CHAPTER XIV

THE FORGE OF FAGGUS AND THE CURE OF CHOWNE[19]

A “TOWN” by courtesy (though Blackmore shows it no courtesy, dubbing it “a rough rude place at the end of Exmoor”), Northmolton is an inconsiderable village--that is, as regards size and population; very pretty, however, and romantic. Despite its comparative unimportance some of the inhabitants of the larger Molton cherish respect for its smaller neighbour as the seat of ancient tradition. I remember talking to a tonsorial artist--one does not speak of “barbers” nowadays--and a native of Southmolton, who referred with bated breath to the Court Leet and Baron held in the sister parish, and the strange customs connected with such tribunals; and he evidently considered the Southmolton Town Council a mere mushroom institution of scant interest compared with the feudal juries. I determined to look into the matter.

There are two routes between South-and Northmolton--one the present highway along

the richly wooded valley of the Mole; the other, doubtless more ancient, over the hill to the right, from the summit of which is obtained an excellent view of the village situated on the opposite ridge.

Northmolton is known far and wide as the birthplace of the renowned Tom Faggus, who from being a smith turned highwayman. It is only a few years ago since the forge at which he is supposed to have toiled was pulled down. It stood at the bottom of the square, next to and facing the “Poltimore Arms”; and picture post-cards, showing what it was like, are on sale in the village. Just as I presented the reader with the pre-Blackmorian legend of the Doones, drawn from Mr Cooper’s _Lynton_, so I reproduce from the same source the legend of Tom Faggus, as it existed before the publication of the romance.

_Faggus and his Strawberry Horse._

Faggus was a native of Northmolton, and by trade a blacksmith, but being engaged in a lawsuit with Sir Richard Bampfylde, he was ruined, and obliged to leave his home.

He then turned a gentleman-robber, and for many years collected contributions on the highways, sometimes in company with a companion named Penn, but more frequently alone.

Many stories are told concerning his famous enchanted strawberry horse, and it was chiefly by means of this horse that Faggus escaped punishment for so long a time.

On one occasion a large party of farmers agreed to ride home together from Barnstaple Fair for the purpose of avoiding an attack from Faggus, who was supposed to be in the neighbourhood. However, when they arrived at the post on the top of Bratton-down, Faggus rode up, a cocked pistol in each hand and the reins lying on the neck of his strawberry horse; he threatened them with instant death, if they did not deposit their purses at the foot of the post. The farmers obeyed him in silent awe, and Faggus rode off with his booty.

He was seized while sitting in the ale-house at Simonsbath, but at his shrill whistle his invaluable horse, having broken down the stable door, rushed into the house, and after seriously maltreating the enemies of his master with his hoofs and teeth, bore him off in triumph. On another occasion he was recognised in Barnstaple and closely pursued to the bridge, where he was met by a party of constables, who blockaded the other end. Seeing all hopes of escape by the road completely cut off, he boldly put his horse at the parapet of the bridge. This he cleared, and swam off, to the great disappointment of his numerous assailants, who had considered his capture now as quite certain.

Intelligence being received at Exford that Faggus was to pass through that village on a certain day, a number of men were stationed in a certain part of the road to endeavour to seize him. They had not been long at their post, when Faggus rode up in complete disguise.

“Pray, my good friends,” said he, “may I ask for what purpose you are waiting here in such numbers?”

On being answered that they were waiting for Faggus, he replied that he knew him well for a great rascal, and volunteered his services in assisting to take him. After a little more conversation he asked what firearms they had; four or five guns were produced. He proposed that they should be discharged and reloaded, to secure their going off when required, as the dampness of the morning might have injured their priming. This was agreed to, and when his advice had been taken and the guns put for a moment _hors de combat_, he produced his pistols, and having declared his name and robbed his terrified adversaries, galloped away.

