was alive with speculation when it was known that the backers meant
business. On the evening before the contest the town was inundated,
and the resources of its hotels and inns were taxed to the utmost.
Truculent and redoubtable gladiators flocked to the scene--kickers
from Dartmoor, the recruiting-ground of the Devonshire system, and
bear-like huggers from the land of Tre, Pol, and Pen--a wonderful
company of tried and stalwart experts. Ten thousand persons bought
tickets at a premium for seats, and the hills around swarmed with
spectators. The excitement was at the highest possible pitch, and
overwhelming volumes of cheering relieved the tension as the rivals
entered the ring--Polkinghorne in his stockings, and Cann with a
monstrous pair of shoes whose toes had been baked into flints. As the
men peeled for action such a shout ascended as awed the nerves of all
present. Polkinghorne had been discounted as fat and unwieldy, but
the Devonians were dismayed to find that, great as was his girth, his
arms were longer, and his shoulders immensely powerful. Three stone
lighter in weight, Cann displayed a more sinewy form, and his figure
was knit for strength, and as statuesquely proportioned. His grip,
like Polkinghorne’s, was well known. No man had ever shaken it off
when once he had clinched; and each enjoyed a reputation for presence
of mind and resource in extremity beyond those of other masters of the
art. The match was for the best of three back-falls, the men to catch
what hold they could; and two experts from each county were selected
as sticklers. The feeling was in favour of Cann at the outset, but it
receded as the Cornishman impressed the multitude with his muscular
superiority. Repeatedly shifting their positions, the combatants
sought their favourite ‘holts.’ As soon as Cann caught his adversary
by the collar after a contending display of shifty and evasive form,
Polkinghorne released himself by a feint; and, amid ‘terrible shouts
from the Cornishmen,’ he drove his foe to his knees.
“Nothing daunted, the Devonian accepted the Cornish hug, and the
efforts of the rivals were superb. Cann depended on his science to
save him; but Polkinghorne gathered his head under his arm, and
lifting him from the ground, threw him clean over his shoulder, and
planted him upon his back. ‘The very earth groaned with the uproar
that followed; the Cornishmen jumped by hundreds into the ring; there
they embraced their champion till he begged to be released; and, amid
cheers and execrations, the fall was announced to have complied with
the conditions. Bets to the amount of hundreds of pounds were decided
by this event.’
“Polkinghorne now went to work with caution, and Cann was conscious
that he had an awkward customer to tackle. After heavy kicking
and attempted hugging, the Cornishman tried once more to lift his
opponent; but Cann caught his opponent’s leg in his descent, and threw
him to the ground first. In the ensuing rounds both men played for
wind. Polkinghorne was the more distressed, his knees quite raw with
punishment, and the betting veered in Cann’s favour. Then the play
changed, and Cann was apparently at the mercy of his foe, when he
upset Polkinghorne’s balance by a consummate effort, and threw him on
his back by sheer strength--the first that the sticklers allowed him.
Cann next kicked tremendously; but, although the Cornishman suffered
severely, he remained ‘dead game,’ and twice saved himself by falling
on his chest.
“Disputes now disturbed the umpires, and their number was reduced to
two. In the eighth round Polkinghorne’s strength began to fail, and
a dispute was improvised which occasioned another hour’s delay. With
wind regained and strength revived, the tenth round was contested with
absolute fury; and, taking kicking with fine contempt, Polkinghorne
gripped Cann with leonine majesty, lifted him from the earth in his
arms, turned him over his head, and dashed him to the ground with
stunning force. As the Cornishman dropped on his knee the fall was
disputed, and the turn was disallowed. Polkinghorne then left the ring
amid a mighty clamour, and, by reason of his default, the stakes were
awarded to Cann. The victor emerged from the terrific hugs of his
opponent with a mass of bruises, which proved that kicking was only one
degree more effective than hugging.
“A more unsatisfactory issue could hardly have been conceived, and
the rival backers forthwith endeavoured to arrange another encounter.
Polkinghorne refused to meet Cann, however, unless he discarded his
shoes.”
