Old Country Life

"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[Footnote_7_7 - From Songs of the West: Traditional Songs and Ballads of the West of England. Collected by S. Baring Gould and H. Fleetwood Sheppard. London: Methuen & Co. 1889.]—

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

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Mess Parson Hogg shall now maintain
The burden of my song, sir!
A single life perforce he led,
Of constitution strong, sir.
Sing tally ho! sing tally ho!
sing tally ho! why zounds, sir!
He mounts his mare to hunt the hare,
Sing Tally ho! the hounds, sir.

And every day he goes to mass
He first pulls on his boot, sir!
That, should the beagles chance to pass,
He may join in the pursuit, sir!
Sing, Tally ho! &c.

That 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! &c.

St. Stephen's day that holy man
He went a pair to wed, sir!
When as the service was begun,
Puss by the churchyard sped, sir!
Sing, Tally ho! &c.

He shut his book. "Come on," he said,
"I'll pray and bless no more, sir!"
He drew the surplice o'er his head,
And started for the door, sir!
Sing, Tally ho! &c.

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 mount my mare to hunt the hare,
Singing, Tally ho! the hounds, sir!

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."