meg was a cross of
Lord Wharncliffe’s and’ Lord Althorp’s (the Minister) breeds, supposed
to be the two best of their day. From Meg, before I got her, sprang many
of the Eokeby pointers, which were, when I knew them, among the
handsomest’ and best I ever saw, and I understand their character is
still the same. From Whack and Meg came Yenus, or Yin, a small but very
strong bitch, who was as good as anything could be. Untiring, she was
gifted with great nose, sense, and sagacity. Yin never bred till she was
nine years old, when she produced, by Nathan (a sire dog of Mr. Edge’s,
given by that gentleman to the late Hon. Henry Howard, as a fine
specimen of his breed), the subject of this long story, Tom, or Old Tom,
as he is generally called.
It is possible that there
are still living some two or three sportsmen who knew Tom, and when I
say he did all but talk to us out shooting, they would vouch for the
truth of my statement.
I once sent him out with
a friend staying with me, accustomed to dogs, and on his return he
said:—
“I have not only had a
good day’s shooting, but the most agreeable and extraordinary companion
I ever shot with: Tom has been talking to me all day, and telling me
where he was going, and where I ought to go.”
This was perfectly true,
for it is his habit. Every man has, of course, the best dog in the
world, though I do not pretend to say Tom was; indeed, I have had better
myself, but never saw one of his sagacity.
Lews is a hard country
for dogs to find game in—hilly, with hillocks; so that you cannot keep
your dogs in sight, or they you. When Tom finds anything and does not
see me, he is not fool enough to stay there for ever; he comes and looks
for me, and when I see him, knowing what he means, I walk to him, when
he takes me up to his game. But I have had other dogs do this, though
not to the same extent. This, however, which I am going to relate, I
never have seen.
Tom backed as well as a
dog could; but if I was not in sight when the dog he was backing stood,
Tom came to look for me, and having found me, brought me up to him; and
his manner of introducing me to the dog, or the dog to me, might suggest
a sketch to Landseer.
I hunted poor Tom
thirteen seasons, and could never tire him; and if the fastest of my
black-and-tan setters (and I had some very fast) was out, Tom would
always take and keep the outside range. He was also an excellent and
sagacious retriever—pointers, par parenthese, always making the best
when properly trained. In the coldest of days he would retrieve bird
after bird out of the numerous lochs round which most of our shooting
lay. I once winged a grouse, which ran towards a burn, and as Tom was
retrieving it, I tailored another in the same fashion, who also made for
the same burn. Tom stopped, and looked me hard in the face: he was
singularly tender-mouthed, and the bird was alive in his mouth; so he
shifted him gently till he came to his neck, which he squeezed
sufficiently to stop any more running, and then quickly retrieved the
other. I could go on, with the garrulity of my years, about my old dog
for ever; but I must hasten the burthen of my story and conclude.
For Tom’s pedigree I can
only give the assurance of a gentleman’s word. At a dog-show no one
would have looked at him, for he was not a large “ upstanding” dog, as
the term is in these days, when dogs are judged by size and weight, as
if they were to be eaten; yet he was probably as highly bred as any
pointer in Great Britain, without the disadvantage of any in-and-in
breeding. I would not exchange his blood for any in the kingdom, though
I have always wished to cross it with some other as good, and as
sagacious. You may increase this rare quality of sagacity by proper
breeding to a great extent; you have then only to take care (but how
much care!) not to hinder its development by what is called breaking.
Such was the shooting at
Soval when I commenced. In my next I shall describe the fishing. |