me instead. You are a deuced clever young chap, and I am hanged if ever
I have a case on again without employing you. So come along, you little
beggar, and I will stand you a bottle of port.’ Cockburn went, and
frequently afterwards he would stay with Chowne.”
The following story shall be told as near as may be in the words of the
farmer who was present when occurred the incident he related.
“On Saturday last Mr. Froude drove a fox from Molland to ground in
Parson Jekyll’s Wood at Tar Steps. He was going to dig him out, and the
men had commenced to work, when down came Mr. Jekyll in a thundering
passion. Mr. Froude and he bean’t over friendly, best of times; and the
earth is used by the vixens. There was a litter of cubs there only last
season. Mr. Jekyll, hearing the hounds stop, came out at once to us,
in a tear; I was there myself and I heard him. ‘Mr. Froude,’ says he,
‘I thought you knew better than to go digging in another man’s country
without special permission to do so, and late in the season too, with
cubs already about. If you don’t desist and take yourself off, I’ll
summons you; so blow your horn, sir, and leave.’ ‘I have a terrier to
ground, sir,’ replied Froude, ‘and I mean to dig him out.’ ‘If you go
away,’ said the other, ‘the terrier will come out. In no case will I
allow you to continue to dig.’ With that the old man, Parson Froude,
grew white with passion, and says, ‘And do you dare risk a quarrel with
me, Mr. Jekyll? Do you not know that to-night on my return I have only
to say at Knowstone, _Bones, bones at Hawkridge!_ and, mind you, name
no names, and your carcase will be stinking in a ditch within the week?’
“Then he got on his horse and rode down to Winsford and obtained a
search warrant from S. Mitchell to search Tar Steps Rectory for his
terrier, which he took oath he believed to be there, stolen by Mr.
Jekyll and concealed on the premises. And he brought back Floyd, the
Winsford constable, with him to Tar Steps; and we all thought Mr.
Jekyll would have had a fit, he was that furious, while they searched
the house down to the very cellars, and shook up the rector’s old port
wine, on suspicion that he might have hidden the terrier in the back of
the bin. But the best of the joke was that there had been no terrier
out with the hounds that day, and of course none had been put into the
hole. So Parson Froude had sworn to what he knew well was a lie.”
Froude had a horse to sell, and one cold morning a gentleman named
Houlditch, of Wellington, drove over in a gig from Tiverton to
Knowstone, and requested to be shown the horse without delay. Froude,
loud in protestations of hospitality, refused his request. “I dine at
one o’clock, you’ve had a cold drive, and no man knows better than do
I what them hills is like that you’ve come over. So, if you can put up
with roast ribs of beef, sir, and a mouldy Stilton cheese to follow,
us will top up with a drop of something hot, and then Jack Babbage, my
huntsman, shall show ’ee the horse.”
After hearing from Mr. Houlditch that he was looking for a hunter, they
sat down together to dinner, and the parson firmly but politely pressed
his ale upon the guest. This ale was of Froude’s own brewing. When new
it did not readily proclaim its potency, and the rector never gave
warning nor spoke of its strength. It was excellent, soft as milk. The
day had been cold, and the drive had been long.
When a strange and unaccustomed glare had come into Mr. Houlditch’s
eyes, Froude ordered Jack Babbage to bring out the horse, and giving
his guest a hand to steady him, the two went into a field near the
rectory. In this field some hurdles “feathered” with gorse bushes
were set up, and Babbage, always shouting as he neared a jump, rode
the horse repeatedly over the obstacles, and galloped him round. Then
Froude invited Mr. Houlditch to try the horse himself, but he was
too fuddled to mount, and he bought the beast for £50, a long price
in those days, and was driven back by the post-boy to the “Angel” at
Tiverton. The horse, at his charges, was sent to Wellington at once.
A week later came a letter with the Wellington postmark, which Froude
threw into the fire unopened. A few days later came a second letter,
then a third, and all shared the same fate.
Finally, one day an angry man drove up from Tiverton--it was Houlditch
himself. “You don’t seem to care to reply to my letters, Mr. Froude,”
said he, “so I have come in person to ask you whether or not you will
take back your horse which you sold me ten days ago, for he is blind.”
“Sir,” said Froude, “you asked me for a hunter, and one that could
jump, and I sold you a hunter that could jump. You saw the horse, and
it was a bargain. You did not ask me if it could see. Jump he can, as
you observed. When you ride him, carry a knife with you, and when you
come to a fence you just jump off his back and cut a furze-bush. Put
that down before the fence and canter the old horse up and speak sharp
to him, same as Babbage did, and so soon as he feels the prickles about
his legs he will jump.”
