WHY not? why should not the parson mount his cob and go after the hounds? A more fresh, invigorating pursuit is not to be found, not one in which he is brought more in contact with his fellow-men. There was a breezy goodness about many a hunting parson of the old times that was in itself a sermon, and was one on the topic that healthy amusement and Christianity go excellently well together. I had rather any day see a parson ride along with the pink, than sport the blue ribbon. The last of our genuine West Country hunting parsons was Jack Russell, whose life has already been written, but to whom I can bear testimony that he was a good specimen of the race. I was one day on top of a coach along with two farmers, one from the parish of Jack Russell, another from that of another hunting parson, whom we will call Jack Hannaford. They were discussing their relative parsons. Then he who was under Hannaford told a scurvy tale of him, whereat his companion said, "Tell'ee what, all the world knows what your pa'sson be; but as for old Jack Russell, up and down his backbone, he's as good a Christian, as worthy a pastor, and as true a gentleman as I ever seed."

In a parish on the Cornish side of the estuary of the Tamar, some little while ago, the newly appointed rector, turning over the register of baptisms in the vestry, was much astonished at seeing entries of the christening of boys only. "Why, Richard!" said he to the clerk, "however comes this about—are there only boys born in this place?"

"Please your Reverence, 'tain't that; but as they won't take the girls into the dockyard at Devonport, 'tain't no good baptizing 'em." The boys were christened only for the sake of the register requisite to present on admission into the Government dockyard. But if the boys were given baptism only, the girls devoted their efforts to show that they fell behind in masculine gifts in no sort, and the women of the village have approved themselves remarkable Amazons; they pull a boat, carry loads, speak gruff, wear moustache, very much as does a man.

Now, the unfortunate thing is, that the English clergy of the new epoch do seem to have been only ordained because they are feeble and effeminate youths. After ordination the curates are thrust into the society of pious and feeble women, and contract feeble and womanish ways. Just as in the Cornish parish only boys were baptized, so does it really seem as though only girlish youngsters pass under the bishop's hands, so that ordination becomes a pledge of effeminacy. Therefore, in my opinion, it would be a wholesome corrective if they could go after the hounds occasionally.

It is one thing to make of hunting a pursuit, and another to take it as a relaxation. The apostles were sportsmen, that is to say, they fished; and if it is lawful to go after fish, I take it there can be no harm in going after a hare or a fox; but then—only occasionally, and as a moral and constitutional bracer.

As said of the ordinary country parson, the good is forgotten and the evil is remembered, so is it with the hunting parson. The simple worthy rector who attended his sick, was good to the poor, preached a wholesome sermon, and was seen occasionally at the meet, is not remembered,—Jack Russell is the exception,—but the memory of the bad hunting parson never dies.

There is a characteristic song about the typical indifferent hunting parson that was much sung some fifty years ago. It ran thus[7]—

PARSON HOGG. Arranged by the Rev. H. Fleetwood Sheppard, M.A.]

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One of the very worst types of the hunting parson was that man Chowne, whom Mr. Blackmore has immortalized in his delightful story of The Maid of Sker. Many of the tales told in that novel relative to Chowne—the name of course is fictitious—are quite true. As I happen to know a good many particulars of the life of this man, I will here give them.

He was rector of a wild lonely parish situated on high ground—ground so high that trees did not flourish about the rectory, nor did flowers thrive in his garden. Flowers in Chowne's garden! the idea is inconceivable. The people were wild and rough in those days, especially so in that storm-beaten, almost Alpine spot, accessible still only by abominable roads up hill and down dale, like riding over the waves of a stormy sea. They were not, therefore, particularly shocked at their parson's lack of sweetness and light. Probably, if they thought anything about this, they considered that sweetness and light were as ill adapted to Blackamoor as lilies and roses. His force of character impressed them, and commanded and obtained respect. To shock moral feelings, moral feelings must first exist. The parson was not disliked, he was feared. A curious man he was in appearance, with eyes hard, boring, dark, that made a man on whom they were fixed shiver to his toes. The parishioners believed he had the evil eye, and "over-looked" or "ill-wished" those whom he desired to injure, or any one who had given him offence. There is no breaking such a spell save by drawing the blood of the "over-looker," and no one was hardy enough to attempt this of Chowne. When a woman is thought to have cast a spell through her malignant eye, the person that suffers scratches the inflicter of evil.