It being discovered on another occasion that Faggus had taken refuge in a house at Porlock, the whole of the inhabitants assembled; some seized the rusty arms which had long hung neglected over their chimneys, or been emptied only in inoffensive war against the timid wild-fowl; others armed themselves with scythes, pitchforks, and other rustic weapons. They surrounded the house in a formidable array, shouting aloud, “Faggus is taken!” “Faggus is taken!” But they were mistaken. The door suddenly opened, and he rushed forth mounted on his strawberry horse, dashing through the crowd. Regardless of the blows and shots aimed at him from all sides, he disappeared, leaving them astonished and confounded at his daring and good fortune. He was at length captured in an ale-house at Exebridge, in the following curious manner.

One of the officers, equipped as an old beggar woman, entered the tap-room where Faggus was. With his usual kindness he ordered the supposed vagrant some food and liquor, and sat down near him. At a preconcerted signal the disguised constable, rising quickly, pulled the chair from under Faggus, and being thereupon joined by others who were concealed in the room, instantly fastened a rope to Faggus’ feet and hoisted him up to the bacon rack. The shrill whistle Faggus gave, as was his custom when in difficulty, was given in vain, for the poor horse had been shot in the stable at the very moment the attack was made upon his master. All was now over with poor Faggus. He was tried and hanged at Taunton at the ensuing assizes.

Through his whole career not one act of cruelty was ever laid to his charge, while numerous are the acts of kindness and charity to the sick and the distressed that are recorded of him. Like the celebrated Robin Hood, he seems to have taken from the rich to give to the poor, for it required but little to supply his own immediate wants, living as he did in the most frugal manner.

On my last visit to Northmolton I was fortunate in making the acquaintance of Mr Dobbs, who represents the oldest firm of auctioneers in the district, his father and grandfather having wielded the fateful hammer before him. From this informant I learnt that over forty years ago, long before he set eyes on _Lorna Doone_, he gathered many particulars regarding Tom Faggus from Harry Lake, the parson’s boy, who possessed a history of that half or wholly fabulous hero, which he was in the habit of reading whilst seated on the vicarage steps, waiting for his master and in charge of his Bucephalus. Harry afterwards emigrated to America, taking his book with him, but Mr Dobbs is able to recollect that Faggus had a relative living in Milk Street, Exeter--a poulterer. One anecdote in the book, which is mentioned also in _Lorna Doone_, was to the effect that once when Sir Robert Bampfylde, who had ruined Faggus and occasioned him the loss of his house, was riding to Barnstaple, he met the highwayman, who made him give up his purse. The next moment he threw it back, saying, “There is a rule among robbers not to rob robbers.”

It is worth while to observe that if Faggus lived at the period to which Blackmore assigns him, the head of the family would have been, not Sir Robert, but Sir Coplestone, Bampfylde, one of Prince’s “Worthies.” As for the tale of tyranny, it is somewhat improbable; but, if true, is the more deplorable, in that the Bampfyldes themselves had endured pecks of financial trouble--a fact candidly and explicitly set forth on the great monument in the church, where mention is made of “diuturna litigia et graves impensas,” which had nothing whatever to do with poor Faggus, but were undertaken for the object of regaining possession of their estates.

The two chiefs--Amias, to whom the monument was erected, and John, by whom it was erected, “pietatis ergo”--were both endued with the bump of philo-progenitiveness. The former was the father of twelve sons and five daughters, and the latter of eight sons and seven daughters. The sculptor has made a brave attempt to introduce as many figures as possible into his imposing work of art, but there was evidently scope for a sort of human ant-hill. From the way the numbers are paraded, the Bampfyldes, like the Hebrews of old, manifestly regarded a large family as a merit, or, at least, a blessing. “Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.” Apart from the monument, the most striking feature of the church is the gorgeous display of carved oak in the chancel. The insertion of modern work in the old oak pulpit was a most wretched inspiration, whoever may have been responsible for it.