Various devices were attempted to bring them together again, but they
failed. Each had a wholesome dread of the other.
But Cann went on as a mighty wrestler. He tried a fall with “Irish
Gaffney.” It ended in Cann throwing Gaffney over his back and
dislocating his left shoulder, besides cutting his shins to pieces with
his boots.
His next famous encounter was with Frost, a moorman of Aveton Gifford,
and after a most desperate contest, Cann landed him on his back.[34]
There were other mighty men of the ring, such as a blind wrestler
mentioned in the ballad of “Dick Simmins.” In Cornwall wrestling
continues, especially at S. Columb and S. Austell, but in Devon
it is extinct: it was thought brutal to hack the shins, and after
the hobnailed boot, or boot hardened in blood and at the fire, was
discarded, it lost its interest.
Sir Thomas Parkyns has been quoted. He published a curious work
entitled _The Inn Play, or Cornish Hugg Wrestler_, and died in 1741.
He was an enthusiast for the noble science--the Cornish, and not the
Devonshire mode--and would only take into his service men who were good
wrestlers. His coachman was one who had shown him the Flying Mare.
Sir Thomas, by his will, left a guinea to be wrestled for at Bradmore,
Nottinghamshire, every Midsummer Day, and had his monument carved
for him during his lifetime, representing him in wrestling costume,
sculptured in marble by his chaplain, prepared for either the Cornish
Hug or the Flying Mare. On one side is a well-limbed figure lying
_above_ the scythe of Time, the sun rising and shining on him as a
wrestler in the prime of life; on the other side is the same figure
stretched in a coffin, with Time triumphant above him brandishing his
scythe, and the sun setting. There are Latin verses appended, that may
be thus translated:--
Here lies, O Time! the victim of thy hand,
The noblest wrestler on the British strand,
His nervous arm each bold opposer quell’d,
In feats of strength by none but thee excell’d,
Till, springing up, at the last trumpet’s call,
He conquers thee, who will have conquer’d all.
At the time of the European war, it sometimes happened that a wrestling
match was interrupted in an unpleasant manner to some of the parties
by the appearance on the scene of the press-gang. There is a favourite
song relative to Dick Simmins, published in Mr. Collier’s memoir of
Hicks of Bodmin. I will give it here:--
Come Vaither, Mother and Brothers all,
And Zistur too, I pray,
I’ll tell ee a power o’ the strangest things
As happen’d to me at say.
I’ll tell ee a parcel o’ the strangest things
About the winds and tide,
How by compass us steer’d, and o’ naught was afear’d,
An’ a thousand things beside.
’Tes true I lived i’ ole Plymouth town,
My trade it were ostling,
Dick Simmins and I went to Maker Green
To turn at wrasteling.
The prize o’ buckskin breeches a pair,
And ne’er the wuss for wear,
Dick and I us tried two valls apiece,
The blind man got his share.
Bevoor the play was o’er half way,
’Tes true upon my word,
There came a set o’ press-gang chaps
Each armed wi’ stick and sword.
Dick Simmins swore a dreadful oath
I didn’t like to hear,
But when King ca’d blind man a fule,
That--darn’t--I couldn’t bear.
I went to t’ chap wi’ upcock’d hat,
“No odds where you may be,
But if thou thinks thyself a man
Come wi’out the ring wi’ me.”
So he did stand, his sword in hand,
I knocked it from his hand,
Then three or vour gurt toads came up
And knocked me down on t’ land.
Along came one of Plymouth town,
Prentice to Uncle Cross,
Wot run away ’bout a bastard child,
A terrible lad he wos.
Said he, “Don’t sarve the young man so,
’Tes an onmanly thing;
Pick up the lad, put him on board
That he may sarve the King.”
They took me up by neck and heels,
They dra’ed me to the boat,
The master came ’longside of me
Wi’, “Send the lubber afloat.”
They took me up by neck and heels,
They dra’ed me to the say,
But Providence a-ordered it
I shuldn’t be killed that way.