The story told in The Maid of Sker, of Chowne breaking up the road to prevent the bishop visiting him, is true. Dr. Phillpotts was then bishop, and he was eminently dissatisfied with what he heard of the ecclesiastical and moral condition of Blackamoor and its parson. He therefore drove there to make a personal visitation. Chowne, forewarned, employed men to dig up the road for a space of about twenty feet, and the hole they made was filled in with bog-water, then the whole lightly covered over with turf and strewn with dust. The Bishop's carriage and horses floundered in and was upset. Henry of Exeter was, however, not the man to be daunted by such an accident—that it was not an accident, but a deliberate attempt to stay his course, he saw at once by the condition of the road. He went on to Blackamoor, and reached the parsonage. There he found Chowne in his dining-room, sullen, with his wicked black eyes watching him. His head was for the most part bald, but he had one long wisp of dark hair that he twisted about his bald pate. Chowne put a bottle of brandy on the table, and a couple of tumblers, and bade the Bishop help himself.

"No, thank you, Mr. Chowne," said the Bishop briefly.

"Ah! my lord, you may do without it, maybe, at Exeter, but up at this height we must drink or perish of dulness."

Then he helped himself to a stiff glass, and relapsed into silence. Presently the Bishop said—

"You keep hounds, I hear."

"No, my lord, the hounds keep me."

"I do not understand."

"Well, then, you must be mighty stupid. They stock my larder with hares. You don't suppose I should have hares on my table unless they were caught for me. There's no butcher for miles and miles, and I can't get a joint but once in a fortnight maybe; what should I do without rabbits and hares? Forced to eat 'em, and they must be caught to be eaten."

"Mr. Chowne," said Henry of Exeter, "I've been told that you have men in here with you drinking and fighting."

"It's a lie. I admit that they drink,—every man drinks since he was a baby,—but fight in my dining-room! No, my lord! Directly they begin to fight I take 'em by the scruff of the neck, and turn them out into the churchyard, and let 'em fight out their difference among the tombs."

"I am sorry to say, Mr. Chowne, that I have heard some very queer and unsatisfactory tales concerning you."

"I dare say you have, my lord;" he fixed his strong eyes on the Bishop. "So have I of your lordship, very unpleasant and nasty tales, when I've been to Torrington or Bideford fairs. But when I do, I say it's a parcel of —— lies. And when next you hear any of these tales about me, then you say, 'I know Tom Chowne very well—drunk out of his bottle of brandy—I swear that all these tales about him is also a parcel of lies."

The story is told in The Maid of Sker of his having driven a horse mad by putting a hemp-grain into its eye. That story is thought to be true. The horse was one he coveted, but it was bought at a higher figure than he cared to give for it by Sir Walter C——. Chowne shortly after was at a fair or market where Sir Walter was, who had ridden in on this very horse. He slipped out of the inn and into the stable, just before the Baronet left, and thus treated the unfortunate animal, which went almost mad with the pain, and threw his rider.

He had certain men in the parish, not exactly in his pay, but so completely under his control, that they executed his suggestions without demur, whatever they might be, and never for a moment gave thought that they themselves were free agents. 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 Chowne. 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 of Farmer Greenaway which I can see over against me 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, there's Farmer Moyle going to sup with me at the parsonage to-night. Shocking thing were his linchpin to be gone, and as he was going down Blackamoor hill, the wheel were to come off."

That night he would entertain Moyle with unwonted cordiality, pass the bottle freely, whilst an ominous spark burnt in his pebbly eye. As the farmer that night drove away, his wheel would come off, and he be thrown, and be found by the next passer along the road with dislocated thigh or broken arm and collar-bone.

As already said, he kept a pack of harriers, but in such a wretched, rattletrap set of kennels that they occasionally broke loose. This occurred once on Sunday, and just as Chowne was going to the pulpit, the pack went by. He halted with his hand on the banister, turned to the clerk, and said, "That's Towler giving voice. Run—he's got the lead, and will tear the hare to bits."

Thereupon forth went the clerk, and succeeded in securing the hare from the hounds hunting on their own head. He brought the hare into church, and threw it under his seat till the sermon was done, the blessing given, and the congregation dismissed.

Chowne had a housekeeper named Sally. One day Chowne came down very smartly dressed.

"Where be you a-going to to-day?" asked Sally.

