Devonshire Characters and Strange Events

After hearing from Mr. Houlditch that he was looking for a hunter, they sat down together to dinner, and the parson firmly but politely pressed his ale upon the guest. This ale was of Froude’s own brewing. When new it did not readily proclaim its potency, and the rector never gave warning nor spoke of its strength. It was excellent, soft as milk. The day had been cold, and the drive had been long.

When a strange and unaccustomed glare had come into Mr. Houlditch’s eyes, Froude ordered Jack Babbage to bring out the horse, and giving his guest a hand to steady him, the two went into a field near the rectory. In this field some hurdles “feathered” with gorse bushes were set up, and Babbage, always shouting as he neared a jump, rode the horse repeatedly over the obstacles, and galloped him round. Then Froude invited Mr. Houlditch to try the horse himself, but he was too fuddled to mount, and he bought the beast for £50, a long price in those days, and was driven back by the post-boy to the “Angel” at Tiverton. The horse, at his charges, was sent to Wellington at once.

A week later came a letter with the Wellington postmark, which Froude threw into the fire unopened. A few days later came a second letter, then a third, and all shared the same fate.

Finally, one day an angry man drove up from Tiverton – it was Houlditch himself. “You don’t seem to care to reply to my letters, Mr. Froude,” said he, “so I have come in person to ask you whether or not you will take back your horse which you sold me ten days ago, for he is blind.”

“Sir,” said Froude, “you asked me for a hunter, and one that could jump, and I sold you a hunter that could jump. You saw the horse, and it was a bargain. You did not ask me if it could see. Jump he can, as you observed. When you ride him, carry a knife with you, and when you come to a fence you just jump off his back and cut a furze-bush. Put that down before the fence and canter the old horse up and speak sharp to him, same as Babbage did, and so soon as he feels the prickles about his legs he will jump.”

“Will you take the horse back?” roared Houlditch.

“Certainly I will.”

“And repay me my £50?”

“Certainly not. I cashed your cheque, sir, last week, and with the money paid my butcher. A deal is a deal.”

The story comes with the authority of Jack Babbage, confirmed by Mrs. Froude, after her husband’s death. The incident occurred late in the rector’s life, after he was married.

Froude’s shamelessness was phenomenal. On one occasion he sold some keep on the glebe at Knowstone by auction, and a neighbouring farmer purchased a field of swede turnips under condition that he should remove them before a stated day.

The time limit was nearly expired, when Froude found the purchaser and the men in the field carting away the roots. The rain was falling in torrents, the crop was heavy, and it was a dirty job.

Froude rode into the field and shouted to the farmer (with the usual expletives with which he garnished his discourse), bidding him desist.

“But, sir,” said the man, “the time is nearly up, and I am bound to go on, or I shall forfeit my purchase.”

Froude then called him a – fool, reminded him that he had known him from his cradle and his father before him, and bade him go home and wait for finer weather to pull his turnips and take them away.

The appointed day soon came and passed, and the following morning the farmer, feeling a little uneasy, rose early and rode off to his turnips. The field was full of sheep when he arrived, and they were all marked J.F. Calling his dog, the farmer opened the gate and proceeded to turn them out.

Then Froude, on horseback, came from an ambush, and cracking his whip and swearing horribly, rode at him, and dared him to remove the sheep. The man was terrified and went home, fearing lest worse should befall him. Next day was Saturday, and Southmolton Market, and the young man, bursting with his sense of wrong, rode into the town to proclaim his woes. As he entered from the bottom of the long street he saw Mr. Froude in the midst of a cluster of sporting farmers, the allies of the rector, and as the injured man approached, Froude stretched out the finger of scorn, and cried, “Look there! See to un! See to the biggest fule in Devonshire as buys a yield of swedes and leaves ’em to another man to stock – a gurt natural ass!” This sally was answered by a peal of laughter, and the victim, turning his head down street, galloped away.

