By W. A. Baillie-Grohman

Chamois are to be found in all the higher mountain systems of Central and Southern Europe. They are indigenous to timber-line regions from the Caucasus to the Pyrenees, and from the Carpathians to the Alps of the Epirus. Switzerland and the Austrian Alps have, however, always been their chief home. To the sportsman the latter region, with its large estates and sport-loving landed aristocracy, offers a much more inviting field than does Switzerland, where the republican spirit and peasant proprietorship make the preservation of game by individuals almost impossible, and the chase in consequence uncertain and difficult. It is fair, however, to add that the efforts made by several of the Swiss Cantons in the course of the last ten or twenty years will presumably prevent the extermination of the chamois in Switzerland, which but for strictly enforced regulations would at one time have been only a matter of a few years. That the democratic spirit of republics is not one favourable to the preservation of game, we can see by the dire results it has worked in the Great Transatlantic Federation, where some species of ferÆ naturÆ have practically become extinct.

The experience of those who have killed or tried to kill chamois in the Pyrenees or in Albania would show that sport in those countries is somewhat uncertain, and to obtain it lengthy expeditions have to be undertaken, which in the majority of cases, the writer’s not excepted, are not successful. It will therefore, we are inclined to think, best serve the practical purposes of these volumes if prominence is given to chamois shooting in those regions of the Central Alps which may be considered the true home of that sport.

In Tyrol, the Bavarian Highlands,[7] Upper Austria, and Styria, the regions best adapted for chamois shoots are in the hands of the Austrian nobility, or of the Imperial House, or of foreign potentates, who in their own countries cannot establish chamois drives. Besides these large and well-guarded preserves, there are also peasant-shoots where strangers can with comparative ease procure permission to stalk. With few exceptions, to one of which more detailed reference will be made, the sport obtainable in peasant-shoots is poor; for where it is open to the natives (born mountaineers, and as keen and hardy sportsmen as can be found anywhere), game is in consequence of constant molestation more difficult of approach, and less plentiful than in preserves where, with the exception of a fortnight or two in the autumn, it is never disturbed. In the peasant-shoots chamois are never driven but always stalked, and the stranger attempting to do as the natives do must make up his mind to undergo very hard work, put up with very rough fare, and must consider himself lucky if he manages to get a shot the third or fourth day out. Indeed, there can be no better test of a man’s love for sport or of his woodcraft than to let him attempt to get a chamois in a peasant’s-shoot unassisted by native hunters. On the other hand, to stalk chamois in a preserve under the guidance of a keeper is really a very ordinary matter; good wind, a fairly clear head, and moderately good eyesight are the chief qualifications beyond the knack of doing exactly what one is told.

The nature of the ground where chamois are found differs vastly. Thus in the Bavarian Highlands where the shooting rights are almost entirely in the hands of the Royal House, and where game is very closely guarded, the mountains frequented by chamois are low, hardly reaching beyond timber-line, and so easy to ascend as to almost allow a man on horseback to climb their slopes. Here stalking is sometimes easier than deer stalking is in Scotland, for there is more cover for the sportsman. In an easy country such as this, a rigorous day and night watch has to be kept up, and poaching is made a matter of life and death; indeed, in the eyes of the Bavarian keeper, his Tyrolese neighbour used to be regarded much in the same light as the American frontiersman looks upon redskins, i.e. the only good Indian he knows is a dead Indian. Chamois poachers are by no means to be placed on the same low level as Bill Sikes or Tom Stubbs of evil mien, who sneak about English preserves. The ‘Freeshooters of the Alps,’ as they are often called, are invariably brave fellows, who literally take their lives in their hands, and are not moved by mercenary motives, but by their inborn love of the chase. As a rule, they make the best and most faithful keepers; experience in hundreds of cases testifying to the correctness of the old saying, that a good keeper is but a good poacher turned outside in. No finer specimens of manhood can be discovered than among such reformed and unreformed poachers, and most of the great lords take pride in having the most dare-devil fellows and best cragsmen as keepers. Their whole lives are passed in the great silent solitudes of timber-line, and for weeks at a time they don’t see a human being, and undergo hardships of which the ordinary dweller in civilisation has no conception.

The shooting season varies triflingly; in some parts of the Alps it begins in July, and ends in December, in others it begins only in August. The rutting season is in November, and that is the only time when old bucks are found constantly mingling with the does. Were it not for the inclemencies of the Alpine climate, which usually covers inhospitable timber-line with several feet of snow by the end of October, the rutting season would be the best for stalking, for chamois are then less wary, and their coats have by that time got darker in colour, and hence they are more easily seen than earlier in the season; but as a rule the chase is made impossible to all but the most hardy by the deep snow. The interesting instantaneous photograph taken of chamois during the rutting time shows how dark their coats have got by that time. September and October are as a rule the months chosen for driving and stalking. The kids, which are dropped in April, have by that time attained a sufficient growth to enable them to get their own living under the care of a foster-mother should their own parent accidentally fall a victim to the rifle of a tiro who in the excitement of a stalk has failed to distinguish the doe from the buck; by no means an easy task, for both have the same sized horns, though triflingly different in shape and position, those of the buck being a little thicker at the base and rising more parallel to each other. Speaking of horns, it may be as well to give the size of the largest of the many hundred heads of which the writer has kept record. The two largest pair are in the collections of the reigning Duke of Saxe-Coburg at the Hinter Riss, in Tyrol, and in that of Count Arco at Munich, where over seven thousand horns and antlers form a particularly interesting collection. They each measure over twelve inches along the curve and over four inches in circumference at the base; the former are those of a buck killed by the Duke in Tyrol, the other was bought by the late Count Arco. Eleven-inch heads are still obtainable, though very rare, the largest of my own killing being of that length, and four inches in circumference. A first-rate ordinary buck tapes ten inches. Abnormally long doe’s horns are also occasionally seen, but the slimness at the base invariably betrays the sex. In some of the mountain ranges isolated from other homes of chamois, the heads, in consequence of constant inbreeding, assume a certain type by which those versed in antler-lore can recognise their origin. Thus the horns will perhaps be closer together or be wider apart, or have a more or less developed crook, or stand at a slightly different angle than they ordinarily do. The chamois horns of the Epirus, the Carpathians and the Pyrenees are smaller than those found in the Central Alps, and the animals are also lighter. The weight of a good buck of the Alps is about 60 lbs., though the writer has killed one in the Dolomites weighing 73 lbs., and Tschuddi mentions an authentic instance of 125 lbs., and another of 92 lbs., the latter buck being killed in 1870 on the Santis. The does are not as heavy, ordinarily weighing from 45 lbs. to 50 lbs.