The Bampfylde family acquired the property by marriage with a coheiress of the St Maurs; and in the course of centuries their honourable name has undergone almost every possible variety of spelling. Bamfylde, Bampfylde, Baumfield, Bampfeild, are some of the forms I have met with, but I will not answer for it that the list is exhaustive. The first baronet was Sir John Bampfylde, who received the title in 1641. The sixth baronet, the Right Hon. Sir George Warwick Bampfylde, was raised to the peerage in 1831 as Baron Poltimore, that being the name of another estate belonging to the family near Exeter. The present Lord Poltimore was born in 1837. He owns not only Court Hall, a fine old mansion standing to the east of the church, and almost hidden by trees, but Court House, an ancient ivy-covered structure, formerly the residence of the Parkers, the Earl of Morley’s ancestors.

There lived in the village in those days a charitably-disposed old lady, one Mrs Passmore, a dressmaker; and at Christmas-tide the dear old soul had always ready basins full of coppers, threepenny-bits, sixpenny bits, etc., to be distributed in the shape of doles. The Lady Morley of the period is said to have taken it into her head that this amiable custom detracted, in some measure, from the honour and reverence due to herself; so she suggested to Mrs Passmore that, as no doubt their charities overlapped, and some people had more than their share, while others had nothing, it might be well to entrust her with the combined funds, and allow her to act as almoner.

“No, my lady,” was the reply, “I don’t think I will. You know they come and say, ‘Thankee, Lady Morley!’ and ‘God bless ee, Lady Morley!’ but if I give away my own money, I shall have all the God bless ee’s mysel’.”

An apprentice of Mrs Passmore was the rather noted Mrs Treadwin, who wrote a book on lace, and from whose shop on the north-east side of Exeter Cathedral were supplied the wardrobes of generations of queens and princesses, including the wedding-dress of Queen Victoria.

The almshouses, the inmates of which live rent free and receive fourpence a week, were originally Parker property; and on the panelling round the chancel of the parish church may be detected the initials “T. P.,” supposed to refer to one of the family--_not_ to the well-known editor and Parliamentarian.

The Court Leet and Baron is held at the Poltimore Arms. In the bar-parlour of this hotel is a curious object--namely, a fire-back of cast-iron, bearing the inscription, “^{16} H S I ^{89}.” The purpose of the utensil is to throw the fire forward and prevent it from burning the bricks. The venue of the Court Leet, however, is not the bar-parlour, but the large state-room on the right, where a feast, to which Lord Poltimore contributes thirty shillings and a hare, is held once a year. The _personnel_ consists of sixteen jurymen, twelve of whom form the king’s jury, and four that of the manor. The presiding officer is the Portreeve (commonly known as the “Mayor”), and his subordinates include a Bailiff, Ale Tasters, and Searchers of the Market. The Court Leet possesses copper cups used as measures, but it may be mentioned, parenthetically, that the Searchers have not been round lately, as they found on a certain occasion that their own weights were not just. Mr Dobbs’s father served for a long time as Bailiff, the only pay he received being a dinner, while Mr Dobbs himself has been Portreeve, and though now quit of the office, is chaffingly greeted as “Mr Mayor.” This jest has been doing duty for at least half a century, but somehow the humour does not grow stale, and nobody is so foolish as to object.

The most colossal witticism attaching to Northmolton concerns a certain Peter, which appellation is, or used to be, in great favour in the village. The Peter in question was taken ill and died, whereupon a district visitor, or somebody of the sort, called to condole with the widow.

“So you have lost your good man?”

“Iss,” replied Betty, “Peter’s gone to Belzebub’s bosom.”

“Pst!” said the visitor, “you don’t know what you’m talking about.”

“P’raps I don’t,” answered Betty, placidly, “Peter and me never could mind the names of great folks.”

Five miles from Northmolton is the village of Charles, so long the home of the Rev. Richard Blackmore, the uncle of the novelist. During his incumbency a Northmolton man, fond of lifting his right arm, called on business at the rectory, and was immediately taken in hand by the rector’s wife.

“Did you notice any wood-stacks as you came along?” she inquired.

“Yes, ma’am--a good many.”

“And did you see any pigs?”