"That's no concern of yours," answered the rector; "but I don't mind telling you either—I'm going to be married."

"Why! for sure, you're not going to be such a fool as that!" exclaimed the housekeeper.

"I don't know but what it may be a folly," growled Chowne; "but, Sally, it's a folly you are bent on committing too."

To this Sally, who for some time had been keeping company with one Joe, made no reply.

"Now look'ye here," said Chowne. "I don't want you to marry, Sally. It's no reason because I make a fool o' myself, that you should go and do likewise."

"But why not, master?"

"Because I want'y to stay here and see that my wife don't maltreat me," answered Chowne. "And I'll tell'y what, Sally—if you'll give up Joe, I'll give thee the fat pig. Which will'y now prefer, Joe or the porker?"

Sally considered for a moment, and then said, "Lauk! sir, I'd rayther have the pig."

And now must be told how it was that Chowne was brought to the marriage state.

There was in the neighbourhood a yeoman family named Heathman, and there was a handsome daughter belonged to the house. Chowne had paid her some of his insolent attentions, that meant, if they meant anything, some contemptuous admiration. Her brothers were angry. It was reported that Chowne had spoken of their sister, moreover, in a manner they would not brook; so they invited him to their house, made him drunk, and when drunk sign a paper promising to marry Jane Heathman before three months were up, or to forfeit £10,000. They took care to have this document well attested, and next morning presented it to Chowne, who had forgotten all about it. He was much put out, blustered, cajoled, tried to laugh it off—all to no purpose. The brothers insisted on his either taking Jane to wife, or paying the stipulated sum. He asked for delay, and rode off to consult his friend Hannaford.

"Bless 'y," said Hannaford, "ten thousand pounds is a terrible big sum to pay. Take the creature."

Thus it came about that Chowne yielded to the less disagreeable alternative. Poor Jane Heathman! she little thought of what was in store for her. Her brothers had shown her a cruel kindness in forcing her into the arms of a reluctant suitor.

To return to the wedding day, after the offer made to and accepted by Sally.

About one o'clock Chowne returned alone, seated himself composedly in his dining-room, and ordered dinner.

"But where be the wife?" asked Sally. "Haven't 'ee been married then?"

"Aye, married I have been, though."

"But where be Mistress Chowne?"

"She's at the public-house good three miles from here, Sally. She said to me as we were coming along, 'That is a point on which I differ from you.' Some point on which we were speaking. So I stopped, and looked her in the face, and I said to her, 'Mrs. Chowne, I never allow any one outside my house to differ from me, and not everlastingly repent it afterwards. And I won't allow any one inside my house to differ from me. So you can remain at this tavern and turn the matter over in your mind. If you intend to have no will of your own, and no opinion other than mine, then you can walk on at your leisure to Blackamoor. If not, you can turn back and go home to where you came from. Nobody expects you at Blackamoor, and nobody wants you there. So you are heartily welcome to keep away. So—serve the dinner, Sally, for one."

An hour and a half later the bride arrived on foot, forlorn and humbled, and met with an ungracious reception from Sally.

Sally had the pig that had been promised her killed, cut up, and sold. After a while Chowne suspected that she was still keeping company with Joe. He was very angry, for he felt that he had been done out of the pig on false pretences; so he went off with his wife to stay with Parson Hannaford, and gave out he would not return for a week. On the second evening, however, he suddenly returned, and came bounding in at the door; and sure enough Joe was there, come courting, and to eat his supper with Sally. The housekeeper, hearing the tread of her master, bade Joe fly and get out of his reach. But the back-door was fastened, and Joe, in his alarm, jumped into the copper. Sally put the lid on, and dashed into the passage to meet her master.

"Where's Joe? I'm sure he's here. You've cut too much of my ham to fry for yourself alone. You've drawn too much ale. I'm sure Joe is here!" shouted Chowne, looking about him.

"Deary life, sir!" exclaimed the housekeeper, "I protest! I don't know where he can be. Why, master, you know I gave him up for the sake of the pig."

Chowne's eye wandered about the kitchen, and noticed—what was unusual—the lid on the copper in the adjoining back-kitchen, that served also as laundry.

"Sally," said he, "put some water into the copper to boil. I'm going to dip the pups. They've got the mange."

"Ain't there enough in the kettle, master?"

"No, there is not. Put water into the copper."

