Part 40

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.