The late mode of killing them is described as "perhaps the only modern remains of the grandeur of ancient hunting. On notice being given, that a wild bull would be killed on a certain day, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood came mounted and armed with guns, &c., sometimes to the amount of a hundred horse, and four or five hundred foot, who stood upon walls or got into trees, while the horsemen rode off the bull from the rest of the herd until he stood at bay, when a marksman dismounted and shot. At some of these huntings twenty or thirty shots have been fired before he was subdued. On these occasions the bleeding victim grew desperately furious, from the smarting of his wounds, and the shouts of savage joy that were echoing from every side. But from the number of accidents that happened, this dangerous mode has been little practised of late years, the park-keeper alone generally shooting them with a rifled gun at one shot."
This vivid portraiture of a scene, which the writer is pleased to consider grand, does not appear to have much relation to the history of the Genus Bos: it however, exhibits the brutal and ferocious habits of two varieties of Genus Homo, namely Nobility and Mobility—two varieties which, although distinguished by some external marks of difference, possess in common many questionable characteristics.
Culley proceeds:—"When the cows calve, they hide their calves for a week or ten days in some sequestered situation, and go and suckle them two or three times a day. If any person come near the calves, they clap their heads close to the ground, and lie like a hare in form, to hide themselves; this is a proof of their native wildness, and is corroborated by the following circumstance that happened to Mr. Bailey, of Chillingham, who found a hidden calf, two days old, very lean and very weak. On stroking its head it got up, pawed two or three times like an old bull, bellowed very loud, stepped back a few steps, and bolted at his legs with all its force; it then began to paw again, bellowed, stepped back, and bolted as before; but knowing its intention, and stepping aside, it missed him, fell, and was so very weak that it could not rise, though it made several efforts. But it had done enough: the whole herd were alarmed, and, coming to its rescue, obliged him to retire; for the dams will allow no person to touch their calves without attacking them with impetuous ferocity."
It seems almost unnecessary to remind the reader that all animals are naturally wild; and that even those animals that have been the longest under the dominion of man, are born with a strong tendency to the wild state, to which they would immediately resort, if left to themselves: it appears, therefore, rather gratuitous to tell us that the natural actions of young animals (whose parents have been allowed to run wild), are proofs of their native mildness!
The concluding paragraph requires no observation:—"When a calf is intended to be castrated, the park-keeper marks the place where it is hid, and, when the herd are at a distance, takes an assistant with him on horseback; they tie a handkerchief round the calf s mouth, to prevent its bellowing, and then perform the operation in the usual way. When any one happens to be wounded, or is grown weak and feeble through age or sickness, the rest of the herd set upon it, and gore it to death."
The following engraving exhibits the effects of castration on the curvature and length of the horns.
1. Head of the perfect animal. 2, 3. Heads of the emasculated animal.
We learn, on the authority of the present Lord Tankerville, that during the early part of the life-time of his father, the bulls in the herd had been reduced to three; two of them fought and killed each other, and the third was discovered to be impotent; so that the means of preserving the breed depended on the accident of some of the cows producing a bull calf.
In 1844 I wrote to Mr. Cole, the late park-keeper at Chillingham, requesting information on the following queries, to which he returned the answers annexed; and although they are not so explicit as might be wished, they embody facts both interesting and important.