Accordingly Sally was forced to fill a can at the pump, and pour water into the copper over her lover, removing for the purpose only a corner of the cover.

"There, master. Do'y let me serve you up some supper, and I'll get the water heated after."

"No," said Chowne, "I'll stand here till it boils. Shove in some browse" (light firewood).

Reluctantly the browse was put in under the cauldron, and was lighted. It flared up.

"Now some hard wood, Sally," said the parson.

Still more reluctantly were sawn logs inserted. A moment after up went the copper lid, and out scrambled Joe, hot and dripping.

"Ah! I reckoned you was there," shouted Chowne, and went at him with his horse-whip, and lashed the fellow about the kitchen, down the passage, into the hall, and out at the front door, where he dismissed him with a kick.

I tell the tale as it was told to me, but I suspect the conclusion of this story. It reminds me of a familiar folk-tale. But then—is it not the prerogative of such tales to attach themselves to the last human notoriety?

That this same crop, or hunting-whip, was applied to Mrs. Chowne's shoulders and back was commonly reported in Blackamoor, and indeed is so reported even unto this day.

The following story is on the authority of Jack Russell, Vicar of Swimbridge. He had called one day at Blackamoor parsonage, and found Chowne sitting over his fire smoking, and Mrs. Chowne sitting in one corner of the room, against the wall. Her husband had turned his back on her. Russell was uneasy, and asked if Mrs. Chowne were unwell. Chowne turned his head over his shoulder and asked, "Mrs. Chowne, be you satisfied or be you not? You know the terms of agreement come to between us. If you are not satisfied, you can go home to your friends, and I won't hinder you from going. I don't care a hang myself whether you stay or whether you go."

"I am content," said the lady faintly.

"Very well," said Chowne. "Then we'll have a drop of cider, Jack. Go and fetch us a jug and tumblers, madam."

In The Maid of Sker Chowne is represented as torn to pieces by his hounds. The real Chowne did not meet this fate. His death was, however, tragic in another aspect. He had left his rectory, and lived in a more sheltered spot in a house of his own. Before the windows grew a particularly handsome box-tree. Now Chowne had done some dastardly mean and cruel act to a young farmer near, tricking him out of a large sum of money in a way peculiarly base.

One night the box-tree was taken up and carried away, no one knew whither, though every one suspected by whom. Chowne raged over this insult; and as he was unable to bring the act home to the culprit, his rage was impotent. But the uprooting of the box-tree was apparently the death of him. He felt that the dread he had inspired was gone, his control over the neighbourhood was lost, the spell of his personality was broken. This thought, even more than mortified rage at being unable to discover and punish the man who had pulled up his box-tree, broke him down, and he rapidly sank, intellectually and physically, into a ruin, and died.

Chowne had a friend, a man, if possible, worse than himself, him whom we will call Jack Hannaford, who was Vicar of Wellclose. It was said that Hannaford was brutal, but Chowne fiendish.

Hannaford was an immensely powerful man. He said one day to his groom, "Come on, Bill, we'll go over to Bidlake and take a rise out of Welford"—afterwards Lord Lundy. So they blackened their faces, disguised themselves in cast-off clothes, and went to the lodge at Bidlake. They were denied admittance, but forced their way in and walked up the drive. The lodge-keeper ran after them and attacked the groom, who at once buckled-to for a fight. Then a couple of keepers burst out from the shrubbery.

"Leave them alone," said Hannaford. "It's a pretty sight. Don't interfere to spoil sport."

However, one of the keepers went at the groom, to the relief of the lodge-keeper.

"Oh, you will, will you," said Hannaford. He caught him with his huge hand and cast him on the gravel. The other keeper fared no better. The groom had in the meantime demolished his man; so he and his master sauntered along the drive without further molestation till they reached the house. Hannaford went to the door to ring, when the Hon. Mr. Welford appeared, and angrily inquired what was their business.

"Work, your honour," answered Hannaford, pulling a forelock.

"Work is it you want? But did not my keepers stop your coming up this way?"

"They tried it, but they couldn't do it," answered Hannaford. "There they be—skulking along."

"They could not stop you?"

"We flung three of them in the road," answered Hannaford. "And now I reckon your honour will give us something to drink your health."

