From Chambers's Journal.
A Naturalist's Home.
There is no place like England for a rich man to live in exactly as he pleases. It is the appropriate exercising-ground for the hobbies of all mankind. You may join an Agapemone, or you may live alone in dirt and squalor, and call yourself a hermit. The whim of the late Charles Waterton, naturalist, was a very innocent one, namely, to make his home a city of refuge for all persecuted birds—a sanctuary inviolate from net and snare and gun; and he effected his humane purpose. An intimate associate and fervent admirer of his, one Dr. Richard Hobson, has given to the world [Footnote 44] an account of this ornithological asylum; and it is certainly very curious. The name of the place was Walton Hall, near Wakefield; and it seems to have been peculiarly well adapted for the purpose to which it was put. It was situated on an island, approachable only by an iron foot-bridge, and having no other dwellings in its immediate neighborhood. The lake in which it stood gave the means of harboring waterfowl of all kinds, while the "packing" of carrion crows in the park exhibits a proof of the protection afforded by even the mainland portion of the estate; it was sufficiently extensive to allow of portions being devoted to absolute seclusion, for those birds which are naturally disposed to avoid the haunts of man. "Two thirds of the lake, with its adjacent wood and pasture land, were kept free from all intrusion whatever for six successive months every year; even visitors at the house, of whatever rank, being 'warned off' those portions set apart for natural history purposes. Even the marsh occupied by the herons was forbidden ground throughout the whole breeding-season, unless in case of accident to a young heron by falling from its nest; in which case aid was afforded with all the promptitude exhibited by the fire escape conductors for the safety of human life."
[Footnote 44: Charles Waterton: his Home, Habits, and Handiwork. By Richard Hobson, M.D.]
The surroundings of the mansion itself were quaint and exceptional, exhibiting the eccentric character of their proprietor. Item, a magnificent sundial—constructed, however, by a common mason in the neighborhood—composed of twenty equilateral triangles, so disposed as to form a similar number of individual dials, ten of which, whenever the sun shone, and whatever its altitude, were faithful timekeepers. On these dials were engraved the names of cities in all parts of the globe, placed in accordance with their different degrees of longitude, so that the solar time of each could be simultaneously ascertained. Near this sundial was a subterraneous passage leading to two boat-houses, entirely concealed under the island, furnished with arched roofs lined with zinc-plate, and arrangements for slinging the boats out of water when they required painting or repair. Four sycamores, with roosting branches for peahens, and a fifth, whose decayed trunk was always occupied by jackdaws, screened the house from the north winds. Close to the cast-iron-bridge entrance was a ruin, on the top of whose gable, at the foot of a stone-cross, twenty-four feet above the lake, a wild duck built her nest, and hatched her young for years. A great yew-fence enclosed this ruin on one side, so that within its barrier birds might find a secure place for building their nests and incubation. For the special encouragement and protection of the starling and the jackdaw, there was erected within this fence a thirteen feet high stone-and-mortar-built tower, pierced with about sixty resting-berths. To each berth there was an aperture of about five inches square. A few, near the top, were set apart for the jackdaw and the white owl. The remaining number were each supplied at the entrance with a square loose stone, having one of its inferior angles cut away, so that the starling could enter, but the jackdaw and owl were excluded. The landlord of these convenient tenements only reserved to himself the privilege of inspection, which he could always effect by removing the loose stone.
The lake had an artificial underground sluice, which issuing out at a little distance into sight, furnished the means of cultivating a knowledge of the mysterious habits of the water-rat; this stream then passed through one of the loveliest grottoes in England. Near this place were two pheasantries, the central portion of each consisting of a clump of yew-trees, while the whole mass was surrounded by an impenetrable holly fence; the stable-yard was not far off; and hence the squire had infinite opportunities of establishing the important fact, as he considered it, that the game-cock always claps his wings and crows, whereas the cock-pheasant always crows and claps his wings. Mr. Waterton's interest in natural history was, however, by no means confined to the animal creation. He concerned himself greatly with the culture of trees (though by no means of land), and hailed any lusus naturae that occurred in his grounds as other men welcomed the birth of a son and heir. Walton Hall had at one time its own corn-mill, and when that inconvenient necessity no longer existed, the mill-stone was laid by in an orchard and forgotten. The diameter of this circular stone measured five feet and a half, while its depth averaged seven inches throughout; its central hole had a diameter of eleven inches. By mere accident, some bird or squirrel had dropped the fruit of the filbert tree through this hole on to the earth, and in 1812 the seedling was seen rising up through that unwonted channel. As its trunk gradually grew through this aperture and increased, its power to raise the ponderous mass of stone was speculated upon by many. Would the filbert tree die in the attempt? Would it burst the millstone? Or would it lift it? In the end, the little filbert tree lifted the millstone, and in 1868 wore it like a crinoline about its trunk, and Mr. Waterton used to sit upon it under the branching shade. This extraordinary combination it was the great naturalist's humor to liken to John Bull and the national debt.