“Pigs, ma’am? Yes, I ran up against one.”

“Ah, well; do you know why there are so many pigs at Charles?”

“No, I don’t,” replied the man, puzzled.

“Then I will tell you--because there is no public-house here,” concluded the lady, triumphantly.

Almost due north of Charles is the parish of High Bray, where is a farmhouse called Ludcote, Liddicot, or Lidcote. The last is Sir Walter Scott’s spelling of the name, which is, after all, a secondary matter. What is of more importance is the imputed connection with the place of Amy Robsart and her family. Chapter xii. of _Kenilworth_ commences as follows: “The ancient seat of Lidcote Hall was situated near the village of the same name, and adjoined the wild and extensive forest of Exmoor, plentifully stocked with game, in which some ancient rights belonging to the Robsart family entitled Sir Hugh to pursue his favourite amusement of the chase.” On the faith of this statement it has been generally assumed that the unhappy Amy sprang from a good old Devonshire stock. Reference to the standard authorities, however, has failed to discover the slightest trace of such a family, and one or two antiquaries of repute, whom I have consulted, confess themselves utterly at a loss to explain the allusion. It is a suspicious circumstance that in neither his introduction nor his notes does the author throw any light on the Devonshire connections of his heroine, and for all these reasons combined I am disposed to regard this portion of his narrative as wholly imaginary.

As the topic is literature, I may here allude to a contemporary writer, whose portrait I purchased in a shop opposite the Poltimore Arms. At the time I was quite ignorant of his precise claim to celebrity, and the silk hat, frock coat and walking-stick were too conventional to suggest genius, though the face, perhaps, was not strictly normal. However, experience told me that no man would figure on a picture post-card unless possessed of unusual gifts, and it turned out that Mr Richard Slader was a poet and a solitary, whose recreations--to borrow a hint from _Who’s Who?_--consist in keeping a hundred head of poultry and selling nuts and blackberries at Southmolton Fair. About forty-five years of age, and careless of appearances, he might be taken, as somebody expressed it, for an “old tramp,” but he belongs to a respectable family; indeed, the name occurs in the Blackmore pedigree. Moreover, it is known that his father left him a good round sum of money. Slader talks broad Devonshire, and “Rachard and his pigs” have passed into a proverb. Swine have been a source of infinite worry to him. Certain of the species owned by his sister at Pixyweek became infected with anthrax, and were ordered by the police to be destroyed. This annoyed Mr Slader, and he gave vent to his indignation in a poem. On another occasion he was summoned for allowing his own pigs to stray on the highway, convicted, and fined. Resentment at this petty tyranny led to his penning an effusion, which was printed and circulated in leaflet form.

Like all poets, Mr Slader has his critics and detractors. In a counter-leaflet put forth by some “snake in the grass,” he is reviled as the “silly old man of Northmolton,” but the hiss of these ignoble stanzas is as far beneath his polished verse as it is possible to conceive. It is proper to add that Mr Slader indited pathetic and very pious compositions on the deaths of his mother and sister, so that his graceful muse is not always wedded to satire.

“With various talents, variously we excel,” and as at Molland Cross we are not very far from Molland parish, in which Tom Faggus had land (_Lorna Doone_, chapter xlvi.), I am tempted to make a passing allusion to another family represented in the Blackmore pedigree--the Quartlys of Champson. When the Quartlys first sprang into fame as cattle-breeders, I cannot precisely state, but as such they certainly enjoyed a high reputation at the commencement of the last century, and they attained perhaps the acme of distinction during the reign of George IV., when their red kine were never shown at Smithfield without winning first prizes. The best animal painters in England visited Champson to inspect the stock, and among the rest came H. B. Chalon, animal painter to the king, who drew a sketch of two cows, afterwards engraved by Raddon for Mr White, of Pilton House, and dedicated to Mr T. W. Coke, M.P. for Norfolk.[20]

The Quartlys no longer reside at Champson, the death of the late Mr John Quartly on the railway, a few years ago, having led to the severance of a connection which had lasted for generations.[21]