“Will you take the horse back?” roared Houlditch.
“Certainly I will.”
“And repay me my £50?”
“Certainly not. I cashed your cheque, sir, last week, and with the
money paid my butcher. A deal is a deal.”
The story comes with the authority of Jack Babbage, confirmed by Mrs.
Froude, after her husband’s death. The incident occurred late in the
rector’s life, after he was married.
Froude’s shamelessness was phenomenal. On one occasion he sold some
keep on the glebe at Knowstone by auction, and a neighbouring farmer
purchased a field of swede turnips under condition that he should
remove them before a stated day.
The time limit was nearly expired, when Froude found the purchaser and
the men in the field carting away the roots. The rain was falling in
torrents, the crop was heavy, and it was a dirty job.
Froude rode into the field and shouted to the farmer (with the usual
expletives with which he garnished his discourse), bidding him desist.
“But, sir,” said the man, “the time is nearly up, and I am bound to go
on, or I shall forfeit my purchase.”
Froude then called him a---- fool, reminded him that he had known him
from his cradle and his father before him, and bade him go home and
wait for finer weather to pull his turnips and take them away.
The appointed day soon came and passed, and the following morning
the farmer, feeling a little uneasy, rose early and rode off to his
turnips. The field was full of sheep when he arrived, and they were all
marked J.F. Calling his dog, the farmer opened the gate and proceeded
to turn them out.
Then Froude, on horseback, came from an ambush, and cracking his whip
and swearing horribly, rode at him, and dared him to remove the sheep.
The man was terrified and went home, fearing lest worse should befall
him. Next day was Saturday, and Southmolton Market, and the young
man, bursting with his sense of wrong, rode into the town to proclaim
his woes. As he entered from the bottom of the long street he saw Mr.
Froude in the midst of a cluster of sporting farmers, the allies of the
rector, and as the injured man approached, Froude stretched out the
finger of scorn, and cried, “Look there! See to un! See to the biggest
fule in Devonshire as buys a yield of swedes and leaves ’em to another
man to stock--a gurt natural ass!” This sally was answered by a peal of
laughter, and the victim, turning his head down street, galloped away.
In _The Maid of Sker_, Blackmore tells the story of Parson Chowne
(Froude) having driven a horse mad by putting a hemp-seed into its
eye. This story, I was informed by one who had every occasion to know
the circumstances, is true. Froude had set his heart on buying a horse
at Southmolton Fair, but Sir Walter Carew out-bid him and secured the
beast. Froude shortly after was again in Southmolton, and ascertained
that Sir Walter was in the inn, at the ordinary, taking his lunch.
He went into the stable, and saw that the baronet had ridden in on
the coveted horse. Froude gave the ostler a shilling to do him some
trifling errand, and during his absence so treated the unfortunate
animal that it went almost mad with pain, and on the way home threw its
rider.
Henry Phillpotts was consecrated Bishop of Exeter in the year 1831,
and he soon came into collision with Froude; but the Bishop was a
formidable antagonist, and Froude shunned him, and would not attend his
visitations.
The following story has been frequently told; but the version here
given is as related half a century ago by Jack Russell and by Babbage,
and confirmed by Prebendary Matthews, who succeeded Froude at Knowstone.
The Bishop held a visitation at Southmolton, and Froude sent a note to
say that he could not attend, as he was indisposed.
The Bishop remained the night at Southmolton, and next morning early
started for Tiverton in a carriage, and as Knowstone was not much out
of the way, he ordered the driver to turn up the hill to the village.
Mr. Froude was in the dining-room talking to Babbage, and the hounds
on the lawn, when one of his rascally retainers ran in to inform the
rector that the Bishop was in the village inquiring for the rectory.
Babbage hurried the hounds into kennel, and Froude went to bed.
A good-looking housekeeper (for Froude married very late in life) met
his lordship at the door, and answering his inquiry after the rector,
said that Mr. Froude was unwell in bed.
“May I trouble you to tell him that his bishop wishes to see him, and
will visit him in his bedroom?”
The woman went upstairs, and the Bishop, waiting in the hall, overheard
the conversation which ensued.
“Bishop says, sir, as he must come upstairs if you can’t come down.”