A trophy one often sees on the hats of sportsmen on the Continent is the so-called ‘Gamsbart,’ literally ‘beard of the chamois.’ This name is misleading, for these bunches are made of the hairs that grow along the backbone, from the neck to the tail. These hairs are in summer not much longer than any other part of the coat, but as the rutting time approaches they grow longer, and in November they are from six to eight inches, and the longer they are the greater their beauty in the eyes of the natives, who will pay large prices for particularly long bunches. A peculiarity little known to naturalists is the fact that when these hairs are stroked from the roots toward the tips they become positively, and when rubbed in the opposite direction they become negatively, electric.

CHAMOIS PRESERVES AND PEASANT-SHOOTS

One of the regions most attractive to the sportsman is North Tyrol, and more particularly that wide strip of mountain-land skirting the Bavarian boundary on the one side and the Inn Valley on the other. Here some of the best preserves in the world are situated, five royal shoots almost abutting on each other. These mountains, in character very similar to the better known Dolomites, which range is now, alas! thanks to tourists and peasant-shoots, pretty well cleared of chamois, are the beau idÉal of what chamois ground should be. Most of this area consists of vast almost verdureless limestone ranges of jagged peaks intersected by deep ravines, where even in the hottest weather snow-fields nestling in shady recesses form the chamois’ favourite rendezvous. Too barren to make the cultivation of those elevated Alpine pasturages, so common in Tyrol and Switzerland, and which as a rule are fatal to preserves, a paying industry, this sea of mountains is practically one chamois preserve. In this tract, containing seven shoots, the annual bag aggregates between five hundred and eight hundred chamois, while the total head must be over four thousand.

One is often asked what the cost of a moderately large chamois preserve amounts to. It is difficult to give any hard and fast rule; one thing, however, is certain, that a shoot, say of mixed game, i.e. stag and chamois, can be obtained for a fourth or fifth of the cost of a Scotch forest. The chief expense are the keepers, whose wages (from 40l. to 50l. per annum) are, however, low. As a rule, the ground is rented from the Crown, and if it has been hitherto unpreserved, the rental is a nominal sum. In three years, if not shot over at all, the game will have increased probably three or four fold, not only from natural increase, but, being entirely undisturbed, game from adjoining shoots will have been attracted. If any Alpine pasture-rights on any part of the leased land exist, these ‘servitudes,’ as they are called, will have to be bought up or leased from the individual peasant owners.

The following instance, which may be regarded as authentic, will show what can be done in this respect. In 1866 four sportsmen rented on long lease from several Alpine hamlets a number of adjoining ‘servitudes,’ and placed three trustworthy keepers over the shoot, whose sole duty was to prevent poaching. When they started there were between 100 and 140 chamois on the place. In 1867 they killed fourteen, and from that on the bag gradually increased until in 1881 they shot 113 head, while the entire bag from 1867 to 1883 amounted to 766 head, the average number of shooting days being twelve every year. Their rent and keepers’ wages came to under 300l. per annum, and a separate gratuity of ten florins for every chamois killed by the owners offered a further inducement to the keepers to prevent poaching.

Before the year 1848, the Austrian red deer and chamois preserves carried infinitely more game than they do now, though they still are probably the best stocked that exist. In that dire year of revolution the destruction, amounting in only too many instances to complete extermination by the rebel peasantry, gave the deathblow to the cherished rights of the chase—relics of the feudal ages—claimed by all the large landed proprietors. The peasant-shoots as a consequence of the revolution came into existence in that year; for anterior to it the peasantry were feudal vassals to whom their seigneur’s game was almost as sacred as their lives, poaching in the olden days being an offence punished by loss of limb or life. It may be interesting to refer briefly to one of the few instances of peasant-shoots dating back to earlier times than 1848.

In this instance, the rights of the chase date back to the year 1709, when an imperial grant conveyed the sporting privileges to the peasantry of this particular valley as a reward for their conspicuous bravery in the defence of their country against overwhelming odds. Since that time the heirs of the twenty-six peasants who participated in the war have exercised the sporting rights over a very large area. By careful management and the adoption of the following rules, it is made a profitable property. At the commencement of the shooting season the twenty-six shareholders, as they might be called, meet in solemn conclave and settle among themselves what number of chamois and stags are to be killed that season, the severity or mildness of the preceding winter having, as in all Alpine districts, much to do with this matter, and they also select three of their number, who for the ensuing twelve months have to act as keepers to guard against poachers from the adjoining valleys. During the season, any one member may shoot as many head as he chooses until the agreed upon total is reached. As there is a good market for the game within reach, every head is turned over to the treasurer, who sells it. Half of the proceeds goes to the man who killed it, while the other goes to a general fund which is equally divided among the twenty-six members at the end of the season, so that a man who has not fired a shot draws at the end of the year what to these simple folk is a considerable sum. In one year, when the writer was shooting there, the total reached three hundred head of big game, i.e. chamois, stags, and roe-deer, and one was placed in the odd position of not only not having to pay for the capital sport one had enjoyed, but having money offered one in the shape of half of the proceeds of all one had killed.

CHAMOIS STALKING

At a discussion which once arose at the table of the Prince Consort’s brother, H.R.H. the reigning Duke of Saxe-Coburg—a veteran Nimrod, who for the last fifty years has unquestionably shown himself, next to the Emperor of Austria, the keenest royal sportsman in Europe—the question arose whether chamois would share the fate of their kindred the ibex and become extinct. Somebody made the paradoxical reply: ‘Not so long as they are only killed by potentates and by peasants.’ While this cannot of course be taken literally, there is yet some truth in it, for it indicates the respective methods of shooting chamois—that is, by driving and by stalking; the one being the pleasure of the highest in the land, the other infinitely harder and more truly sportsmanlike method being usually only pursued by the hardy peasant and daring poacher. In pursuing the argument that arose as to the respective merits of stalking and driving, the host, whose prowess as a bold stalker in his younger days was well known to all present, remarked with sparkling eyes that he would willingly give all the 149 driven chamois he killed the preceding season for the half-dozen he stalked half a century before in the first season he visited those mountains, a sentiment with which every keen sportsman will heartily agree.[8]

Stalking chamois is hard work, often very hard work, but it is keener sport than any the average sportsman comes across. Amid the wild grandeur of unfrequented mountain recesses, one’s woodcraft, one’s endurance, and one’s agility are pitted against the instincts of what is probably the wariest game that exists, and one, too, which is protected by the kind offices of nature, who has made its home, as a rule, inaccessible to all but the most sure-footed. The dangers besetting the path of the lonely stalker have from time immemorial lent themselves in a particularly tempting manner to exaggeration, so that most accounts of the sport are not only given at third hand, but are overladen with romantic nonsense.