They picked me out, put me aboard
A ship then in the Sound,
The waves and winds did blow and roar,
I thought I shu’d be drown’d.
Then one called “Tack!” another “Ship!”
A third cried “Helm a lee!”
Lor’ bless’y, I dun knaw Tack from Ship,
An’ Helm to me’s Chinee.
The Master ordered I aloft,
’Twas blawin’ cruel hard,
And there was three or vour gurt chaps
A grizzlin’ in the yard.
When down came mast and down came yard,
Then down came I likewise.
Lor’ bless’y! if the church tower vaall’d,
’Twouldn’t make half the noise.
Some vaall’d o’erboard, and some on deck,
Some had a thundrin’ thump,
The Master ordered all hands up
For pumpin’ at the pump.
Us pumpéd at the pump, my boys,
And no one dared to squeak,
The Master ordered all below
To stop a thunderin’ leak.
When us had stoppéd up that leak
A French ship us spied comin’,
The Master orders all to fight
And the drummer to be drummin’.
So when the French ship came ’longside,
A broadside us let flee,
Lor’ bless’y! what for smoke and vire
Us couldn’t smell nor see.
The Master wi’ his cocked-up hat
He flourishéd his sword,
Wi’ “Come and follow me, brave boys,
I warn’t we’ll try to board.”
I vollowed he thro’ thick and thin,
Tho’ bless’y I culdn’t see’n;
The gurt French chap was on to he
Wi’ sword both long and keen.
I rinn’d up to the Master’s help,
I niver rinn’d no vaster,
I zed unto the gurt French chap,
“Now don’t ee hurt the Master!”
Then “Wee, wee, wee, parlez vous Frenchee!”
He zed--I reck’n he cuss’d--
But “Darny,” sez I, “if that’s your game,
I reck’n I must kill ee fust.”
The Master jumped ’bout the French ship
And tore down all her colours,
And us jumped ’bout the French ship, too,
A whoppin’ them foreign fellers.
As for the chap as Master threat’n’d
I beat that Parley-vous,
From the niddick down his lanky back,
Till he squeaked out “Mortbleu!”
Now here’s a lesson to volks ashore,
And sich as ostlers be,
Don’t never say Die, and Tain’t my trade,
But listen, and mark of me.
There’s nobody knaws wot ee can do,
Till tried--now trust me well,
Why--us wos ostlers and ort beside,
Yet kicked the Frenchies to----Torpoint.
Carew gives us an account of the way in which wrestling was conducted
in the West of England in the days of Charles I. “The beholders cast
or form themselves into a ring, in the empty space whereof the two
champions step forth, stripped into their dublets and hosen, and
untrussed, that they may so the better command the use of their lymmes;
and first, shaking hands, in token of friendship, they fall presently
to the effects of anger; for each striveth how to take hold of the
other with his best advantage, and to bear his adverse party downe;
whereas, whosoever overthroweth his mate, in such sort, as that either
his backe, or the one shoulder, and contrary heele do touch the ground,
is accounted to give the fall. If he be only endangered, and makes a
narrow escape, it is called a foyle.”
He then adds: “This pastime also hath his laws, for instance; of taking
hold above the girdle--wearing a girdle to take hold by--playing three
pulls for trial of the mastery, the fall-giver to be exempted from
playing again with the taker, but bound to answer his successor. Silver
prizes for this and other activities, were wont to be carried about, by
certain circumforanei, or set up at bride-ales, but time or their abuse
hath now worn them out of use.” Double play was when two who had flung
the rest contested at the close for the prize.
If wrestling was declining in Carew’s time, it certainly revived in
vigour in the reign of Charles II, and continued till the beginning of
the nineteenth century, when again it declined, and is now in Devon a
thing of the past.
Blackmore has given an excellent description of a Devonshire wrestling
match in his early novel of _Clara Vaughan_.
TWO HUNTING PARSONS
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, few counties in England
produced such a crop of hunting parsons as did Devonshire. They were
in force for the first fifty years. In 1831 Henry Phillpotts was
consecrated Bishop of Exeter. Shortly after, as he was driving with his
chaplain on the way to a Confirmation, a fox-hunt passed by in full
halloo.