“Tell his lordship, Mary, that I don’t know what’s the matter with me,
but it’s something infectious--scarlet fever, I reckon--and maybe he’ll
catch it if he comes up here.”
However, Henry Phillpotts was not to be dissuaded, and he mounted the
stairs and seated himself by the bed.
“What will your lordship take?” asked Froude, showing his head only
above the clothes. “It’s cruel cold; a drop of brandy hot will help to
keep off the infection.”
“Nothing, thank you, Mr. Froude. I take this opportunity to tell you
that strange stories concerning you meet my ears.”
“Perhaps your lordship prefers whisky,” said Froude, “with a slice of
lemon in your grog.”
“Mr. Froude, I beg you to desist. I am here to inquire into the truth
of the stories repeated concerning you.”
“My lord, I’ve also heard strange tales about your lordship. But
among gentlemen, us don’t give heed to all thickey tittle-tattle.
Perhaps you’d prefer gin--London or Plymouth, my lord? You’ll excuse
me, my lord; I be terrible bad, and I be afraid you’ll catch the
infection--pleased to have seen you--good-bye”; and he ducked his head
under the bedclothes.
“I knawed he’d come,” said Froude to Russell after the visit; “but I
reckon he’ll never come again: the air of Knowstone be too keen for he.”
One day his lordship ran against Froude in Fore Street of Exeter. The
vicar had with him a greyhound, commonly known in Devonshire as a “long
dog.” It was on this occasion that the Bishop tackled him for keeping a
pack of harriers, as already related. After that said Henry of Exeter,
“And pray, Mr. Froude, what manner of dog do you call that?”
“Oh, that’s what volks do call a long dog, my lord, and ef yeu will
just shak yeur appern to un, he’ll go like a dart.”
The _Weekly Times_ of Exeter kept an eye on Froude’s doings and
misdoings, and published them under the heading of “Knowstone Again.”
But Froude was too sly to enable the Bishop to find an occasion to
proceed against him; the people of Knowstone were too much afraid of
his vengeance to dare to give evidence.
Froude married a Miss Halse, the pretty sister of two well-known yeomen
of Anstey. She was quite young enough to have been his daughter, and
they had no children--perhaps fortunately. The circumstances of the
marriage are said to have been these. Froude had paid Miss Halse some
of his insolent attentions, that meant, if they meant anything, a
certain contemptuous admiration. The brothers were angry. They invited
him to their house, made him drunk, and when drunk sign a paper
promising to marry their sister before three months were up or to
forfeit £20,000. They took care to have this document well attested,
and next morning presented it to Mr. Froude, who had forgotten all
about it. He was very angry, blustered, cajoled, tried to laugh it
off--all to no purpose. He was constrained to marry her. And he seems
to have been really fond of her. Certain it is that she was warmly
attached to him, and after his death would speak of him as her “dear
departed saint,” which implies a singular misappropriation of terms,
and confusion of ideas.
[Illustration: THE REV. JOHN RUSSELL’S PORT-WINE GLASS, CHAMBERLAIN
WORCESTER BREAKFAST SERVICE AND BAROMETER
_Purchased at the sale of his effects in 1883 by Mrs. Arnull and
presented by her to Mr. John Lane, in whose possession they now are_]
The following story is on the authority of Jack Russell. He had called
one day at Knowstone Parsonage, and found Froude sitting over his fire
smoking and Mrs. Froude sitting in the corner of the room against
the wall. Her husband had his back towards her. Russell was uneasy,
and asked if Mrs. Froude was unwell. Froude turned his head over his
shoulder, and asked: “Mrs. Froude, be you satisfied or be you not? You
know the terms of agreement come to between us when we married, that
I were never to be contradicted and disagreed with. If you are not
satisfied you can go back to your friends; I don’t care a hang myself
whether you stay or whether you go.”
“I am content,” said the lady faintly.
“Very well,” said Froude; “then we’ll have a drop of ale, Jack. Go and
fetch us a jug and mugs, madam.”
His harriers were kept in such a wretched, rattle-trap set of kennels
that they occasionally broke loose. This occurred on a certain Sunday,
and just as Froude was going up into the pulpit the pack went by.
He halted with his hand on the rail, turned to the clerk, and said:
“That’s Towler giving tongue. Run--he’s got the lead, and will tear the
hare to bits.”
Accordingly the clerk left his desk and went forth, and succeeded in
securing the hare from the hounds, hunting on their own head. He
brought the hare into the church and threw it under his seat till the
sermon was done, the blessing given, and the congregation dismissed.