For a narrative of actual stalking experiences which possibly may prove more useful than mere generalisations, it may be as well to describe a typical stalk, one of many the writer has enjoyed in the peasant-shoot already alluded to; for it will give a better idea of the ordinary incidents of stalking than were one to relate the more everyday events of a stalk in a preserve where game is plentiful and where one has simply to follow the directions of the keeper. Under the circumstances the hope is entertained that the use of the otherwise undesirable ‘ego’ will be permitted.

One of the first things to settle before starting on a chamois stalk is the question where shelter for the night nearest to the hunting ground can be obtained. If roughing is not objected to, a light sleeping bag made of waterproof canvas with fur lining and weighing not more than ten or twelve pounds is a friend in need. With it and the shelter of the wide-spreading branches of an arve or pine, the night or two passed on high need not entail great discomforts; but, as a rule, a more substantial roof overhead becomes acceptable, particularly if, as in this instance, the advent of October brings with it a snowstorm. If there are any Alp-huts at all handy, their shingle roof and loft filled with fragrant hay offer a more desirable shelter and sleeping accommodation than a pine-tree and sleeping bag.

A long day’s walk from the main valley, with three or four days’ provisions stowed away in the ‘RÜcksack’—of which useful style of game-bag a word anon—brought me at dusk to the chalet selected on this occasion. It had been vacated five or six weeks before by its solitary inmate and his dozen or so of hardy mountain-bred cattle, man and beast having returned to lower and more hospitable regions after their three or four weeks’ sojourn in these elevated solitudes. The small low log hut was about as primitive and isolated a human habitation as one could imagine. The nearest dwelling was five hours’ walk off, and as one looked upon the scene familiar to one from stalks of old, a delightful sense of solitude made itself felt. In front of the hut the primitive ‘Brunnen,’ made out of a hollowed pine-tree, spouted forth gaily and merrily a clear stream fed from a rill coming straight from the nearest snow-field a few hundred feet above the hut. A sound usually indicative of human presence, it now only heightened the sense of the utter solitude of the scene upon which the sombre mantle of night was about to sink. As the door was locked, a few shingles removed from one corner where the eaves of the slanting roof approached the ground to within three feet gave ingress to the hayloft, from which the soot-begrimed interior of the primitively constructed hut could be gained by a short ladder. The door was easily unfastened from the inside, and a fire on the open hearth soon sent forth its genial blaze. From the owner of the hut, whose habitation was one of the last which I passed that morning on my way up, the hiding-place of a frying-pan and a small stock of flour was learnt, and with these additions to what I had brought, a substantial meal of ‘schmarrn’ and tea was soon prepared and eaten, while a pipe or two before turning into the hay for the night were enjoyed sitting on a primitive bench in front of the chalet. From here in the bright moonlight I could see my goal for the morrow, the declivities of a boldly rising peak which I knew of yore to be a pretty sure find for chamois at this season of the year, and where on the occasion of my last visit I had demonstrated to a friend how easy it was to spoil a stalk and miss a chamois. A sharp frost, causing a chilly mist to rise from the steaming moorland surrounding the hut, however, sent me soon indoors and to my night’s quarters in the dry fragrant hay, where, enfolded in a plaid, sleep after a twenty-five-mile walk was indeed sound and restful.

The following morning I was up before dawn, and after a breakfast of a pannikin of steaming tea and some bacon, I reached the first rocks at the base of the peak, before as much as ‘shooting light’ had chased away darkness. To be early on the ground is a great advantage, for the chamois’ day is half over at what most people would consider a reasonable breakfast hour, and moreover it usually gives the stalker the two winds, i.e. the one ordinarily blowing down the mountain before the rays of the rising sun strike the slope, and the one blowing in the contrary direction after that has occurred. Leading up to the rocks was an exceedingly steep grassy slope, which the hard frost of the night had turned into a precipitous field of ice, to ascend which my light pair of crampons (so useful for rockwork in a limestone formation) came in very handy. On reaching a good point of outlook a definite plan of action had to be decided upon. As the wind would be soon drawing up the slope, it became necessary to gain a point above the proposed stalking ground, which could be done by climbing the peak from the back. It was not of great altitude, perhaps some two thousand five hundred or two thousand six hundred feet over the moor where the Alp-hut stood, but the back rose in bold proportions and presented a face almost bare of vegetation, towering up like a huge wall, so that the task of scaling it from that side was a stiff one. A couloir-like cleft running almost vertically up the face of the rock offered the only practicable means of ascending the first ninety or hundred feet, by a free use of one’s back and knees in chimney-sweeper’s style. One’s progress would have been more rapid but for the rifle and rÜcksack hampering one’s movements. Protected, as the muzzle of the rifle should always be when real climbing is to be done, by a sheath of sole-leather five or six inches long drawn over the sight, it often materially assists to take the rifle apart, and wrap the stock and the barrels separately in the folds of the game-bag (to prevent chafing). By thus making a compact parcel of it, and with the assistance of a few fathoms of strong cord, which should always be carried with one, it can be drawn up after one at the more difficult places. Three hours’ stiff climbing landed me at last near the top of the peak, where further progress was rendered easier by the existence of horizontal ledges running towards the side of the mountain which I was striving to gain. Wriggling along one of these bands, now on my hands and knees, then again in an upright position with my back scraping against the rock, I finally weathered the corner or shoulder of the mountain, and there at my feet lay the slope to gain the command of which had entailed such hard work.

The slope I overlooked was perfect stalking ground. Far less precipitous than the one I had ascended, it fell away from the top in a series of terrace-like steps, each separated from the next by small precipices from twenty to fifty feet in height. The uppermost steps were almost verdureless, while the middle and lower ones broadened into grassy ledges with thick beds of the dwarf pine (latchen), affording good grazing and capital shelter. The breeze was drawing briskly up the slope, and everything, from the nature of the ground to the glorious autumn weather and crisp atmosphere of high altitudes, seemed favourable to good sport.