In The Maid of Sker, Blackmore tells the story of Parson Chowne (Froude) having driven a horse mad by putting a hemp-seed into its eye. This story, I was informed by one who had every occasion to know the circumstances, is true. Froude had set his heart on buying a horse at Southmolton Fair, but Sir Walter Carew out-bid him and secured the beast. Froude shortly after was again in Southmolton, and ascertained that Sir Walter was in the inn, at the ordinary, taking his lunch. He went into the stable, and saw that the baronet had ridden in on the coveted horse. Froude gave the ostler a shilling to do him some trifling errand, and during his absence so treated the unfortunate animal that it went almost mad with pain, and on the way home threw its rider.

Henry Phillpotts was consecrated Bishop of Exeter in the year 1831, and he soon came into collision with Froude; but the Bishop was a formidable antagonist, and Froude shunned him, and would not attend his visitations.

The following story has been frequently told; but the version here given is as related half a century ago by Jack Russell and by Babbage, and confirmed by Prebendary Matthews, who succeeded Froude at Knowstone.

The Bishop held a visitation at Southmolton, and Froude sent a note to say that he could not attend, as he was indisposed.

The Bishop remained the night at Southmolton, and next morning early started for Tiverton in a carriage, and as Knowstone was not much out of the way, he ordered the driver to turn up the hill to the village. Mr. Froude was in the dining-room talking to Babbage, and the hounds on the lawn, when one of his rascally retainers ran in to inform the rector that the Bishop was in the village inquiring for the rectory. Babbage hurried the hounds into kennel, and Froude went to bed.

A good-looking housekeeper (for Froude married very late in life) met his lordship at the door, and answering his inquiry after the rector, said that Mr. Froude was unwell in bed.

“May I trouble you to tell him that his bishop wishes to see him, and will visit him in his bedroom?”

The woman went upstairs, and the Bishop, waiting in the hall, overheard the conversation which ensued.

“Bishop says, sir, as he must come upstairs if you can’t come down.”

“Tell his lordship, Mary, that I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but it’s something infectious – scarlet fever, I reckon – and maybe he’ll catch it if he comes up here.”

However, Henry Phillpotts was not to be dissuaded, and he mounted the stairs and seated himself by the bed.

“What will your lordship take?” asked Froude, showing his head only above the clothes. “It’s cruel cold; a drop of brandy hot will help to keep off the infection.”

“Nothing, thank you, Mr. Froude. I take this opportunity to tell you that strange stories concerning you meet my ears.”

“Perhaps your lordship prefers whisky,” said Froude, “with a slice of lemon in your grog.”

“Mr. Froude, I beg you to desist. I am here to inquire into the truth of the stories repeated concerning you.”

“My lord, I’ve also heard strange tales about your lordship. But among gentlemen, us don’t give heed to all thickey tittle-tattle. Perhaps you’d prefer gin – London or Plymouth, my lord? You’ll excuse me, my lord; I be terrible bad, and I be afraid you’ll catch the infection – pleased to have seen you – good-bye”; and he ducked his head under the bedclothes.

“I knawed he’d come,” said Froude to Russell after the visit; “but I reckon he’ll never come again: the air of Knowstone be too keen for he.”

One day his lordship ran against Froude in Fore Street of Exeter. The vicar had with him a greyhound, commonly known in Devonshire as a “long dog.” It was on this occasion that the Bishop tackled him for keeping a pack of harriers, as already related. After that said Henry of Exeter, “And pray, Mr. Froude, what manner of dog do you call that?”

“Oh, that’s what volks do call a long dog, my lord, and ef yeu will just shak yeur appern to un, he’ll go like a dart.”

The Weekly Times of Exeter kept an eye on Froude’s doings and misdoings, and published them under the heading of “Knowstone Again.” But Froude was too sly to enable the Bishop to find an occasion to proceed against him; the people of Knowstone were too much afraid of his vengeance to dare to give evidence.