The parish of Molland is associated with that of Knowstone. For centuries they have been consolidated as one benefice, and formed the original of Blackmore’s “Nympton-in-the-Moors.” Here, I must improve on this precedent by including a third parish, Lapford, which lies in a southerly direction. The reason is as follows. A reader of the _Maid of Sker_, who is also familiar with North Devon, must be struck with the, no doubt, intentional looseness of the geographical references. From a perusal of the romance, it would be natural to conclude that “Nympton-in-the-Moors” is much nearer Barnstaple and the coast than is actually the case,[22] and that no considerable town like Southmolton is interposed between them. Southmolton is ignored also in favour of Tiverton, for, although “Nympton” is in the rural deanery of the former town, it is to the old church of St Peter, Tiverton, that Chowne is appointed by his bishop to bring his young people to a “noble confirmation” (_Maid of Sker_, chapter liii.). The name “Nympton” is common in Devon, where there are four or five villages so called, and distinguished from each other by some addition like “King’s,” “Bishop’s,” “George,” etc. Besides these there is the form “Nymet” (apparently contracted in the first syllable of “Nympton”), which is found in Nymet-Roland, near Lapford, which, by virtue of the watercourses, stands in more direct relation to Barnstaple than the parishes before named. Still, I do not deny that on the whole, Blackmore intended by “Nympton-in-the-Moors” Knowstone-cum-Molland, of which the Rev. John Froude (“Parson Chowne”), who died in 1852, was incumbent for forty-seven years. It is distinctly stated that “Parson Chowne happened to have two churches” (_Maid of Sker_, chapter xxviii.), but it appears to me that, for certain purposes, he blended with them the parish of Lapford, of which his nephew, the notorious John Radford (“Parson Rambone”), was rector.

It was at Nymet-Roland that the “naked people,” who bulk so largely in the _Maid of Sker_, lived in semi-nudity and utter savagery, in an old cottage of clay, of which one wall had given way, so that in their only room grass grew on the earth floor. They stole what clothes they required, and continually got into trouble with the police, one of whom was felled to the ground by a girl of the family. Contrary to Blackmore’s account, they were finely built, muscular, and strong. The patriarch of the race died at Whitstone, having spent his declining years in a cider cask; and about 1860 the family was dispersed. These people were called Cheriton, and as they lived on their own freehold, could not be interfered with, until financial difficulties arose, which compelled them to give up possession.

Froude’s real “lambs” were not of this description, but ordinary village folk. With these his word was law, and no matter how extravagant his commands, they were obeyed to the letter. Though a man of unquestioned ability, the parson hardly possessed the diabolical cunning of Chowne, but it is to be feared that he had no small share of his cruel malice, and he carried buffoonery to a pitch utterly inconsistent with his cloth and calling. His moral character was such that his relations, some of whom I know, regard him as outside the pale of apology; while old labourers, who remember his white hat, though perhaps none too good themselves, are shocked to recall such conduct in a “minister.” Froude never issued instructions directly; he preferred oblique methods. Thus he would be riding along where a group of men were at work, and begin to mutter, “I’m certain sure Farmer Besley’s fuzz-brake will be burnt--I know ’twill.” The nearest man would prick up his ears, and, having accomplished the prophecy, would return to the spot, where he would find a sovereign on the gatepost. At another time, Froude would say to a follower severely, “Look here, John, don’t you cut off that donkey’s tail”--pointing to an animal on the other side of the hedge. The next day the unfortunate animal would be found minus its appendage. Froude’s “lambs” were staunch to him, and years afterwards one of them, called Peagram, who lived at Southmolton, refused to divulge anything of their relations.