From nine to twelve in the forenoon is the worst time to spy for chamois, for after their morning graze they invariably, except in very bad weather, lie down in some sheltered nook where it is almost impossible to spot them. At noon they rise, if only for a few minutes, to nibble at the nearest blades of grass and resume their ‘couch.’ An old poacher’s saying that the older the buck the more punctual he is, emphasises this habit, which, by-the bye, is also observed by red deer. An hour’s rest, with a bite of lunch and a pull or two at a flask of genuine kirsch, formed an acceptable interlude and when the shadow of my alpenstock, planted vertically in a crack (thus forming a primitive kind of sun-dial), had almost disappeared, I knew it was about time to commence a sharp look out. But, as is so often the case, I was looking for something in the distance which, had I but known it, was right before me. For a quarter of an hour I had been scanning the different ledges with my glass without discovering anything, and I was closing the telescope rather impatiently and with unnecessary violence, thereby making a very audible metallic click, when suddenly, with a loud whistle of alarm, a fine buck jumped into my line of sight on the ledge below the one I occupied, not more than thirty-five yards off. At the moment I was lounging with my back against a rock, my legs, on account of the narrowness of the ledge, dangling over the brink, and my rifle, still unjointed, safe in the game-bag. Throwing my body to one side as the buck jumped into view, I commenced frantically to fumble for the arm; but the buck was not so easily duped, and by the time I had put it together, wrenched the protector from the muzzle and slipped cartridges in, he had time to put a hundred and thirty yards between himself and that alarming apparition of which he just caught a glimpse. Though he kept to the same ledge he was only visible for brief moments, projecting rocks obstructing the line of sight. So old Reliable, a favourite .500 Express that had done good work in the Rockies and the Sierras, did not get a fair chance, and the buck made no sign he was hit, though it certainly seemed to me that I heard the thud of the ball. Making a dÉtour to gain the lower level, I hurried to the spot and soon found blood, though only in scanty patches. The colour was, however, bright red and frothy, so it evidently was a lung shot. Wounded chamois give no end of trouble, and this one was no exception, for generally it means tracking a beast which instinctively resorts to its matchless climbing faculties to outwit its pursuer. As a rule, it is far wiser not to follow the animal at once, but to seek a prominent point where a good view of the surroundings can be gained, and watch where the beast goes to. If it is only slightly wounded the pursuit will probably be fruitless, and if hard hit it is best to let the effect of the wound tell upon the vitality of the animal by waiting an hour or two. If hard hit, it won’t go far so long as it remains unpursued, and the great thing is to see where it goes to cover. The temptation to follow the tracks at once is, however, one which in the excitement of the moment is not so easily resisted, and in this instance it was doubly unwise to give way to it, for my shot was less likely to be a fatal one (having been fired at a steep slant downwards) than had it been delivered on the level. It was noon when I fired; it was past four when, after a persistent chase, I caught sight of the buck four hundred yards off, still on his legs, though evidently hard hit. Probably he had kept me in sight all the time, jumping up from his blood-bespattered couches whenever I got too near.

At sunset I was no closer to him, and as he was taking me further and further away from the chalet, a decision whether to sleep out or whether to return for the night to the hut became imperative. Sleeping out, quite unprepared as I happened to be, was, at the altitude I was on and in the chilly October nights, a contingency which if not really necessary was better avoided, particularly as the weather was rapidly assuming a threatening look, and the sky became covered with leaden-hued clouds indicative of coming snow. Taking the shortest route, it was, however, pitch dark when I finally reached the hut. A couple of hours later, when I turned in, a strong wind was blowing, which soon afterwards rose to a fierce gale that made the timbers of the ramshackle old hut groan and creak. It was still quite dark when I woke up, an ominous stillness contrasting strangely with the preceding uproar of the elements. The cause was soon explained, for on going to the door and trying to open it I found a couple of feet of snow had drifted against it, and I had to take it off its primitive raw-hide hinges to get it open at all. The air was thick with big flakes, and the ground was covered to a depth of four or five inches. It was noon before it stopped snowing, though the leaden, sunless sky did not look even then very promising. To search for the wounded buck under such circumstances seemed almost hopeless, and entirely so if he had died during the night, but eventually I decided to make an attempt. Making my way as best I could by the easiest approach to the ledge where I last saw the buck, I was of course wet to the skin long ere I reached the spot, for forcing one’s way through the twisted and tangled masses of the dwarf pine, snow clinging to every twig and branch, is the reverse of agreeable. However, I was to be rewarded, for I had not gone far when I heard the whistle emitted by the chamois when suddenly alarmed. Looking up, I saw him standing on the ledge above me, his shaggy coat outlined against the sky. It was his last tottering effort to fly from his pursuer, and I believe I almost could have caught him, so enfeebled had he become by loss of blood. A bullet placed in a better place than the last one soon put him out of his misery. It was a good five or six year old buck, and my first bullet had struck him rather high between the spine and the lungs, but ranging downwards had cut a furrow in the one lung on the side of its exit. Overshooting game when firing downwards should be specially guarded against. For shots under similar circumstances and at ordinary distances, it is a safe rule to see daylight between the top of the bead and the body; where otherwise, if the shot were fired on level ground, one would hold the bead right on the body.

Cutting a branch or two from the nearest dwarf pine and making use of the cord in my rÜcksack, a sort of sleigh was easily improvised, and seeing a steep and uninterrupted slope near at hand, I bundled the buck and myself down it in capital time, and in a flying cloud of snow. At the bottom I brittled the animal, for from there on I had to carry him, and finally reached the hut just as dusk and snow were simultaneously commencing to fall upon the landscape. A roaring fire and the fact that I had brought a change of underclothing with me, and discovered a pair of discarded old sabots in the adjoining cowshed, together with the solacing effects of a delicious stew of liver and brain, soon put a rosier hue upon things generally, and the fact that a good buck was hanging by the crooks of his horns to the eaves outside had probably also something to do with it.

One more chamois stalking incident may perhaps be permitted to find space here, as it will illustrate another aspect of the sport obtainable in a peasant-shoot. The shoot in question skirted for many miles the boundary between Tyrol and Bavaria; the preserve on the latter side marching with it, being a favourite hunting ground of the late King, was hence particularly strictly guarded. Preparing myself for a three or four days’ absence in the mountains, I left the main valley one August morning and reached the Alp-hut which I proposed to make my headquarters late the same afternoon. In the locality referred to, the duty of herding the cattle driven up to these elevated pasturages is performed by girls instead of by men. The stout-armed and stout-hearted lass will often be for weeks quite alone in her hut, miles of mountain wilds between her and the nearest habitation. On getting to the hut I found installed in it, instead of buxom Moidl, her brother Hans, a bold climber, inveterate stalker, and best of fellows withal. Hans and I were acquaintances of old, and he had no secrets from me. What that meant will be better understood when it is mentioned that the Bavarian frontier line was within rifle-shot of the hut, following the backbone of a steep ridge. Beyond that invisible line death awaited the poacher; for the Bavarian keepers were well known to entertain no scruples about reversing the order prescribed by law, and would shoot first and then only call upon their foe to surrender, a condition of things which naturally led to retaliation and sanguinary feuds. Hans and I were sitting in front of the hut smoking our pipes, and it needed no glasses to see that those black specks on yonder arÊte were the game of game, and Hans’ eyes, sparkling with excitement, involuntarily travelled from the chamois on the far cliff towards a huge old larch-tree a couple of hundred yards from where we were sitting, shattered ages ago by lightning, and now affording in its hollow trunk a safe hiding-place for his rifle and capacious rÜcksack, in the folds of which more than one buck had, I suspect, been ‘extradited’ back to Tyrol. There was really no reason for Hans to hide his rifle, for he was here on his own ground, but being a wild and uninhabited stretch of country and only peasants their victims, the Bavarian keepers would often defy the rules of international intercourse, and would cross into Tyrol to search Alp-huts they suspected of harbouring poachers—a proceeding which was all the more aggravating to the Tyrolese, for in consequence of topographical reasons the chamois were, if length of residence counted, really more their own than the Bavarian King’s—the peculiar lay of the country causing the chamois to leave the Tyrolese mountains, which faced the south, during the hot summer months to seek the cooler northern aspect on the Bavarian side of the line, returning to their home-range with the first September or October snowstorm, after which period the south aspect of the mountains remained their home for eight or nine months of the year. The King usually held his big drives in August, an exceptionally early period, and, as the Tyrolese persisted in maintaining, they were held so early for the special purpose of getting their chamois, a pretension which received some colour in their eyes by the circumstance that the keepers used to take special precautions at this season to prevent them escaping over the line.

