wine was consumed, and Froude rode home without having been asked to
see the brown horse. Russell knew that the game was up, and that his
little plan for making his friend view the horse _after_ he had dined,
and not before, had lamentably failed.[35]
But that was the way with them. Froude would have dealt with his best
friend in the same manner over horses.
One who knew him intimately writes: “Russell was an iron man. I
have known other specimens, but Russell was the hardest of all in
constitution. He was kindly enough and liberal in his dealings with
his people; but if it came to selling him, or even to lending him, a
horse, or buying what he was pleased to call his famous terriers, the
case was different--it was after the morality of North Devon. He was a
wonderful courtier where ladies were concerned, and with them he was
very popular. He was no fool, but very capable, only a man who was too
much given to outdoor sports to read, or even to keep himself currently
informed.
“His voice was not unmusical, but tremendous. He was far too shrewd to
be ever foolish in church. I was in the county somewhere about 1848-9,
and there was a Bishop’s Visitation at Southmolton, and Russell was
asked to preach. Then the clergy, churchwardens, etc., dined together
at the ‘George,’ and after dinner the Bishop rose, and, with his
silvery voice, thanked the preacher of the day, and, in the name of all
those present, begged him to publish his admirable discourse for their
benefit.
“Bishop Phillpotts, I may say, was diabolically astute and
well-informed, and dangerous to match.
“Then up rose Russell, with head thrown back, and said: ‘My lord,
I rejoice that so good a judge should pronounce my performance
profitable. But I cannot oblige your lordship and publish, because that
discourse is already in print. My lord, when I was requested to preach
to-day I naturally turned to see what others before me had thought it
advisable to say on similar occasions; and, chancing on a discourse by
an Irish clergyman of long ago, I shared your lordship’s sentiments
of admiration, and feeling myself incapable of doing better than the
author, I was determined, my lord, that if, to-day, I could give no
better fare, at least my audience should have no worse. My lord, the
sermon is not original.’
“There was not a man in the room but knew that the Bishop had
endeavoured to trap _their_ man. And that he had extricated himself
gave vast delight, manifested by the way in which the glasses leaped
from the tables, as the churchwardens banged the boards.”
Russell was not a heavy drinker. No one ever saw him drunk. Usually he
only brought out a bottle of port after he had killed his fox. On all
other occasions gin and water was produced before going to bed. But if
not intemperate in that way, he could and did use strong language in
the hunting-field--as strong as any of the yeomen and farmers.
He was ubiquitous. Whenever there was a wrestling match, distance was
nothing to him, or a horse fair, or a stag-hunt. Mentioning stag-hunts
recalls the story of a parson on the fringe of Exmoor, who had been out
with the hounds, and had the hunters in his church on Sunday morning.
The Psalm given out was “As pants the hart for cooling streams,” and
his text was “Lo, we heard of it at Ephratah, and we found it in the
wood.”
From Southmolton John Russell moved to Iddesleigh, appointed there by
his father, who surrendered to him the income of the living.
He was now somewhat out of the ring of his former associates, and had
to make, and contrived to make, fresh friends in the neighbourhood of
Hatherleigh. But it was not one where there were many squires, and the
clergy were too poor to keep packs. Moreover, that tract of country was
rarely hunted at all, and Russell determined to make it his own special
happy hunting ground. There were, however, difficulties in the way. The
people did not sympathize. The farmers were indisposed to favour his
scheme, and of resident sporting squires there were none at all.
It had long been the practice of the natives to kill a fox whenever
and however they could catch him; and Russell had not been long at
Iddesleigh when one day his ear caught the sound of a church bell, rung
in a jangling fashion and with more than usual clamour. It was the
signal that a fox had been tracked to ground or balled into a brake;
and the bell summoned every man who possessed a pickaxe, a gun, or a
terrier to hasten to the spot and lend a hand in destroying the noxious
animal. This practice he had to interrupt and put an end to.
A letter of Russell’s thus describes his first adventure with a party
bent on murdering a fox in his new country:--
“During the winter of the first year I was at Iddesleigh, the snow at
the time lying deep on the ground, a native--Bartholomew, _alias_ Bat,
Anstey--came to me and said, ‘Hatherleigh bell is a-ringing, sir.’
‘Ringing for what?’ I asked, with a strong misgiving as to the cause of
it. ‘Well, sir, they’ve a-tracked a fox in somewhere; and they’ve a-sot
the bell a-going to collect the people to shoot un.’ ‘Come, Bat, speak
out like a man,’ I replied, ‘and tell me where it is.’ ‘In Middlecot
Earths, sir; just over the Ockment.’