In no tree-fancier's grounds was there ever one tenth of the hollow trunks which were to be found at Walton Hall; the fact being that the owner encouraged and fostered decay for the purposes of his birds' paradise. These trees were protected by artificial roofs in order to keep their hollows dry, and fitted thus for the reception of any feathered couple inclined to marry and settle. Holes were also pierced in the stems, to afford ingress and egress; and one really would scarcely be surprised if they had been furnished with bells for "servants" and "visitors." In an ash tree trunk thus artificially prepared, and set apart for owls (the squire's favorite bird), an ox-eyed titmouse took the liberty of nesting, hatching, and maturing her young. Mr. Waterton attached a door, hung on hinges, to exactly fit the opening in the trunk, having a hole in its inferior portion for the passage of the titmouse. The squire would daily visit the his little tenant, and opening the door delicately draw his hand over the back of the sitting bird, as though to assure it of his protection. But unfortunately, after the bird had flown, one year, a squirrel took possession of this eligible tenement, and although every vestige of the lining of its nest was carefully removed, no titmouse or any other bird ever occupied it again.
In May, 1862, the squire pointed out to the author no less than three birds' nests in one cavity—a jackdaw's with five eggs; a barn-owl's with three young ones, close to which lay several dead mice and a half grown rat, as in a larder; and, eighteen inches above the owl's nest, a redstart's, containing six eggs! Our author deduces from this circumstance, that in an unreclaimed state birds, although of different species, are not disposed to quarrel; and the fact that near this "happy family" a pair of water-hens hatched their eggs in a perfectly exposed nest, under the very eyes of two carrion crows who occupied the first floor of the same tree—an alder—without the least molestation, seems to confirm this view.
In this Garden of Eden, however, all sorts of anomalous things seem to have been done by birds. In a cleft branch of a fir tree, twenty-four feet from the ground, a peahen built her nest, through which piece of ambition, since falling is much easier to learn than flying, she lost all her young ones. In the branch of an oak, twelve feet from the ground, a wild-duck nested and brought down all her brood in safety to their natural element. A pair of coots built their nest on the extreme end of a willow-branch closely overhanging the water; but the weight of the materials, and especially of the birds themselves, depressed it so that their habitation rested on the very surface of the water, and its contents rose and fell with every ripple; and, finally, another pair of coots, who had built their house upon what they considered terra firma, found themselves altogether adrift one stormy morning, and continued so, veering with the fickle breeze for many days, until at last the eggs were hatched, and their young family became independent, and could shift for themselves. All these minutiae were carefully watched by the squire. An excellent telescope enabled him to perceive from his drawing-room window the manoeuvres of both land and water fowls. "You could carefully scrutinize their form, their color, their plumage, the color of their legs, the precise form and hue of their mandibles, and not unfrequently even the color of the iris of the eye: also their mode of walking, of swimming, and of resting. You could distinctly ascertain the various kinds of food on which they lived and fed their young. .... You could see the herons, the water-hens, the coots, the Egyptian and the Canada geese, the carrion crows, the ringdoves (occasionally on their nests), the wild-duck, teal, and widgeon." No less than eighty-nine descriptions of land-bird and thirty of water-fowl sojourned in the grounds or about the lake of Walton Hall. In winter, when the lake was frozen, it was literally a fact that the ice could sometimes not be discerned, it was so crowded by the thousands of water-fowl that huddled together upon it without sound or motion.
Mr. Waterton, it may be easily imagined, was himself no sportsman; but it was his custom to supply his own table on a fast-day (he was a Roman Catholic) with fish shot by himself with a bow and arrow. Otherwise, he made war on no living creature, except the rat: the "Hanoverian" rat, as he designated him with bitterness: and even him he preferred to exile rather than destroy. But having caught a fine specimen of the "Hanoverian" in a "harmless trap," he carefully smeared him over with tar, and let him depart. This astonished and highly scented animal immediately scoured all the rat-passages, and thus impregnated them with the odor of all others most offensive to his brethren, who fled by hundreds in the night across the narrow portion of the lake, and were no more seen. The squire was indeed a most tolerant and tender-hearted man. He built a shelter upon a certain part of the lake expressly for poor folks, who were permitted to fish whether for purposes of sale or for their own dinners; and notwithstanding that it was his custom to dress like a miser and a scarecrow, and to live like an ascetic—sleeping upon bare boards with a hollowed piece of wood for a pillow, and fasting much longer than was good for him—he was very charitable and open-handed to others.