My only hope for sport in that neighbourhood, those hot August days, lay in the circumstance that at one point the boundary line, instead of following the watershed, crossed from point to point, leaving the northern declivities of one of the higher peaks down to its base on the Tyrolese side. Towards this spot, about two hours’ climb from the hut, I shaped my course early the next morning after a comfortable night in the hayloft. It was necessary to get to the spot at sunrise, for otherwise the chamois, who used the narrow ledges that ran across the face of the exceedingly precipitous slope only for their night quarters, would have moved down towards their feeding ground near some snow patches beyond the base of the rock, where the ground was already in Bavaria. On getting to the top of the hill, which I did just as the sun was rising over the great glaciers of the distant Zillerthal, I found that the wind was still drawing down the slope, so the change in its direction, which usually occurs about sunrise, had to be patiently awaited. After shivering for some time in the piercing breeze, the wind at last began to shift, and five minutes later it was blowing up the slope. Only now did I venture to creep forward to the edge of the precipice, and craning over, scan the declivity below me. There, sure enough, right at the foot of the cliff, about 250 yards off, but already on Bavarian ground, was a single chamois slowly feeding away from me. My glass soon told me that it was a prize worthy of every effort, nay, almost worth turning poacher oneself. How unjust that this animal, which passed the greater part of the year on Tyrolese soil, should, because it happened to stray across an invisible boundary line, become the property of the King, just at the very time when the big royal chamois drives would, perhaps, cause him to run up to the rifle barrels of some pampered sportsman sitting on his camp-stool behind a bush, and anything but deserving the luck of bagging such a rare old buck, who was worthy of the hardest stalk man ever had! How unlucky, too, that the wind had not changed five minutes earlier, for I felt convinced that my lordly old buck had passed the night on some of the ledges within easy reach of my rifle! But these ruminations were useless, and as nothing further was to be done that day, I determined to return to the Alp-hut and repeat the experiment the following morning, when I hoped the wind would prove more propitious. On reaching the hut, I found that flaxen-tressed Moidl had returned from her errand to her distant home, and as both she and her brother knew every inch of the country I had been over, I talked matters over with them. My comment that the ‘Hohe GeschnÜrr’ was a fickle place for wind found the assent of experience. Moidl was quite a fair cook, and as I had some time before rendered her lover, who was serving his three years’ military service in the nearest garrison town, the much-prized favour of obtaining for him an unexpected leave of absence, she was, so far as the primitive means at her command allowed her, an attentive hostess, and, as the sequel proved, an energetic strategist. ‘And you are sure that you will return to the Hohe GeschnÜrr to-morrow morning?’ queried the lass as I was settling myself for a comfortable afternoon smoke at the open hearth. To my affirmative answer she replied with a smile and a nod, and soon afterwards left the hut, bent, as I supposed, on some errand connected with the guardianship of the kine in her charge, and from which she had not returned when I turned in for a second night in the hay. My start next morning was an early one, and I reached the top of the cliff in good time. Awaiting sunrise and the wind being favourable, I was soon creeping with bated breath through the low brush that grew to the very edge of the cliff, and looked down to renew my acquaintance, if possible, with the old lord of the manor. But, alas! the rising morning mist still hid the lower portion of the vast amphitheatre-shaped declivity. What wonderful effects do not those fleecy clouds produce as, drifting from pinnacle to pinnacle, assuming every minute different fantastic shapes, they finally begin to melt away, disclosing as they do so bit after bit of the details of the sublime landscape! When the base of the cliff at last became visible, I saw, somewhat to my surprise, quite a number of chamois congregated and evidently made uneasy by some sign of danger which was invisible to me; I could even hear their ‘whistle.’ With my glasses I soon picked out my buck of yesterday, and near him I saw a second veteran. It was much too far to shoot, so I awaited with imaginable impatience what the next move of the game would be. Slowly, with frequent stops to look back in the direction where their scent detected danger, they at last commenced an upward course which would bring them, if nothing changed their bearing, to within fifty yards of where I lay concealed, waiting till they reached the top of the cliff—in front the leading doe, then several yearlings and two-year-olds, and last, straggling at some distance behind, the two fathers of the tribe. The latter’s doom was sealed, for a minute later a right and left had added two good heads to my collection. Far over the mountains did the breeze carry the sound of my shots, and presumably more than one many-jointed German oath came as echo from the angry keepers, whose ideas respecting the ownership of those chamois were not exactly the same as those of the proprietors of the soil where the chamois lived for the greater part of the year. After brittling the bucks and hiding the larger one under some brush, I made for home with the other one in my rÜcksack. On my way down I stopped at the Alp-hut and sent Hans back for the former, which he was to take to the main valley the following day, an arrangement which prevented my hearing the sequel of the story, and the explanation why those chamois had come my way that morning, until some weeks later. My artful friend Moidl, it appeared, together with another girl from a neighbouring Alp-hut, had planned and had executed the following ruse. Starting long before sunrise from the latter’s hut, the two girls with large baskets on their backs had penetrated by break of day into the very heart of the royal preserve, situated on the lower slopes of the peak, on the top of which they knew I would presently be posted. When the wind changed, all the chamois above the girls got scent of them, and the result was soon afterwards communicated to them by my shots. But, unfortunately for the girls, my shots also put the keepers on the qui vive, and before the girls could get back to the Tyrolese side a keeper had spied them and promptly arrested them. Their excuse that they were collecting medicinal roots for their cattle, and had unwittingly wandered across into Bavaria, did not help them, and they were taken down in triumph to the nearest forest-master. Fortunately, however, the judge who heard their case took a more reasonable view, and found that there were no proofs of poaching or of abetting poaching, and after a brief confinement they were set at liberty.

