Devonshire Characters and Strange Events

If wrestling was declining in Carew’s time, it certainly revived in vigour in the reign of Charles II, and continued till the beginning of the nineteenth century, when again it declined, and is now in Devon a thing of the past.

Blackmore has given an excellent description of a Devonshire wrestling match in his early novel of Clara Vaughan.

TWO HUNTING PARSONS

At the beginning of the nineteenth century, few counties in England produced such a crop of hunting parsons as did Devonshire. They were in force for the first fifty years. In 1831 Henry Phillpotts was consecrated Bishop of Exeter. Shortly after, as he was driving with his chaplain on the way to a Confirmation, a fox-hunt passed by in full halloo.

“Dear me!” exclaimed his lordship; “what a number of black coats among the hunters. Has there been some great bereavement in the neighbourhood?”

“My lord,” replied the chaplain, “the only bereavement these black-coated sportsmen suffer from is not being able to appear in pink.”

There were, it was computed, in the diocese of Exeter a score of incumbents who kept their packs; there must have been over a hundred parsons who hunted regularly two or three days in the week, and as many more who would have done so had their means allowed them to keep hunters.

There is no objection to be made to a parson following the hounds occasionally; the sport is more manly than that which engrosses so many young clerics nowadays, dawdling about with ladies on lawn-tennis grounds or at croquet. But those early days of last century hunting was with many the main pursuit of their life, and clerical duties were neglected or perfunctorily performed.

There was no high standard of clerical life prevalent, but what standard there was was not lived up to. These parsonic sportsmen were as profoundly ignorant of the doctrines of the Faith they were commissioned to teach, as any child in a low form in a National School. As was sung of one – typical —

This parson little loveth prayer
And Pater night and morn, Sir!
For bell and book hath little care,
But dearly loves the horn, Sir!
Sing tally-ho! sing tally-ho!
Sing tally-ho! Why, Zounds, Sir!
I mounts my mare to hunt the hare!
Sing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir!

In pulpit Parson Hogg was strong,
He preached without a book, Sir!
And to the point, but never long,
And this the text he took, Sir!
O tally-ho! O tally-ho!
Dearly Beloved – Zounds, Sir!
I mounts my mare to hunt the hare!
Sing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir!

There is but one patch of false colour in this song, that which represents the hunting parson as strong in the pulpit.

Society – hunting society especially – in North Devon was coarse to an exceptional degree. One who knew it intimately wrote to me: “It was a strange ungodly company, parsons included, and that not so very long ago. North Devon society in Jack Russell’s day was peculiar – so peculiar that no one now would believe readily that half a century ago such life could be – but I was in the thick of it. It was not creditable to any one, but it was so general that the rascality of it was mitigated by consent.”

The hunting parson was, as said, not strong in the pulpit except in voice. But Jack Russell, of Swymbridge, was an exception.

He had a fine, sonorous voice, good delivery, and some eloquence. The Bishop of Exeter, Dr. Phillpotts, heard him on one occasion, and said to a lady, a connexion of Mr. Russell, “That was really a capital sermon.” “Ah! my lord,” she replied, “you have only heard him in the wood – you should hear him in pig-skin giving the view-halloo!”

Bishop Phillpotts came to the diocese resolved to suppress the hunting and sporting of his clergy, but found it impossible to do so. His efforts were wrongly directed; the hunting put down would not have altered the propensities of his clergy. He could not convert them to earnest and devoted parish priests. Thus hearts could not be reached. It was only as this class of men died out that a better type could be introduced. The Bishop sent for Mr. Russell, of Swymbridge.

“I understand that you keep hounds, and that your curate hunts with you. Will you give up your hounds?”

“No, my lord, I decline to do so.”

He then turned to the curate, Sleeman, and said, “Your licence, sir, I revoke; and I only regret that the law does not enable me to deal with the graver offender of the two.”

“I am very happy to find you can’t, my lord,” said Russell. “And may I ask, if you revoke Mr. Sleeman’s licence, who is to take the duty at Landkey, my other parish, next Sunday?”

“Mr. Sleeman may do it.”

“And who the following Sunday?”

“Mr. Sleeman again,” replied the Bishop, “if by that time you have not secured another curate.”

“I shall take no steps to do so, my lord; and, moreover, shall be very cautious as to whom I admit into my charges,” replied Russell.

Finally Mr. Sleeman removed to Whitchurch, a family living, to which he succeeded on the death of his father, and Bishop Phillpotts had to swallow the bitter pill of instituting him to it. I remember Mr. Sleeman as rector, hunting, shooting, dancing at every ball, and differing from a layman by his white tie, a capital judge of horses, and possessor of an excellent cellar.

When Parson Jack Russell 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 so?”

“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.

On one occasion Bishop Phillpotts met Froude, vicar of Knowstone. “I hear, Mr. Froude, that you keep a pack of harriers.”

“Then you’ve heard wrong, my lord. It is the pack that keeps me.”

“I do not understand.”

“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. Forced to eat hares; and they must be caught to be eaten.”

The Bishop then said to Froude: “I hear, sir, but I can hardly credit it, that you invite men to your house and keep them drinking and then fighting in your parlour.”

“My lord, you are misinformed. Don’t believe a word of it. When they begin to fight and takes off their coats, I turns ’em out into the churchyard.”

John Boyce, rector of Sherwell, wishing to have a day’s hunting with the staghounds on the Porlock side of Exmoor, told his clerk to give notice in the morning that there would be no service in the afternoon in the church, as he was going off to hunt with Sir Thomas Acland over the moor on the following day. The mandate was obeyed to the letter, the clerk making the announcement in the following terms: —