Froude married a Miss Halse, the pretty sister of two well-known yeomen of Anstey. She was quite young enough to have been his daughter, and they had no children – perhaps fortunately. The circumstances of the marriage are said to have been these. Froude had paid Miss Halse some of his insolent attentions, that meant, if they meant anything, a certain contemptuous admiration. The brothers were angry. They invited him to their house, made him drunk, and when drunk sign a paper promising to marry their sister before three months were up or to forfeit £20,000. They took care to have this document well attested, and next morning presented it to Mr. Froude, who had forgotten all about it. He was very angry, blustered, cajoled, tried to laugh it off – all to no purpose. He was constrained to marry her. And he seems to have been really fond of her. Certain it is that she was warmly attached to him, and after his death would speak of him as her “dear departed saint,” which implies a singular misappropriation of terms, and confusion of ideas.

The following story is on the authority of Jack Russell. He had called one day at Knowstone Parsonage, and found Froude sitting over his fire smoking and Mrs. Froude sitting in the corner of the room against the wall. Her husband had his back towards her. Russell was uneasy, and asked if Mrs. Froude was unwell. Froude turned his head over his shoulder, and asked: “Mrs. Froude, be you satisfied or be you not? You know the terms of agreement come to between us when we married, that I were never to be contradicted and disagreed with. If you are not satisfied you can go back to your friends; I don’t care a hang myself whether you stay or whether you go.”

“I am content,” said the lady faintly.

“Very well,” said Froude; “then we’ll have a drop of ale, Jack. Go and fetch us a jug and mugs, madam.”

His harriers were kept in such a wretched, rattle-trap set of kennels that they occasionally broke loose. This occurred on a certain Sunday, and just as Froude was going up into the pulpit the pack went by. He halted with his hand on the rail, turned to the clerk, and said: “That’s Towler giving tongue. Run – he’s got the lead, and will tear the hare to bits.”

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

When Froude got old he was forced by the Bishop to have a curate. “I don’t care to keep dogs to do the barking for me, no fye,” said he, “but I can’t help it. You see, I just maintains a rough boy to do the work now, and I sits in the vestry and hears un tell.”

Between services one Sunday, Froude gave his young curate, who was dining with him and some of his farmer friends, too much of his soft but strong ale. He disliked the young fellow, who was a bit of a clown and uncouth, and did it out of malice. The curate, quite ignorant of the headiness of the ale, inadvertently got fuddled.

The conversation turned on a monstrous pig that Froude had killed, and which was hung up in his outhouse, and he invited his guests to accompany him and view the carcase, and estimate the weight. One thought it weighed so many stone, others thought differently. Froude said that it weighed just the same as his curate, who was fat. The rough farmers demurred to the rector’s estimate, and, finding an empty corn-sack, they thrust the intoxicated ecclesiastic into it, and, hanging him up to the end of the beam, shouted with delight as the curate brought the weight down. Meantime the bells were ringing for evensong, but they left the curate hung up in the sack, where he slept uncomfortably. The congregation assembled for service, and waited. Froude would not officiate, and the curate was incapable of doing so.

Mr. Matthews, afterwards Prebendary of Exeter, had been dining at Southmolton in Froude’s company, and Froude undertook to drive him back to Knowstone in his gig, where Mr. Matthews was to sleep the night. Froude had drunk too much, but insisted on driving home himself. At the bottom of the long street the road crosses the river, and the bridge is set on at an angle to the road. The horse was a spirited animal, and was going home. So down the street they went at a spanking pace, and over the bridge with a whir. Froude had fallen asleep already, but Matthews seized the reins and guided the animal, and thus they narrowly escaped destruction.

Froude slept on, and, arriving at Knowstone, Matthews went in to prepare the young wife to get the rector to bed.

“Oh, what is the matter?” cried Mrs. Froude, when she was informed that her husband was not very well, and had better be put to bed. “Oh! dear lamb” – Mrs. Froude was not happy in her choice of descriptive epithets – “dear lamb, are you ill? Oh dear! dear!” “Nonsense,” retorted Froude, “I bain’t ill. I’m only drunk, my dear, that’s all.”

One day he was riding on the quay at Barnstaple, and asked some question of a bargeman in his boat. The fellow gave him a rude answer. Thereupon Froude leaped his horse down into the barge, and thrashed the man.