Parson Chowne was a marrying man--having, it will be recollected, three wives in succession; Froude was twice married, his second wife being Miss Halse, daughter of “Squire” Halse, a yeoman farmer of Pulworthy. Tradition says that he officiated at the lady’s christening, and, at the convivial party given in honour of the event, observed that, if the girl baby lived to grow up, he would marry her. From another source I have heard that, when he was courting her, he and her father would stay up late, drinking, and Froude, by no means so abstinent as the terrible Chowne, generally got into a condition which rendered it necessary for him to be “personally conducted” to Knowstone by one of the men, who would ride behind him, buoy him up in the saddle, and lift him from his horse at the end of the journey, and make himself responsible for his safety. Sad to say, Froude was neither civil nor grateful, and although consciously incapable, heaped all kinds of profane and opprobrious epithets on his companion. “You only do it for your guts’ sake. Go back--go back, or I’ll yaw (thrash) tha.” Bragg did not dare to dismount, knowing that if he showed signs of fear Froude would be as good as his word, and give him a good horse-whipping.

Froude could be a perfect gentleman if he chose, and, when in his capacity as master of hounds, he entertained sportsmen like Lord Portsmouth to dinner, he acquitted himself with surprising ease and some amount of refinement. But he was always relieved when such ordeals were over and he had attended the last of his guests to the door. He would then turn to a boon companion with the remark, “Thank Heaven, George; I’ve been a gentleman long enough. Come into the kitchen, and have some grog.”

Radford was nothing like so prominent a character as Froude, but he was, if possible, even more disreputable. He was tall and well built, and his favourite recreation was fighting. As to time and place, he was not at all particular, and was often seen in the boxing booths at Southmolton Fair giving an exhibition of his powers. Radford seems to have had quite a mania for pugilism. Once he invaded a gipsy encampment, and offered a sovereign to any of them who could beat him. The best man was picked, but proved of no use against the parson, who thereupon offered to fight the next, and eventually went through about a dozen of them, each new opponent being buoyed up with the hope that Radford was getting worn out with his exertions. But the hope turned out delusive.

In the same way, when the railway was being cut between Exeter and Barnstaple, Radford appeared among the navvies, issuing challenges

right and left, and, as they were accompanied with offers of money, his gages of battle were eagerly taken up. The navvies, as a rule, fared no better than the gipsies, but one man named Tolly, who was afterwards a stationmaster on the line, was credited with the proud distinction of having beaten the redoubtable rector.

The Hon. Newton Fellowes, afterwards Lord Portsmouth, used to drive a four-in-hand, and occasionally experienced trouble with lazy carters, who did not make room for him as fast as he could wish, and whom he punished with a slash of his whip. One day Radford got himself up as a carter, and, lying down inside the cart, pretended to be asleep. On came Newton Fellowes, who, finding the carter deaf to his commands, flew into a perfect fury and began to flourish his whip. At the first touch up jumped Radford, and administered to his lordship the worst drubbing he ever had in his life.

As I have said, however, Radford was by no means Froude’s equal, and as the Parson Rambone of the romance, rightly holds a secondary place. Radford, not Russell, was the original of the character, since Blackmore himself told Mr Bryan, of Southmolton, that the former was his model. Froude’s redeeming virtue was his success as a sportsman, and the following article from the _Sporting Magazine_ for 1821 shows in what esteem he was held by the hunting community.

_Close of Mr Froude’s Season in North Devon._

Experience teaches us that happiness is unattainable without reciprocity. I do not mean that in all our actions we are to look out for an equivalent; reason and Scripture equally denounce such selfishness; but if in our amusements and recreations we are partially dependent on others, some attention must inevitably be paid to the feelings and predilections of our fellow-mortals. The galling yoke of feudalism is long ago removed; and it is better to be loved than dreaded. The rod of iron may chastise, but cannot win the affections, nor repress resentment; which, if not cancelled by kindness will, sooner or later, burst forth with the devastating fury of an avalanche. When a perfect understanding is established between sportsmen and farmers, game is seldom wanting, and every facility is afforded in following the hounds. A more harmonious feeling of unanimity and respect I never beheld, than at a hunting feast the other day at the house of Mr Froude, the master of a crack pack of harriers in the North of Devon. I may say _the_ crack pack; in which Nimrod will, I think, agree, as he has signalised some of the hounds in your magazine, particularly old Guilty. We need not refer to Buffon for arguments to prove the sagacity of the canine species, as old Guilty has given abundant proof of it. The efficient number of the pack is about twenty-five couples; the hunting days are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays: Guilty, though kept at a farmhouse nearly three miles distant from the kennel, always attended of her own accord on hunting mornings. If too late, one of the servants had only to point to her the direction the hounds went, and she invariably joined them without the aid of a compass.