“I was soon on the spot with about ten couple of my little hounds, and
found standing around the earths about a hundred fellows, headed, I am
almost ashamed to say, by two gentlemen--Mr. Veale, of Passaford, and
Mr. Morris, of Fishley. I remonstrated with these gentlemen, and told
them plainly that if they would leave the earths, and preserve foxes
for me, I would show them more sport with my little pack in one day
than they would see in a whole year by destroying the gallant animal in
so un-English a way.
“Impressed, apparently, by what I had said, both gentlemen instantly
bade me good morning, turned on their heels, and left the place; while
a few shillings distributed among the rest, by way of compensation for
the disappointment I had caused them, induced them to disperse and
leave me almost the sole occupant of the situation.
“Then, after waiting half an hour near the spot, I turned my head
towards home; but before I arrived there I met a man open-mouthed,
bawling out, ‘They’ve a-tracked a fox into Brimblecombe, for I hear the
Dowland bell a-going.’
“So off I went to Dowland in post-haste; found out where the fox was
lying, turned him out of a furze-bush, ran him one hour and forty
minutes--a blaze of scent all the way--and took him up alive before the
hounds on the very earths I had so lately quitted; where, unfortunately
for him, a couple of scoundrels had remained on the watch, and had
consequently headed him short back from that stronghold.”
But Russell had not yet finished with the fox-killers, for he says:
“The very next day after the run from Brimblecombe, a man came to
Iddesleigh on purpose to inform me that the bell was going at Beaford,
and that a fox had been traced into a brake near that hamlet. The
brake, in reality, though not far from Iddesleigh, was in Mr. Glubb’s
country; but feeling sure that the necessity of the case would justify
the encroachment, I let out the hounds at once, and hurried to the spot
with all speed.
“On arriving at the brake I found only one man near it; and he, placed
there as sentinel, was guarding it from disturbance with a watchful
eye. I asked him to tell me where the fox was, but he gave me a very
impertinent answer. Pulling out half a crown, I said, ‘There, my man,
I’d have given you that if you had told me where he was.’ The fellow’s
eye positively sparkled at sight of the silver. ‘Let me have it, then,’
he replied, ‘and I will show you where he is to a yard.’
“I ran that fox an hour, and lost him near where he was found. Then,
just as I was calling the hounds away to go home, down came a crowd of
men, women, and children to see this fox murdered. Many of them had
brought their loaded guns, were full of beer, and eager for the fray.
And when they discovered that I had disturbed _their_ fox, as they were
pleased to designate him, their language was anything but choice.
“A strapping young fellow, one of the principal farmers in the parish,
came up to me and said, ‘Who are you, sir, to come here and spoil our
sport?’ ‘You would have spoiled mine,’ I replied, ‘if you could.’
‘We’ll shoot them foxes whenever we can--that I’ll promise you,’ he
said in an angry tone. At that moment one of the hounds began to howl.
I looked round, saw she was in pain, and asked in a threatening manner,
‘Who kicked that hound?’
“No one spoke for half a minute, when a little boy said, pointing to
another, ‘That boy kicked her.’ ‘Did he?’ I exclaimed. ‘Then ’tis lucky
for him that he is a _little boy_.’ ‘Why?’ said the farmer with whom
I had been previously talking. ‘Because,’ I replied, ‘if a _man_ had
kicked her I would have horse-whipped him on the spot.’ ‘You would find
that a difficult job if you tried it,’ was his curt answer. I jumped
off my horse, threw down my whip, and said, ‘Who’s the man to prevent
me?’
“Not a word was spoken. I stood my ground, and one by one the crowd
retired, the young farmer amongst the number; and from that day forward
I secured for myself not only the goodwill and co-operation but the
friendship of some of the best fox-preservers that the county of Devon
has ever seen.”
I have thought it as well to let Mr. Russell tell his own story. If the
reader considers this a dignified scene for a clergyman to be engaged
in I beg to differ from him. In 1832, after he had been six years at
Iddesleigh, Mr. Russell moved to Tordown, a lone country house in the
parish of Swymbridge, and in 1833, the perpetual curacy of Swymbridge
and Landkey becoming vacant, he was appointed to the benefice by the
Dean of Exeter, and there he remained almost till his death.