“Dear me!” exclaimed his lordship; “what a number of black coats
among the hunters. Has there been some great bereavement in the
neighbourhood?”
“My lord,” replied the chaplain, “the only bereavement these
black-coated sportsmen suffer from is not being able to appear in pink.”
There were, it was computed, in the diocese of Exeter a score of
incumbents who kept their packs; there must have been over a hundred
parsons who hunted regularly two or three days in the week, and as
many more who would have done so had their means allowed them to keep
hunters.
There is no objection to be made to a parson following the hounds
occasionally; the sport is more manly than that which engrosses so
many young clerics nowadays, dawdling about with ladies on lawn-tennis
grounds or at croquet. But those early days of last century hunting
was with many the main pursuit of their life, and clerical duties were
neglected or perfunctorily performed.
There was no high standard of clerical life prevalent, but what
standard there was was not lived up to. These parsonic sportsmen
were as profoundly ignorant of the doctrines of the Faith they were
commissioned to teach, as any child in a low form in a National School.
As was sung of one--typical--
This parson little loveth prayer
And _Pater_ night and morn, Sir!
For bell and book hath little care,
But dearly loves the horn, Sir!
Sing tally-ho! sing tally-ho!
Sing tally-ho! Why, Zounds, Sir!
I mounts my mare to hunt the hare!
Sing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir!
In pulpit Parson Hogg was strong,
He preached without a book, Sir!
And to the point, but never long,
And this the text he took, Sir!
O tally-ho! O tally-ho!
Dearly Beloved--Zounds, Sir!
I mounts my mare to hunt the hare!
Sing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir!
There is but one patch of false colour in this song, that which
represents the hunting parson as strong in the pulpit.
Society--hunting society especially--in North Devon was coarse to an
exceptional degree. One who knew it intimately wrote to me: “It was
a strange ungodly company, parsons included, and that not so very
long ago. North Devon society in Jack Russell’s day was peculiar--so
peculiar that no one now would believe readily that half a century
ago such life could be--but I was in the thick of it. It was not
creditable to any one, but it was so general that the rascality of it
was mitigated by consent.”
The hunting parson was, as said, not strong in the pulpit except in
voice. But Jack Russell, of Swymbridge, was an exception.
[Illustration: J. Russell]
He had a fine, sonorous voice, good delivery, and some eloquence. The
Bishop of Exeter, Dr. Phillpotts, heard him on one occasion, and said
to a lady, a connexion of Mr. Russell, “That was really a capital
sermon.” “Ah! my lord,” she replied, “you have only heard him in the
wood--you should hear him in pig-skin giving the view-halloo!”
Bishop Phillpotts came to the diocese resolved to suppress the hunting
and sporting of his clergy, but found it impossible to do so. His
efforts were wrongly directed; the hunting put down would not have
altered the propensities of his clergy. He could not convert them to
earnest and devoted parish priests. Thus hearts could not be reached.
It was only as this class of men died out that a better type could be
introduced. The Bishop sent for Mr. Russell, of Swymbridge.
“I understand that you keep hounds, and that your curate hunts with
you. Will you give up your hounds?”
“No, my lord, I decline to do so.”
He then turned to the curate, Sleeman, and said, “Your licence, sir, I
revoke; and I only regret that the law does not enable me to deal with
the graver offender of the two.”
“I am very happy to find you can’t, my lord,” said Russell. “And may I
ask, if you revoke Mr. Sleeman’s licence, who is to take the duty at
Landkey, my other parish, next Sunday?”
“Mr. Sleeman may do it.”
“And who the following Sunday?”
“Mr. Sleeman again,” replied the Bishop, “if by that time you have not
secured another curate.”
“I shall take no steps to do so, my lord; and, moreover, shall be very
cautious as to whom I admit into my charges,” replied Russell.