At the end of a hunting season it is a custom with many masters of hounds to invite the yeomen and farmers over whose land they hunt, to dinner, thereby verifying the old adage, _finis coronat opus_. The other day I was present at one of those dinners or hunting feasts given by Mr Froude, where there were from fifty to sixty persons enjoying the good things of life, and where

“The story ran in such familiar strains, With so much humour and so little pains.”

On such occasions particular customs are strictly observed. The host resigns his domestic sovereignty into the hands of his guests, who appoint a Tapster from their own body, a Sword to enforce fines, and a Judge to settle disputes and to keep up ancient customs, who, in this instance, executed his office with the impartiality of a Rhadamanthus, particularly in seeing that his Sword performed his duty with justice in the sconcing department. On a table were huge flagons of foaming old October, with four magnums, or, as the classics say, _magna_, of spirits, surrounded with drinking cups, horns, and glasses, marked with hunting devices. Among other toasts, “the King” was drunk, while standing, at _one draught_, in tolerably large tumblers: and those who were not particular in doing so were fined, as his Judgeship said, for cutting His Majesty in two--such being the established rule handed down from their forefathers. At all events the toast was a loyal one, and I wonder King Charles had it not inserted among his golden rules. Youngsters on their first introduction had to pledge the Judge in a glass of neat spirits; and after this matriculating ceremony was over they were considered as efficient members. One of the initiated gave us a hunting song; and his memory having failed him in three or four instances, the inexorable Judge fined him a wineglassful of brandy for each omission; and ere he finished his melody, his head reclined on the mahogany, and he softly reposed himself in the arms of Morpheus. I was excused fines, not being a member of the club.

“It always has been thought discreet To know the company you meet; And sure there may be secret danger In talking much before a stranger. Agreed: what then? then drink your ale, I’ll pledge you, and repeat my tale.”

His Lordship the Judge now stood up to propose THE TOAST--viz., “Success to the merry harriers and their worthy master! Whoever does not preserve game, and allow him to follow his hounds wherever he pleases, is a craven, _et cetera, et cetera_!”--(what the _et ceteras_ are I must beg leave to be silent)--which was received with tumultuous applause. The contents of the cups disappeared with such a magic rapidity that Macbeth’s words, “Damn’d be he who first cries hold! enough!” would have been an exceedingly appropriate motto. I did not see the finale; but I saw quite enough to convince me that a little attention timely applied has gained Mr Froude the goodwill of all his neighbours. Our English yeomen are composed of too tough materials _to be driven_; they require as much management as a restive horse; however, with a little tact they can _be easily led_. A rough, generous, and hospitable yeoman is a perfect epitome of JOHN BULL. Who can read Sir W. Scott’s description of Dandy Dinmont without a feeling of admiration? The neighbouring poor also partook of the entertainment; and the day is always looked upon as a jubilee by the villagers.