“When I was inducted,” wrote he, “to this incumbency there was only
one service here every Sunday--morning and evening alternately with
Landkey--whereas now, I am thankful to say, we have four services every
Sunday in Swymbridge alone.”
This shows that Parson Jack was not a mere mighty hunter before the
Lord. He was a sincerely good man up to his lights, and never neglected
a duty for the sake of a gallop after his hounds.
When he lost Mr. Sleeman he advertised for another curate in the _North
Devon Journal_. “Wanted a curate for Swymbridge; must be a gentleman of
moderate and orthodox views.”
Mr. Hooker, vicar of Buckerell, was standing in a shop door in
Barnstaple shortly after the appearance of this advertisement, when
he was accosted by Will Chapple, the parish clerk of Swymbridge, who
entered the grocer’s shop. “Hav’ee got a coorate yet for Swymbridge,
Mr. Chapple?” inquired the grocer in Mr. Hooker’s hearing. “No, not
yet, sir,” replied the sexton, “Master’s ’nation particler, and the man
must be orthodox.”
“What does that mean?” inquired the grocer.
“Well, I recken it means he must be a purty good rider.”
And Mr. Chapple was not far out. A curate did apply and breakfasted
with Russell. The meal over, two likely-looking hunters were brought
round ready to be mounted. “I’m going to take ’ee to Landkey,”
explained Russell. Off they rode. The young cleric presently remarked,
“How bare of trees your estate is,” as they crossed the lands belonging
to Russell.
“Ah!” responded the sportsman, “the hounds eat ’em.” Coming to a stiff
gate, Russell, with his hand in his pocket, cleared it like a bird, but
looking round, saw the curate on the other side crawling over the gate,
and crying out, “It won’t open.”
“Not it,” was the reply; “and if you can’t leap a five-barred gate like
that, I’m sure you can’t preach a sermon. Good-bye.”
It is not my intention to give a detailed life of the Rev. John
Russell. His memoirs by the author of _Old Dartmoor Days_, published
in 1878, are very full. They are very laudatory, written as they were
whilst Russell was alive. Cromwell when being painted was asked by the
artist about his mole. “Paint the mole and all,” was the Protector’s
reply. But others are not so strong-minded and do not care to have
portraits too realistic. In 1880, Russell was appointed to Black
Torrington.
When he was over eighty he rode a poor hack from Black Torrington to
Mr. Williams, at Scorrier, to judge puppies, and Mrs. Williams was
alarmed, as the old man was not well on arriving. She proposed to
send him back by rail, fearing lest he should be seriously--fatally,
perhaps--ill in her house. But although very poorly, he refused, and
with one day between, rode home, something like seventy miles each
journey.
He died in 1883, 3 May, in the arms of his medical attendant, Dr.
Linnington Ash, at Black Torrington, and was buried at Swymbridge.
After the best type of the hunting parson we come to one of the worst,
who exercised a good deal of influence over Russell, when he was
young, at Southmolton. This was John Froude, vicar of Knowstone, who
had succeeded his father, the elder John Froude, in September, 1803,
and who held the incumbency, a veritable incubus to it, for forty-nine
years till his death, on 9 September, 1852.
Russell himself says: “My head-quarters (after having been ordained)
were at Southmolton; and I hunted as many days in every week as my
duties would permit with John Froude, with whom I was on very intimate
terms. His hounds were something out of the common; bred from old
staghounds--light in colour and sharp as needles, plenty of tongue, but
would drive like furies. He couldn’t bear to see a hound put his nose
on the ground and ‘twiddle his tail.’ ‘Hang the brute,’ he would say
to the owner of the hounds, ‘get me those who can wind their game when
they are thrown off.’
“Froude was himself a first-rate sportsman, but always acted on the
principle of ‘kill un, if you can; you’ll never see un again.’
“He had an old liver-coloured spaniel, a wide ranger, and under perfect
command. He used to say he could hunt the parish with that dog from the
top of the church tower. You could hear his view-halloo for miles, and
his hounds absolutely flew to him when they heard it. Let me add, his
hospitality knew no bounds.”
John Froude belonged to a clever family, that produced Archdeacon
Froude, rector of Dartington and father of Hurrell and James Anthony,
the historian. He had been well educated, and was a graduate of Oxford
University. It is said that he had met with great disappointment in
love, and early in life retired into what was, in the beginning of the
nineteenth century, the great retirement from the world of culture and
intellectual activity, Knowstone-cum-Molland.