RIFLES AND KIT

Tyrolese, Swiss and German sportsmen, as a rule, use only single-barrelled rifles, and much smaller charges than are used out of English Expresses; indeed, in some royal shoots the use of double-barrelled rifles is against local etiquette. Thus the Emperor of Austria, one of the keenest sportsmen born, never uses other than single-barrelled arms, and his guests are expected to do the same. The reason is a good one—namely, to discourage wild shooting at long ranges, causing numbers of chamois to be wounded, many of whom escape only to die in places where they never can be got at. To a person who is accustomed to shoot at long ranges and who knows exactly what the rifle in his hands can do if held steadily, the shoulder of a chamois standing at two hundred yards is not, as most German sportsmen will insist on, an impossible mark; but of course practice and fine sights on a really accurate weapon with the necessary steadiness of aim are essential to accomplish it. A hinged peepsight behind the hammers, which turns down when not required, or a Lyman sight, is a desirable aid for fine shooting, provided one is accustomed to its use; and the same might be said of hair triggers. A peepsight of my own invention, which has been copied by some who have seen it, is constructed so as to fold down when not in use, fitting into a recess of exactly its shape. Its chief merit is that when not required it is invisible, and when required the pressure of the thumb against a tiny knob (the size of a No. 1 shot) behind the right hammer releases a spring, and the sight jumps into position, and without requiring any further adjustment is ready for immediate use. Messrs. Holland & Holland, of New Bond Street, have built me an excellent rifle with this sight. To the question which is the best rifle, the reply may safely be given: a light .450 Express, with a sling to carry it in the Continental fashion, which latter leaves one the free use of the hands and arms for climbing. For all ordinary purposes in driving and also in stalking chamois the solid bullet should be used, for the disfiguring effect of the hollow bullet at short ranges on such comparatively small game as chamois is to be avoided, and in many shoots there is a standing rule against them. For stalking, when one is alone, and a wounded chamois is likely to baulk one’s best efforts to get it, the hollow bullet has certain advantages, for wounded game succumbs as a rule much sooner, and it is also much more easily tracked. Considering that the hollow and the solid bullets have very different trajectories, the promiscuous use of both out of the same barrel is fatal to good marksmanship.[9]

Good field-glasses, preferably of aluminium, being much lighter than other metal, are quite indispensable, and are better than telescopes in the hands of all but the most experienced, for they give a much larger field and can be used more constantly. Chamois, particularly early in the season, are, on account of their dun coats, hard to see against a background of rocks, and, even with some practice in knowing where to look for them, a close scrutiny is necessary. ‘Steigeisen,’ or crampons, are most useful when once one has become used to them; to the tiro they are, however, often a source of danger, and in really bad places when stalking alone bare feet answer the same purpose. The already mentioned ‘rÜcksack,’ or Tyrolese game-bag, is the stalker’s best friend, not only in the Alps, but in any part of the world for rough work. It is a bag of canvas, with two broad leather straps to pass the arms through. Its lightness—it weighs only a few ounces—and extreme simplicity are advantages apparent to everybody who has used it once. When empty one can put it into one’s coat-pocket, and when required one can carry in it a roebuck or chamois in the manner least fatiguing, for the weight is distributed between the shoulders and the small of the back, leaving the arms and muscles perfectly free play. The writer has used them for years in the Rockies, and the alacrity exhibited by the Indians in one’s employ in taking to them in lieu of headstraps and crossbands showed that there was one improvement that the old world could show the new one. A well-known writer on sporting subjects not long ago, when recommending this bag to young shooters, stated that it was originally introduced by a gentleman in Carlisle. If so, it must have been a good many years ago; for the Prince Consort used them in Scotland from the first year he shot in the Highlands, and the writer’s father used them in the Highlands forty-five or fifty years ago. In Tyrol it has been in use for at least four hundred years, for we see it in prints of Maximilian’s day. As for clothing, the best nether garments for really rough work are dark-coloured chamois leather breeches, reaching to the knee, leaving it bare, with worsted stockings long enough to reach well over the knees in snowy weather. Ordinary woollen knickerbockers will not stand many hard days of chamois stalking in a limestone formation; in fact, the end of the first stalk will probably find them seatless.

CHAMOIS DRIVING

What has been said will show that, to become a successful stalker, practice and early training in mountain work are, if not absolutely essential, at least very desirable, and even the possessor of these advantages has cause to pray for perpetual youth. As years roll by, even the keenest stalker gradually becomes more and more reconciled to the assistance afforded by beaters and other extraneous aids to outwit this wary game, and more and more satisfied with the buck carefully picked from the band as it rushes past one’s post in headlong flight, or in cutting short the earthly career of a tricky old veteran whose oft-repeated practice of sneaking through the line of guns unobserved was attempted once too often.

The following account of a ‘Treibjagd’ in the Duke of Saxe-Coburg’s famous preserves in the Hinter Riss in Tyrol will give a comprehensive picture of driving chamois at its very best.

In this vast preserve, consisting of a great strip of mountain country, a very sea of jagged ranges, stretching from the Inn Valley to the Isar, driving is made a fine art, the experience of fifty years assisting to no little extent the efforts of as fine a staff of keepers as can be found in the Alps. Sport can be obtained there with a luxurious ease that is in striking contrast to the hard fare and rough times usually the lot of the stalker. To drive chamois over an exceedingly rough country in a given direction is a very much harder task, however, than appears on the face of it. Take a tract of mountains, the selection for that day’s drive, five or six miles square, connected with adjoining ranges by numerous passes by which the wary game can easily escape; take the extreme uncertainty of the wind in these elevated localities, now blowing in the desired direction, now suddenly veering round, carrying the alarm for many miles to the keen-scented game, and undoing in one minute the most carefully planned manoeuvre, and it will be realised how many obstacles and contingencies, often of the most unforeseen nature, must be provided for to make a drive successful. Where such large areas have to be surrounded a whole army of beaters would not suffice to keep chamois in the drive, and the ‘lappen,’ or flags, one of the most important aids on such occasions, have to be employed. These consist of many miles of strong cord to which at intervals of every four or five feet bright-coloured pieces of linen about the size of a pocket-handkerchief are fastened. These cords, resembling a laundry line hung low, are drawn on two sides of the tract to be driven, and are kept in position about three feet from the ground by rods firmly fastened into the rocks. Swayed by the breeze these flags wave to and fro, and under ordinary circumstances serve their purpose of preventing the chamois escaping that way. As a rule they are strung along the knifeback backbone of the mountains to be enclosed, jagged ridges peculiar to a limestone formation, where apparently only flies with glue on their feet could find a footing. Great care has to be taken in stringing these cords, as the ever-busy breeze makes simultaneous action necessary; and even then, when everything appears to work like clockwork, some hitherto unknown gap in an apparently perfectly impassable wall of rock will afford escape, for where one chamois can get the whole band will follow, and the day prove a complete failure.