Finally Mr. Sleeman removed to Whitchurch, a family living, to which
he succeeded on the death of his father, and Bishop Phillpotts had
to swallow the bitter pill of instituting him to it. I remember Mr.
Sleeman as rector, hunting, shooting, dancing at every ball, and
differing from a layman by his white tie, a capital judge of horses,
and possessor of an excellent cellar.
When Parson Jack Russell was over eighty he started keeping a pack of
harriers. The then Bishop of Exeter sent for him.
“Mr. Russell, I hear you have got a pack of hounds. Is it so?”
“It is. I won’t deny it, my lord.”
“Well, Mr. Russell, it seems to me rather unsuitable for a clergyman
to keep a pack. I do not ask you to give up hunting, for I know it
would not be possible for you to exist without _that_. But will you, to
oblige me, give up the pack?”
“Do y’ ask it as a personal favour, my lord?”
“Yes, Mr. Russell, as a personal favour.”
“Very well, then, my lord, I will.”
“Thank you, thank you.” The Bishop, moved by his readiness, held out
his hand. “Give me your hand, Mr. Russell; you are--you really are--a
good fellow.”
Jack Russell gave his great fist to the Bishop, who pressed it warmly.
As they thus stood hand in hand, Jack said--
“I won’t deceive you--not for the world, my lord. I’ll give up the pack
sure enough--but Mrs. Russell will keep it instead of me.”
The Bishop dropped his hand.
On one occasion Bishop Phillpotts met Froude, vicar of Knowstone. “I
hear, Mr. Froude, that you keep a pack of harriers.”
“Then you’ve heard wrong, my lord. It is the pack that keeps me.”
“I do not understand.”
“They stock my larder with hares. You don’t suppose I should have
hares on my table unless they were caught for me? There’s no butcher
for miles and miles, and I can’t get a joint but once in a fortnight.
Forced to eat hares; and they must be caught to be eaten.”
The Bishop then said to Froude: “I hear, sir, but I can hardly credit
it, that you invite men to your house and keep them drinking and then
fighting in your parlour.”
“My lord, you are misinformed. Don’t believe a word of it. When they
begin to fight and takes off their coats, I turns ’em out into the
churchyard.”
John Boyce, rector of Sherwell, wishing to have a day’s hunting with
the staghounds on the Porlock side of Exmoor, told his clerk to give
notice in the morning that there would be no service in the afternoon
in the church, as he was going off to hunt with Sir Thomas Acland over
the moor on the following day. The mandate was obeyed to the letter,
the clerk making the announcement in the following terms:--
“This is to give notiss--there be no sarvice to this church this
arternoon; cos maester be a-going over the moor a stag-hunting wi’ Sir
Thomas.”
At Stockleigh Pomeroy parish, the rector, Roupe Ilbert, desired his
clerk to inform the congregation that there would be one service only
on the Sunday in that church for a month, as he was going to take duty
at Stockleigh English _alternately_ with his own. The clerk did so in
these words: “This is vor to give notiss--there’ll be no sarvice to
thes church but wance a wick, as maester’s a-going to sarve t’other
Stockleigh and this church to all etarnity.”
On one occasion, as the congregation were assembling for divine
service in a church where Mr. Russell was ministering, a man stood
on the churchyard hedge, with the band of his hat stuck round with
silver spoons, bawling out, “Plaize to tak’ notiss--Thaise zix zilver
spunes to be wrastled vor next Thursday, at Poughill, and all ginlemen
wrastlers will receive vair play.” The man, with the spoons in his hat,
then entered the church, went up to the singing gallery, and hung it
on a peg, from which it was perfectly visible to the parson and the
greater part of the congregation during service.
It was customary in those portions of Devon which were not regularly
hunted, for the church bell to be rung when a fox had been discovered,
so as to assemble all hands to kill it.
On one occasion, at Welcombe, snow lying deep on the ground, the
clergyman was reading the second lesson, when a man opened the church
door and shouted in, “I’ve a got un!” and immediately withdrew. At once
up rose all the men in the congregation and followed him, and within a
couple of hours brought into the village inn a fine old fox, dug out
and murdered in cold blood.