Knowstone stands high on a bleak and wind-swept hill, reached even at
this day by a narrow and arduous and often a rough road, when torn up
by a descending torrent after a storm. Molland lies distant three and
a half miles on a brook flowing down from bleak moors into the Yeo. A
sheltered and pleasant spot, with an interesting church, containing
Courtenay monuments.
Froude’s church preferment was at the time valuable, and he was,
moreover, in possession of some considerable private fortune in
addition to his professional income. He had few educated people
residing in his neighbourhood. With the quiet, inoffensive clergy
about he would not associate; with others he could not, as they held
themselves aloof from him. He soon came to associate almost entirely
with the rough farmers who inhabited the Exmoor district, and he grew
to resemble them in mind, language, habits of life and dress. From
them he was principally differentiated by his native wit, his superior
education, and his exceeding wickedness.
I have said that there were some with whom he could not associate. Such
was the Hon. Newton Fellowes, afterwards Earl of Portsmouth, but at
that time a young man with a love of sport, which he maintained to the
last, and then without much token of brains, but he developed later.
Him Froude detested, mainly because Newton Fellowes busied himself to
improve the roads, so that, when at Eggesford, he could drive about
the country in his four-in-hand; partly, also, because he was never
invited to cross the threshold of Eggesford. He revenged himself with
his tongue.
One day he was dining at the ordinary at the George Hotel in
Southmolton when Newton Fellowes was there as well. The latter was
telling the assembled farmers how he had fallen over a hurdle in
a race a few days earlier. “And as the mare rolled,” added he, “I
thought I had broken my neck,” and he put his hands to his throat to
emphasize the remark. Whereupon Froude, speaking loud enough to command
attention, exclaimed: “No, no, Newton, you will never break _your_
neck; we have scriptural warrant for that.”
“How so?”
“The Lord preserveth them that are _simple_.”
The story stuck to Lord Portsmouth for life. Nor did Prebendary
Karslake fare much better. Karslake was a scholar, a good speaker,
rector of two parishes, and Prebendary of Exeter Cathedral. He took
pupils, and prepared them for Oxford. He was rural dean and inspector
of schools, and also chairman of the quarter sessions, farmed largely,
and was a keen, all-round sportsman, and very intimate with Newton
Fellowes, wherefore Froude hated him.
It was at another farmers’ dinner at the “George” that Froude left his
mark upon _him_. Karslake was not present at this dinner.
Two farmers were engaged in dispute, and one said to the other: “I
don’t care for your opinion, for Mr. Karslake says otherwise, and he
knows.”
“What!” shouted Froude; “do ’ee quote that little Billy Karslake? He is
no better than another--a stone jackass.”
Then a dozen voices together asked: “Why is Parson Karslake like a
stone jackass?”
“Well,” said Froude, “’tis plain enough, surely. He ain’t handsome, he
ain’t useful, he’s main stupid, but he’s gallous mischievous.”
The nickname of the “stone jackass” stuck to the Prebendary for life.
But worse treatment was in store for him.
He was a most active magistrate, and the date of the occurrence I
am about to mention was somewhere between 1835 and 1840, before the
railways penetrated into the West Country.
It must be understood that Froude fascinated his neighbours, overawing
them as a snake is said to fascinate a mouse. If he told them to do a
thing, or to keep silent, he was obeyed. They dared not do otherwise.
One evening a young farmer arrived at Mr. Karslake’s door, at Meshaw,
and entreated an interview on urgent business. On being admitted he
told the magistrate that an atrocious crime had been undoubtedly
perpetrated at Knowstone that very day. A little girl of eleven years
of age had left the village in the afternoon to return to her parents,
who occupied a small farm-house a mile or two distant, and had not been
seen since. When search was made for her, on the roadside were found
a child’s shoe and a bonnet stained with blood, but no body could be
discovered. Karslake took the matter up. He was in the saddle from
morning till night, the local constables were stirred up, but all in
vain. No further traces of the child were to be found, no clue to the
mystery discovered. Karslake then, at his own expense, went up to
London, and returned with a first-class detective from Bow Street. But
in vain. He was as unable to unriddle the mystery as were the local
constables.
About ten days later the baffled magistrate was sitting hearing cases
in the court-house at Southmolton, wearied and dejected at his failure,
when Mr. Froude walked in, accompanied by a child. “Good morning, Mr.
Karslake. I am told you’ve been looking for a little maid lately, and
I’ve brought this one for you to see, in case her’s the one you be
wanting.”