Mr Froude is generally allowed to be one of the first hare-hunters in the West of England. One glance of his is sufficient to find out the good and bad points of a dog. His first instructions he received at the hands of the late Mr Karslake, and it may be justly said of him that he was bred up at the feet of Gamaliel. The moment his leading-strings were thrown aside, he set about organising a pack of harriers, to which he has ever since devoted the greater part of his time. Hounds are kept by many for the sake of effect and parade, by way of getting a name in the Sporting World; but it cannot be said so in this instance. Sportsmen being so few in the neighbourhood of Knowstone, the field mostly consists of persons staying at the Vicarage, a few surrounding friends, and an occasional wandering lover of the chase, attracted by the fame of the Knowstone pack. The hounds, in size, shape, and colour, bear a wonderful similarity to each other. I recollect once, on meeting the Tivy-side Hunt on the Welsh Hills, my remarking that one of the hounds bore a strong similarity to Mr Froude’s breed of hounds, which I found on inquiry came from Devonshire--so strong is the family likeness through the whole pack. When a man’s principal attention has for years been devoted to the breed of hounds, it must ultimately arrive at the maximum of perfection, particularly if the person, like Mr Froude, understands his business well. The prominent points of his hounds are:--height nineteen inches, considerable length of back, immense strong loins, with firm and well-shaped haunches, productive of speed and durability: they are particularly quick in all their movements: one should have the flying arrow of Ababis to follow them; and their note is sharp and cutting. A friend of mine used to say that “a deep-mouthed Southern hound” sounded well in poetry, but it always reminded him of a cathedral bell. The deep and solemn tone of Great Tom is very well at Lincoln; but the sharp and cheering cry of harriers is much more invigorating to the spirits on a raw and cold morning on the bleak hills of Devonshire.

Had Nimrod time during his Devonshire Tour to call on Mr Froude, he would have had many amusing anecdotes. One of those whose minds are chiefly devoted to the admiration of their pretty selves happened once to join the Knowstone pack, and kept on in spite of hints, though pointedly given, clearing banks and furze bushes to the manifest danger of the dogs’ lives. A hare at last was started; off went the parson and the dandy side by side until they came to the margin of a bog. His reverence instantly tightened one of his bridle-reins, and continued to spur his nag, which gave it the appearance of shying. The dandy went in neck and crop; and thus the nuisance was got rid of by “his own act and deed,” as the lawyers say. However, he was soon landed, and had every attention paid him. This I had from the late poor Jack Harvey, who was a tolerable master of the laconic style. The late Marsh, Fauntleroy & Company used to be his bankers. I recollect when he wanted the needful to go to Warwickshire, his addressing Mr Marsh thus: “Dear Agent, send me some coin. I am yours, etc.” When his house in Devon was burnt, he acquainted his guardian with the accident thus: “Dear Nunky, I have no _domus_: ditto is burnt.” His brother, who was then studying at St John’s, Cambridge, offered him his purse: for his kind offer he was answered thus: “Dear George, I thank you for your Balm of Gilead letter; send me fifty pounds.” Coulton himself could not have improved on this.

Mr Froude has hunted the fox more frequently for the last two years than he used to do, and has bred two couples of hounds out of a favourite harrier bitch of his own by a clever foxhound from the celebrated blood of George Templar, Esq.: these are reserved expressly to go with the harriers, when drawing for a fox, to keep them steady to the varmint. Here instinct is clearly shown on the drag; and when the pack is well settled to the line of scent, the quickness and vivacity of the merry harrier are quickly apparent. They have this season, I hear, had some brilliant runs, an animated account of which has been given in our provincial papers by a gentleman from the neighbourhood of Exeter, attracted to visit the pack by common fame, like the Queen of Sheba, when she paid a visit to Solomon.

The hunting season is now over; the horn is replaced in its case; the whip is suspended from the nail, denoting a suspension of field sports. The fox and the hare are allowed to revel unmolestedly over hill and dale, secure from the thrilling “tally-ho” and “gone away” of the keen and determined sportsman. A straggling hound may now and then steal unperceived to remind them of their implacable foes. However, the period will arrive

“When bright Aurora shall unbar the morn, And light discover Nature’s cheerful face; The cracking whip and the loud-sounding horn Will call blithe huntsmen to the distant chase.

“Eftsoons they issue forth a goodly band, The sharp-tongued hounds with music rend the air, The fiery coursers strike the rising sand; Far through the thicket flies the frighted hare.

“Froude the honour of the day supports, His presence glads the woods, his orders guide the chase.” --LEEK.