Along the narrow glenlike valleys that intersect the Duke’s vast shoot he has constructed, so far as the ground permitted it, carriage-roads, and up the precipitous slopes, where practicable, carefully laid out bridle-paths wind and twist, enabling elderly sportsmen to reach the vicinity of their ‘stand’ or post on the backs of sure-footed mules or mountain-bred ponies. Leaving the central shooting-box, a charmingly situated little Gothic castle reminding one of a miniature Balmoral, at the comparatively late hour of 7.30 a.m., the four Hungarians take the break in good time to the furthest extremity of the valley which in its higher recesses is to be the scene of the day’s drive. Quitting the vehicle where the precipitous slopes begin to rise at an angle that makes the construction of even a bridle-path a matter of some difficulty, the genial host and his principal guest mount sturdy cobs, while for some of the more elderly guests mules are provided, and without loss of time the party, followed by eight or nine of the keepers, begins the ascent. The latter are fine stalwart Tyrolese, clad in their picturesque native dress: grey frieze jackets, black chamois leather knee-breeches, and greenish-grey worsted stocking-like leggings, leaving bare both the knee and the foot, which, where visible, are tanned to a mahogany hue; low heavily nailed shoes protecting the stockingless feet. For two hours we continue to ascend, presently reaching timber-line and the crest of the ridge, from which we obtain our first view of the scene of the drive. Here the riders dismount, for the remaining mile to the posts has to be done on foot, and as noiselessly as possible. The ground selected for that day’s drive consists of two vast semicircular ‘Kaare’—amphitheatre-shaped declivities two miles across, the sides being formed by steep moraines ending in great cliffs, a thousand or fifteen hundred feet in altitude. Along the jagged top of these walls one can see with one’s glasses the string of flags which were put up early that morning. The drive is to begin sharp at 12 o’clock, and as the beaters, some forty or fifty in number, are far beyond the furthest limit of the drive on the other side of the flagged ridge, punctuality is very necessary. Each of the four guests has allotted to him a keeper, who conducts him to his ‘stand’ or post, and as we part the German contingent wish each other the usual ‘Weidmansheil,’ sportsman’s luck, as prescribed by ancient custom. The drive is one of the longer ones, lasting between four and five hours, so the softest looking rock is selected for a seat permitting of a good view of the whole scene, and a layer of pine branches gives increased comfort. By the time the signal shot, which is echoed and re-echoed from precipice to precipice, warns the guns of the beginning of the drive, some luncheon has been disposed of, and if the wind permits it, even a cigarette can be indulged in without danger.

The result of the day would be very different were the breeze even at this late hour to chop round, for no power on earth can drive chamois into the teeth of a danger-tainted breeze; but this fortunately does not occur, and we can watch the drive from our point of vantage, and follow the details of it at leisure. On two small snow-fields lying well under the cliffs we can see small black specks. Closer examination with the glasses discloses two bands of chamois each some twenty in number; some are lying on the snow, others, mostly kids, are frisking about, the whole lot, till they hear the signal shot, being quite ignorant of the impending ordeal. Very rapidly does the scene change when the first alarm strikes their ears. The frisky kids, which a second before were playing about, now press against their respective mothers’ sides, while the older animals have jumped to their feet with amazing rapidity. Misled by the echo as to the direction whence the sound really came, they dart hither and thither, unable to make up their minds whither to flee. The next minute the bands separate into several groups, each under the leadership of a doe, who select different routes, each of which, however, will in the end probably bring them to the guns, though some sooner than others. The plan of the drive depends greatly upon the lay of the ground. In many cases the line of beaters, from twenty to fifty in number, is drawn from the bottom to the top of the mountain, and then at a given signal the whole line works along its flank. The crest of the ridge is flagged off and so is the bottom, if it is at all likely that the chamois will attempt to break through in that direction. The fourth side is occupied by the guns, and if there are not enough to stop the gaps and passes, short lengths of flags are strung between them, or keepers are posted who, when chamois approach, show themselves and cause the game to turn back into the drive, and try for some other place of escape till they finally come to one of the guns. In other drives the two side lines of flags are curved inwards till the extremities almost meet, and that is usually the best post; for chamois on getting to the ‘lappen’ turn one way or another, dashing along the flag-line till they reach an opening. In other places, again, where the mountains are very steep, and a large area has only three or four possible outlets by which the game can get away, flags are almost unnecessary, for the beasts must come by the passes, or ‘chimneys,’ or ledges, which of course should all be well known to the keepers, who make the configuration of the ground their special study. But only too often the amazing climbing powers of the chamois will at the last moment upset all the well-matured plans, and the hard-pressed animals effect their escape by some hitherto unknown ledge, or by a series of leaps down perpendicular heights that make the onlooker hold his breath with astonishment. Speaking of the wonderful climbing feats, space may be given to one or two actual measurements. Tschuddi’s eminently trustworthy figures are the following: a chasm on the Monte Rosa jumped by a chamois measured 21 feet, while a perpendicular wall, 14 feet high,[10] was jumped by a semi-tame chamois frightened by a dog; and the writer has measured a vertical depth of 24 feet, down which a wounded buck cornered by a bloodhound unhesitatingly ventured to leap without injury to himself. When in their flight suddenly coming upon the flag-line chamois will not always turn to one side or leap clean over it, but will sometimes boldly charge the bunting, and if the cord is not too old and stands the strain, the result is a chamois violently flung on its back. In a few instances they have been known to get entangled in the cord and strangled to death.

A somewhat singular and ludicrous result of such a charge once occurred to me, and may be worth repeating. It happened at a drive in the Hinter Authal, Prince Hermann Hohenlohe’s excellent preserve in Tyrol. There being but three guns present, flags had to be used between the posts. I was posted on a rock at the bottom of a steep and high slope of loose stones stretching many hundreds of feet upwards; my range of vision and of fire being unusually confined in every other direction. Two shots fired in rapid succession by my host, who was the nearest gun above me, put me on the qui vive, and not needlessly, for there, flying down the slope, bounded a chamois straight for my post. The Prince’s coup double had knocked over the companion buck, and the frightened animal was travelling at a terrific pace. On getting closer I observed, to my utmost surprise, that to one of its horns was attached what appeared to be a scarlet handkerchief, which fluttered like a pennant in the air as the animal pursued its headlong flight. The fluttering rag made it impossible to determine by its horns whether the animal was a buck, but its large size, strongly formed neck, and whole appearance confirmed me in my belief that it was a buck. On it came with the speed of a ricochetting cannon-ball straight down towards me, and would have passed me within a couple of yards had my rifle not ended almost À bout portant the days of what, on going up, turned out to be an old and unusually large barren doe! It afterwards appeared that several beaters had seen her in her wild flight dash against the ‘lappen,’ which were new and strong, and after turning a double somersault and being flung on her back, dash away with one of the red rags, pierced by one of the horns, fluttering from her head. What made the matter worse and earned me some chaff, was the fact that it was my hundredth chamois, and I had only a few hours before expressed the determination that it should be a buck and not a doe.