The child had been kept secreted at the rectory, and the parents had
lent themselves to the deception, they being tenants and allies of the
rector. What the cost was to Mr. Karslake in money, vexation, wear and
tear, and ridicule--to which he was particularly sensitive--nobody
knows; but one can conceive his annoyance when the whole
court-house--bench and audience--broke out into a roar of laughter at
his expense, he being chairman.
Froude had a nicely adjusted scale of punishments for all who offended
him, and he had ready assistants to administer them.
From his first arrival at Knowstone he encouraged about him a lawless
company of vagabonds who, when they were not in prison, lived roughly
at free quarters at the rectory, and from thence carried on their
business of petty larceny; and who were, moreover, ready to execute
vengeance upon the rector’s enemies, and these enemies, although they
lived in continual terror, were numerous.
His satellites ran errands, beat covers, broke in horses, did light
farm-work, and found hares for the hounds, which were kept at the
rectory.
Blackmore has described him and his gang in _The Maid of Sker_, in
which he calls Froude Parson Chowne. If Froude desired to damage an
obnoxious farmer who did not pay his tithes punctually, or who had
otherwise offended him, he gave a hint, and the man’s ricks were burnt,
or his horses houghed.
As Henry II did not order the murder of Becket, but threw out a hint
that it would be an acceptable thing to him to be rid of the proud
prelate, so was it with Parson Froude. He never ordered the commission
of a crime, but he suggested the commission. For instance, if a farmer
had offended him, he would say to one of these men subject to his
influence, “As I’ve been standing in the church porch, Harry, I thought
what a terrible thing it would be if the rick over yonder of Farmer
G---- were to burn. ’Twould come home to him pretty sharp, I reckon.”
Next night the rick would be on fire.
Or he would say to his groom, “Tom, it’s my tithe day, and we shall
sit on purty late. There’s Farmer Q---- behindhand again: this is the
second half-year. You’ll be in the room: if I scratch my nose with
my fork you’ll know that he has not paid up. Dear me! what a shocking
thing were his linch-pin to be gone, and he going down Knowstone Hill,
and in such a dark night--and the wheel were to come off.”
And certainly if Tom saw the vicar put his silver fork to his nose,
so certainly would Farmer Q---- be thrown out of his trap by the
wheel coming off, to be found by the next passer along the road with
dislocated thigh, or broken arm and collarbone.
A gentleman near had offended him. This person had a plantation of
larch near his house. Froude said to Tom, “Bad job for Squire----,
if his larch lost their leaders!” Next morning every larch in the
plantation had been mutilated.
The Rev. W. H. Thornton says in his delightful book, _Reminiscences
of an Old West-country Clergyman_: “He always had around him a tribe
of vagabonds, whom he harboured. They beat the covers when he shot,
they found hares for his hounds to hunt, they ran on his errands, they
were the terror of the countryside, and were reputed to commit crimes
at their master’s instigation. He never paid them anything, or spared
or sheltered them from punishment. Sometimes they were in gaol, and
sometimes out. They could always have as much bacon, potatoes, bread
and cheese, and cider at his house as they pleased, as well as a fire
to sit by, and a rough bed to lie down upon.
“Plantations were burned, horses mutilated, chimneys choked, and
Chowne’s men had the credit of these misdeeds, which were generally
committed to the injury of some person with whom Chowne had quarrelled.
“I have known him say to a young farmer: ‘John, I like that colt of
yours. I will give you twenty-five pounds for him.’ The owner had
replied that it was not money enough, and Chowne had retorted, ‘You
had better let me have him, Jack. I have noticed that when a man
refuses an offer for a horse from me, something goes wrong with the
animal. It is very curious really that it should be so, but so it is.’
And the horse would be sent to him for twenty-five pounds.
“He was frequently engaged in litigation, and one day Mr. Cockburn
(afterwards Lord Chief Justice of England, but then a wild young fellow
enough) was engaged against him, and Chowne lost his case. Cockburn
then, or so it is said, left the court in the Castle of Exeter in order
to have some luncheon.
“In the castle yard he saw an old countryman in yellow leggings and a
long blue coat, who had an ash sapling in his hand. As the great lawyer
passed him, whack! down came the stick across the silk gown upon his
shoulders.
“‘Be you the young rascal who spoke up against me in court just now?’
‘I suppose that you are Parson Chowne,’ said Cockburn. ‘I was against
you, and I am very glad that I succeeded; and now I am inclined to have
you up for striking me.’