You,--Mr. Editor,--Have journeyed from London to Portsmouth, and must
recollect Hindhead--you will, therefore, sympathize with me:--the luxury
of riding round the rim of the Devil’s Punch-Bowl is over! Some few
years back the road, on one side, was totally undefended against
casualties of any description--overturning the coach into the bowl (some
three or four hundred yards deep)--the bolting of a horse--or any other
delightful mishap which could hurl you to the bottom--all is over!
They--(the improvers of roads, but destroyers of an awful yet pleasing
picture,)--have cut a new road about fifty or sixty feet below the
former, and raised a bank, four feet high, round the edge, so that an
accident is almost impossible, and no such chance as a roll to the
bottom will again occur! The new road is somewhat shorter than the
old--the _effect_ completely spoiled--the stone to perpetuate the murder
of the sailor unheeded[299]--the gibbet unseen--and nothing left to
balance the loss of these _pleasing_ memorials, but less labour to the
horses, and a few minutes of time saved in the distance! Eighteen years
since, the usual stoppage, and “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll have the
goodness to alight, and walk up, you’ll oblige,” took place. At the
present time you are galloped round, and have scarcely time to admire
the much-spoken-of spot.
The last time I passed the place, on the _Independent_, when conversing
on the subject, our coachee, Robert (or Bob, as he delights to be
called) Nicholas, related an anecdote of an occurrence to himself, and
which tells much of the fear in which passing the Devil’s Punch-Bowl was
once held. You shall have it, as nearly as I can recollect it:--
An elderly lady, with two or three younger ones, and servants, engaged
the coach to London, but with a special agreement, that the party should
_walk_ round the said bowl,--“As we understand, it is next to a miracle
to go along that horrid place in safety.” On the journey, each change of
horses was accompanied by an inquiry, how far was the dreaded place? a
satisfactory answer was, of course, generally given. When, at length,
the coach arrived at the stone-memorial, one-third round the place, the
coachman alighted, and pretended to be making some trifling alterations
to the harness: his lady-passenger, looking complacently into the vast
dell beneath her, inquired its name. “Higgin-bottom, ma’am.”--“What a
delightful but singular looking spot!” was the rejoinder. The coach then
drove on. On its arrival at the next stage, Road-lane, the anxious
inquiry, “How far off, sir?” was again repeated. “We’re passed,
ma’am.”--“Passed it!--in safety!--bless me!--where was it?”--“Where I
stopped, and you asked the name of that deep dell-that was the Devil’s
Punch-Bowl--Higgin-bottom’s the right name.” The delighted passenger
rewarded the coachman for his innocent deception, and promised always,
on that road, to travel under his guardianship.
---- I have spoken of a stone erected on the Bowl, and if, in this “airy
nothing,” I do not occupy too much space that, undoubtedly, could be
better filled, a brief recollection of the fact may close this notice of
the Devil’s Punch-Bowl:--
An unfortunate sailor, with a trifle in his pocket, on the way to
Portsmouth, fell in, at Esher, with three others, then strangers, and,
with characteristic generosity, treated them on their mutual way.
The party were seen at the Red Lion, Road-lane, together, which
they left, and journeyed forward. On Hindhead they murdered their
companion--stripped the body, and rolled it down the Devil’s Punch-Bowl.
Two men, who had observed the party at the Red Lion, and who were
returning home, not long after, on arriving at the spot, observed
something which appeared like a dead sheep; one descended, and was
shocked to find a murdered man, and recognised the sailor: conjecturing
who were his destroyers, they followed in haste. On arriving at Sheet,
the villains were overtaken, when in the act of disposing of their
victim’s apparel. They were apprehended, and shortly afterwards hung and
gibbeted near the spot. When at the place of execution one of them
observed, he only wished to commit one murder more, and that should be
on Faulkner, the constable, who apprehended him!--The following is (or
was) the inscription on the stone; and many a kind “Poor fellow!” has
been breathed as the melancholy tale has ended.
THIS STONE
Was erected in detestation of a barbarous
MURDER,
Committed near this Spot
On an
UNKNOWN SAILOR,
By Edward Lonogan, Michael Casey, and
James Marshall,
September 24, 1786.
Gen. ix. 6.
“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his
blood be shed.”