Chamois, to return to our drive, pursue different tactics when driven. Old bucks—and they, of course, are the special object of the ambitious sportsman—as a rule, try to steal away at the first sign of danger, after having from some prominent crag thoroughly inspected the whole ground. These wary old fellows proceed very cautiously: every ravine is carefully scanned before it is crossed and every couloir narrowly inspected, lest danger be lurking behind some rock or boulder. If the guns are posted on exposed points, good cover, and as perfect immovability as it is possible to maintain during a three or four hours’ drive, is advisable if nearer acquaintance with these old stagers is sought. Often has the writer watched old bucks approach and inspect some restless and fidgety gun, who, because he could not see any chamois, imagined no chamois could see him, than which no greater mistake can be made. Bucks will often stand for an hour at a time perfectly motionless, fixedly regarding some point to which their attention has been attracted. The does and younger generation of bucks are more easily startled than the fathers of the tribe, and they generally approach the guns in full flight, testing the nerve of the sportsman to a high degree, for it is no easy matter to pick out males under these circumstances. On the occasion I am endeavouring to describe, some ninety or a hundred beasts are in the drive, and soon the easily distinguishable right and left of the Duke’s Express are awakening the echoes, and as the fleeing band, after leaving two victims behind, dashes down the flag-line, the turn of the other guns comes too. About one o’clock another distant signal shot tells one that the beaters have reached the top of the flagged ridge from the back, and now we can see them clearly outlined against the sky. They remove the ‘lappen’ before beginning their exceedingly perilous descent down the face of the cliffs—a most desperate looking undertaking, which one watches with bated breath. Some seven or eight chamois trying to escape by a ledge up the face of the cliff reach the top from one side just as the beaters do the same from the other, and to see them wheel about on a band of rock only inches wide and dash down, leaping from projection to projection, startlingly exhibits their wonderful surefootedness. My turn comes by-and-bye, when an old stager, whom I have been observing for some time, makes up his mind to escape by the pass my ‘stand’ commands. Stealthily and carefully winding at every stop he makes, he slowly comes up towards the only remaining point, whence as yet no thundering note of warning has issued, and I am glad that I let the small fry which shortly before dashed past me do so unmolested. It frequently occurs that a sacrifice like that at the beginning of the drive is finally thus rewarded. In this instance, a second old buck an hour later is also fatally misled as to the safety of the route I am guarding. Soon after four o’clock the drive is over, sixteen chamois forming the ‘Strecke,’ as a very ancient custom of venery, i.e. the placing in a row of the day’s bag, is called. A stirring and picturesque sight it is when all assemble at the meeting-place, usually some bit of Alpine sward where sportsmen, keepers, and beaters mingle in eager discussion of the chief events of the day, and every head is carefully examined. To an active climber, joining the beaters under the guidance of a keeper is more exciting work than sitting for hours in one spot and potting driven chamois; but this, like stalking, no tiro should venture on, and permission to do so is often difficult to obtain.

As some adjoining country is to be driven on the morrow, the night is passed in one of the many delightful shooting-boxes, simply furnished chalets with wainscot interiors, dotted about on the timber-line regions of the Duke’s shoot. The entire month of October is thus devoted to driving, and never is ground beaten twice the same year, so that some idea can be formed of the extent of the shoot. Fine weather does not always, however, attend these occasions, for October in the Alps can make itself very disagreeable, with snowstorms and fierce gales that drift the snow in great heaps round one on one’s post, turning one’s body into an icicle, and cramping the fingers, so that aim at even the shortest distances, as the mistily outlined game flits past one in the driving snowstorm, becomes strangely uncertain.

In conclusion, a hint or two to those participating for the first time in a large drive may be of use. In the first place, if not expressly told to the contrary, it is wiser not to open the ball by firing the first shot. Such a premature warning may possibly spoil the whole laboriously laid out drive by causing the chamois to break back at a moment when the beaters have not yet been able to reach those points where their attempt could be frustrated. The writer has known more than one instance when a big shoot, which otherwise might have been entirely successful, has been spoilt by a shot fired very soon after the beginning of the drive by an impatient gun.

Another and last hint is always to find out from the keeper who posts one, not only the exact position of the next guns—information he usually volunteers—but also, if they are invisible to one, the limits of one’s own field of fire. Nothing is more disagreeable than at the end of the drive to find out that, by shooting perhaps a little further than was expected, one has shot beasts really belonging by all rules of venery to one’s neighbour. Such an oversight, arising from ignorance respecting these limits, once caused the writer on the occasion of a formal Court chasse very painful embarrassment by tempting him to fire at and, as bad luck would have it, also hit, at somewhat long range, four good bucks, which at the time—of course, unknown to him—were much closer to his neighbour, an exalted English personage, and which bucks, to make it worse, were the only chamois the latter saw during a long day’s drive. The consternation of the dumbfounded officials, when they discovered the result of their negligence in failing to give the necessary information, was lamentable to behold till the amiable prince very good-naturedly made light of their awkward oversight.

HISTORY OF THE CHAMOIS AND ITS CHASE

Marvellous stories of the chamois’s wily artfulness in evading the hunter have from time immemorial been told. For instance, that when cornered by its pursuers it would hang itself by the crook of its horns from ledges overhanging deep precipices to evade the hunter’s ken. As late as forty years ago, absurd nonsense was still being written about the chamois. Thus an English author gravely quotes: ‘The chamois hunter rarely shoots his game, but drives it from crag to crag till further pursuit becomes impossible, when he draws his knife and puts it to the side of the chamois, and the animal pushes it into its body of its own accord!’

To the chamois’ blood valuable medicinal qualities were for many centuries ascribed, and the healing properties of the famous ‘Bezoar stone’ (ÆgagropilÆ) have been vaunted and written about by numerous authors from Pliny to Lebwald. This ball-shaped secretion, consisting of resinous fibres and hairs, is occasionally found in the stomach of very old bucks, and is really the result of the unnatural contraction of the muscles of the stomach, which in the chamois consists of four much more distinctly separated divisions than is usual with other ruminants. Up to fifty years ago these stones (which occasionally reach the size of a billiard-ball) fetched their weight in gold, and they were considered specifics for half a dozen deadly ills, among them ‘the loss of one’s intestines,’ as Pliny calls a malady which it is to be hoped has since disappeared.

Emperor Maximilian I. chamois hunting A.D. 1500 (from ‘Theuerdank’)