When Froude got old he was forced by the Bishop to have a curate. “I
don’t care to keep dogs to do the barking for me, no fye,” said he,
“but I can’t help it. You see, I just maintains a rough boy to do the
work now, and I sits in the vestry and hears un tell.”
Between services one Sunday, Froude gave his young curate, who was
dining with him and some of his farmer friends, too much of his soft
but strong ale. He disliked the young fellow, who was a bit of a clown
and uncouth, and did it out of malice. The curate, quite ignorant of
the headiness of the ale, inadvertently got fuddled.
The conversation turned on a monstrous pig that Froude had killed,
and which was hung up in his outhouse, and he invited his guests to
accompany him and view the carcase, and estimate the weight. One
thought it weighed so many stone, others thought differently. Froude
said that it weighed just the same as his curate, who was fat. The
rough farmers demurred to the rector’s estimate, and, finding an empty
corn-sack, they thrust the intoxicated ecclesiastic into it, and,
hanging him up to the end of the beam, shouted with delight as the
curate brought the weight down. Meantime the bells were ringing for
evensong, but they left the curate hung up in the sack, where he slept
uncomfortably. The congregation assembled for service, and waited.
Froude would not officiate, and the curate was incapable of doing so.
Mr. Matthews, afterwards Prebendary of Exeter, had been dining at
Southmolton in Froude’s company, and Froude undertook to drive him back
to Knowstone in his gig, where Mr. Matthews was to sleep the night.
Froude had drunk too much, but insisted on driving home himself. At the
bottom of the long street the road crosses the river, and the bridge
is set on at an angle to the road. The horse was a spirited animal,
and was going home. So down the street they went at a spanking pace,
and over the bridge with a whir. Froude had fallen asleep already, but
Matthews seized the reins and guided the animal, and thus they narrowly
escaped destruction.
Froude slept on, and, arriving at Knowstone, Matthews went in to
prepare the young wife to get the rector to bed.
“Oh, what is the matter?” cried Mrs. Froude, when she was informed
that her husband was not very well, and had better be put to bed. “Oh!
dear lamb”--Mrs. Froude was not happy in her choice of descriptive
epithets--“dear lamb, are you ill? Oh dear! dear!” “Nonsense,” retorted
Froude, “I bain’t ill. I’m only drunk, my dear, that’s all.”
One day he was riding on the quay at Barnstaple, and asked some
question of a bargeman in his boat. The fellow gave him a rude answer.
Thereupon Froude leaped his horse down into the barge, and thrashed the
man.
In the end, Froude gave up doing duty, and retired into a small house
in Molland, as more sheltered than Knowstone. In _The Maid of Sker_,
Blackmore represents him as torn to pieces by his hounds. Actually this
was not the occasion of his death. Before his parlour window grew a
peculiarly handsome trimmed box-tree. Now Froude had done a mean and
cruel act to a young farmer near, tricking him out of a considerable
sum of money. One night the box-tree was pulled up by the roots and
carried away, no one knew whither, or for certain by whom, though the
young farmer was suspected of the deed.
Froude raged over the insult; but as he was unable to bring it home,
and as his powers were failing, his rage was impotent.
The uprooting of the box-tree apparently precipitated his death. He
felt that the awe of him was gone, his control over the neighbourhood
was lost. This thought, even more than mortification at not being
able to revenge the uprooting of his box-tree, broke him down, and he
rapidly sank, intellectually and physically, and died 9 December, 1852.
A little before his death, Jack Babbage, his huntsman, visited him.
“Oh, Jack!” said he, “it’s all over with me. I’m going to glory,
Jack”--which shows what is the value of assurance on a death-bed.
“Well,” said Babbage, “if the old master be so cock-sure that he’s on
that way, I reckon there be a good chance of a snug corner for me.”
There was another parson, if possible, more evil than Froude, whom
Blackmore has called Parson Hannaford, but we have had enough specimens
of a type of clergy that is, we trust, for ever passed away; but it
has gone not without leaving its mark on the present, for it was this
sort of parson who drove all the God-fearing people in the parish into
dissent. Happily these men were exceptions even in their day, and were
not the rule. The bulk of the clergy were worthy men, doing their duty
up to their light, the services in the churches not a little dreary;
but then, at that time, it was exceptional to find that the country
people could read, and therefore sing out a hymn or psalm with one
accord as they can now. They preached dull sermons, because their own
minds were not clear. But they were kind, they visited their flock,
they were charitable, and their families set a good example in the
parish, and had immense influence in purifying the moral tone, and they
taught in Sunday-schools. I can recall those old days, and I know that
men like Froude and Russell were but spots widely scattered over an
otherwise white reputation such as the general body of the clergy bore.