Mr. Welford gave them a crown and dismissed them—also, it is said, the keepers. If so, that was hardly fair, for Hannaford was the strongest man in England. He was beaten but once, and that was in Exeter, when drunk. He had gone over to the city for a spree, and had put up at a low public-house. There he met with a Welshman, and had a fight with him, and was horribly mauled about the head and body. Next day, when sober, Hannaford followed the man by train to Bristol, and thence tracked him to some little out-of-the-way place in Wales. He proceeded to his door, knocked, called the man out, and fought him there and then—and this time utterly thrashed him. When the fellow was so knocked about that he could not speak and hold up, "There," said the Devonshire parson, "now take care how you lay a finger on Jack Hannaford again when he is drunk. If you wish for a return bout, call at your will at Wellclose Parsonage, and you'll find him ready."

Some years ago a famous prize-fighter went about England on exhibition. He came to Taunton, but was there taken ill, and unable to show himself. The manager at once wrote or telegraphed to Jack Hannaford, and he went up with alacrity to supply his place. He was stripped, showed his muscles, and his mode of hitting, as the advertised pugilist. The Taunton people would have been none the wiser, but, as it happened, Lord Lundy was in the tent. Hannaford caught his eye, and saw that he was recognized; so he went over to his lordship and whispered, "Mum, my lord. The second best man in England was laid on the shelf, so they had to telegraph for the best man to take his place."

Hannaford would never give any pocket-money to his sons till they were strong enough to knock him down. Then each received a five-pound note, which he was considered at length to have deserved by having made proof of his manhood.

It is a fact that on market days, when Hannaford was seen on the platform with his ticket for the market town, the farmers would bribe the guard to put him into a carriage by himself and lock him in, so afraid were they of being in the same compartment with the parson, who would challenge and fight a man in a railway carriage as readily as anywhere else.

Though a hunting parson, of altogether different character was Jack Russell. He was a sporting man to the end of his fingers and toes, but a most worthy, kind-hearted, God-fearing, righteous man.

One story of Jack Russell that is not, I believe, told in his Life, is worth repeating. When he was over eighty, he started keeping a pack of harriers. The then Bishop of Exeter sent for him.

"Mr. Russell, I hear you have got a pack of hounds. Is it true?"

"It is. I won't deny it, my lord."

"Well, Mr. Russell, it seems to me rather unsuitable for a clergyman to keep a pack. I do not ask you to give up hunting, for I know it would not be possible for you to exist without that. But will you, to oblige me, give up the pack?"

"Do'y ask it as a personal favour, my lord?"

"Yes, Mr. Russell, as a personal favour."

"Very well, then, my lord, I will."

"Thank you, thank you." The Bishop, moved by his readiness, held out his hand. "Give me your hand, Mr. Russell; you are—you really are—a good fellow."

Jack Russell gave his great fist to the Bishop, who pressed it warmly. As they thus stood hand in hand, Jack said,

"I won't deceive you—not for the world, my lord. I'll give up the pack, sure enough—but Mrs. Russell will keep it instead of me."

The Bishop dropped his hand.

That men like Chowne and Hannaford were unpopular in their parishes I have never heard. I do not believe they were troubled with any aggrieved parishioners. The unpopular man in his parish is he who tries to raise the moral and spiritual tone of his people. They do not like to be made to think that all is not well with them, and it affords them satisfaction to think that they are not worse, if no better, than their pastor.

I know a parish in quite another part of England where the attendance at church was very thin, till the incumbent was one day accidentally, I believe, overtaken with drink, and was had up before the magistrates. After that his church filled, he became a popular man—he had come down to the level of his people.

But, as already said, it is of the bad parsons, as of the bad squires, that stories are told, and told from generation to generation; whereas those of spotless life—the vast bulk of them are such—drop year by year out of existence, and at the same time out of memory.

In the parish in which I live there was a rector, about seventy years ago, who in his old age went to the neighbouring town, nine miles off, to live, and when asked by the Bishop why he was non-resident, said that there was no barber nearer who could curl his wig.

That man held the living for a long term of years; he may have done good,—that he did evil I do not think, because the only thing remembered against him is, that he did not live in a place where his wig could not be curled. But is it not sad!—a long life's labour spent among the poor, preaching God's word, ministering to the sick and afflicted and broken-hearted, and all passing away without leaving the smallest trace, indeed the only reminiscence of the man being, that he hurt the amour propre of the parish by telling the Bishop there was no one in it competent to curl his wig.