to go forth at any time and
shoot whatever I chose, untrammelled by any attendants, on condition
that I only carried a wheel-lock, I should unhesitatingly select the
second alternative. There would be an abiding pleasure in the very
fact of using so beautiful a weapon--just in the very handling of
it, to pass the fingers over the intricate and exquisite carving.
There would be pleasure in winding up the lock with the spanner; in
adjusting the pyrites to strike fire from the notches of the wheel;
in priming from a delicate flask graven with stag and hounds. There
would be delight in stealing from tree to tree, in creeping from
bush to bush, through the bracken, keeping the wind carefully,
noiselessly gliding forward--so silently that the woodpecker should
not cease tapping in the beech, or the pigeon her hoarse call in the
oak, till at last within range of the buck. And then! First, if the
ball did not hit the vital spot, if it did not pass through the
neck, or break the shoulder, inevitably he would be lost, for the
round bullet would not break up like a shell, and smash the
creature's flesh and bones into a ghastly jelly, as do the missiles
from our nineteenth century express rifles. Secondly, if the wheel
did not knock a spark out quickly, if the priming had not been kept
dry, and did not ignite instantly, the aim might waver, and all the
previous labour be lost. Something like skill would be necessary
here. There would be art in the weapon itself, skill in the very
loading, skill in the approach, nerve in holding the gun steady
while the slow powder caught from the priming and expelled the ball.
That would be sport. An imperfect weapon--well, yes; but the
imperfect weapon would somehow harmonize with the forest, with the
huge old hollow oaks, the beeches full of knot-holes, the mysterious
thickets, the tall fern, the silence and solitude. It would make the
forest seem a forest--such as existed hundreds of years ago; it
would make the chase a real chase, not a foregone conclusion. It
would equalize the chances, and give the buck 'law.' In short, it
would be real shooting. Or with smaller game--I fancy I could hit a
pheasant with a wheel-lock if I went alone, and _flushed the bird
myself_. In that lies all the difference. If your birds are flushed
by beaters, you may be on the watch, but that very watching unnerves
by straining the nerves, and then the sudden rush and noise flusters
you, and even with the best gun of