Of the whole tribe of fox-hunting, hare-hunting, otter-hunting, dancing
parsons, Jack Russell was the best in every way.
I was travelling outside the coach one day to Exeter, and two farmers
were by me on the seat behind the driver. Their talk was on this
occasion, not of bullocks, but of parsons. One of them came from
Swymbridge, the other from a certain parish that I shall not name,
and whose rector we will call Rattenbury. The latter told a story of
Rattenbury that cannot be repeated, indicating incredible grossness in
an Englishman, impossible in a gentleman. “Aye there!” retorted the
sheep of Parson Jack’s flock. “Our man b’aint like that at all. He be
main fond o’ dogs, I allows; he likes his bottle o’ port, I grant you
that; but he’s a proper gentleman and a Christian; and I reckon your
passon be neither one nor t’other.”
John Russell was born in December, 1796. His father was rector of
Iddesleigh, in North Devon, and at the same time of Southill, near
Callington, in Cornwall, one of the fattest livings in that county, the
rectory and church distant three miles from the town of Callington,
that is in the parish. A curate on a small stipend was sent to serve
Iddesleigh, Mr. Russell settling into the spacious rectory of Southill,
large as a manor-house, and with extensive grounds and gardens.
Young John was sent to school at Blundell’s, at Tiverton, under
Dr. Richards, a good teacher, but a very severe disciplinarian. At
Blundell’s, Russell and another boy, named Bovey, kept a scratch pack
of hounds. Having received a hint that this had reached the ears of Dr.
Richards, he collected his share of the pack and sent them off to his
father. Next day he was summoned to the master’s desk.
“Russell,” said the Doctor, “I hear that you have some hounds. Is it
true?”
“No, sir,” answered Russell; “I have not a dog in the neighbourhood.”
“You never told me a lie, so I believe you. Bovey, come here. You have
some hounds, I understand?”
“Well, sir, a few--but they are little ones.”
“Oh! you have, have you? Then I shall expel you the school.”
And expelled he was, Russell coming off scatheless.
John Russell was ordained deacon in 1819, on nomination to the curacy
of Georgenympton, near Southmolton, and there he kept otter hounds.
In 1830 he married Penelope, daughter of Admiral Bury, a lady with a
good deal of money, all of which, or nearly all, Parson Jack managed in
process of years to get rid of--£50,000, which went, not in giving her
pleasure, but on his own sporting amusements.
Russell thought that in horse-dealing, as in love and war, all things
are lawful. It so happened that Parson Froude wanted a horse, and he
asked his dear friend, Russell, if he knew where he could find one that
was suitable. “Would my brown horse do?” asked Russell. “I want to sell
him, because the hunting season is over, and I have too many horses.
Come into town on Saturday and dine with me in the middle of the day,
and see the horse. If you like him, you can have him, and if you do
not, there is no harm done.”
On Saturday, into Southmolton came Froude. Russell lived there, as he
was curate of Georgenympton, near by. Froude stabled his horse at the
lower end of the town. He was suspicious even of a friend, so, instead
of going to Russell’s lodging, he went to his stable and found the door
locked. This circumstance made him more suspicious than ever, and,
looking round, he saw a man on a ladder, from which he was thatching
a cottage. He called to him for assistance, shifted the ladder to the
stable, ascended, and went by the “tallet” door into the loft. He got
down the steps inside, opened the window, and carefully inspected the
horse, which he found to be suffering in both eyes from incipient
cataract. He climbed back, got down the ladder, and shutting the
window, went into a shop to have his coat brushed before he rang his
friend’s door-bell. The door was opened by Russell himself, who saluted
him with:
“You are early, Froude. Come across to the bank with me for a moment,
if you do not mind.”
In the street was standing a Combmartin cart laden with early
vegetables, and between the shafts was an old pony, stone blind, with
glassy eyeballs. Froude paused, lifted the pony’s head, turned its face
to the light, looked at the white eyeballs, and remarked: “How blessed
plenty blind horses are in this town just now, Jack.”