But that there were such spots none could deny, and in almost every
case the Bishop was powerless to eradicate them.
To a farmer said a vicar of Holsworthy, himself one of the
disreputable, who thought fit to reprimand him for his conduct, “Go by
the light, man, not by the lantern.” To which the farmer replied, “When
the lantern is covered with muck, none can see the light.”
For the account I have given of Parson Froude I am indebted partly to
the late Prebendary Matthews, rector of Knowstone after Froude, and
also to Rev. W. H. Thornton’s _Reminiscences of an Old West-country
Clergyman_, as well to a _Froudiana_, a collection made by one who
intimately knew the neighbourhood and the individuals, and who most
kindly placed his collection of anecdotes at my disposal.
The accompanying illustration represents Jack Russell’s port-wine
glass with a fox beautifully cut in it, his barometer, which he
probably tapped with his knuckles many a time before he started on
a day’s hunting, as well as a Chamberlain Worcester tea service,
formerly in his possession. All these were bought after his death at
Black Torrington at a sale of his effects, by Miss Bernasconi, now
Mrs. Arnull, and presented to the publisher, Mr. John Lane, in whose
possession they are. Dr. Linnington Ash on the same occasion purchased
several mementoes for his Majesty the King--then Prince of Wales--as
well as for himself and other friends.
SAMUEL PROUT
Has full justice been done to Samuel Prout, the artist? I doubt it.
True that Ruskin recognized his great merits, but the public generally
has not acknowledged, indeed, has not realized, the revolution in taste
due mainly to this shy, unassertive man.
What man in his century had dreamed, before Prout issued his sketches,
that there was exquisite beauty in old English cottages? He arose at a
time when attention was being drawn to Gothic architecture, and there
was a growing recognition of its merits in cathedral, church, and
mansion. Architects with tape and foot-rule measured and planned, with
lead-tape took mouldings. They learned the principles of Gothic and
Tudor architecture. They gathered and studied details. But the soul,
the spirit escaped them. When they undertook to design and build new
churches and mansions, they turned out very poor, uninteresting stuff.
Rickman erected the new courts of St. John’s College, Cambridge, a
monstrous pile of ugliness, bad even in its details. Blore built the
chapel of Marlborough College, a horror, now happily transformed. Sir
Gilbert Scott designed numerous churches, all of borrowed detail, and
all utterly uninteresting. It was the same on the Continent. In France,
Viollet le Duc studied throughout France, knew the purest French styles
intimately, but could produce nothing good himself. It was the same
with Heideloff in Germany. The inspiration of the Gothic or medieval
soul escaped them. It was not to be caught with tape and rule. Their
buildings proved correct in many cases, but all cold, unimpressive,
and uninteresting. But Prout caught the spirit. He did not measure and
scale, but he drew with the breath of the genius of olden time fanning
his heart.
[Illustration: SAMUEL PROUT
_From a drawing in the possession of Samuel Gillespie Prout, Esq._]
And the cottage! Churches and mansions were erected by the new Gothic
school throughout the land; they were accepted, but did not please. But
no one thought of the cottage, unless it was to be a lodge at a gate.
Rows of hideous dwellings for the artisan and the labourer continued to
be erected, with tall, lanky doors, a fanlight over them, lean windows,
no gables, nothing picturesque about them.
Jerrybuilders covered the suburbs of our towns with their repulsive
dwellings, their only idea of decoration being elaborate hip-knobs and
ridge tiles. Retired tradesmen and farmers built their residences,
disfiguring the countryside with square blocks, a door in the face, a
window on each side, and three windows in the upper story, the roof
pinched together from all four sides, and two chimneys standing up like
donkey’s ears, one on each side of the face. Not till this century,
with the creation of the garden city, has Prout’s idea of the dwelling
for artisan and labourer, as a thing of beauty, been carried out.
Samuel Prout was born at Plymouth 17 September, 1783. The Prouts were
a respectable Cornish family of St. Stephen’s by Launceston, and an
heiress of Grenville had married a Prout, and the sister and coheiress
a Cary. The family has laid claim to the arms of Prouse of Gidleigh,
but can prove no connexion.