Devonshire Characters and Strange Events

IV).

PREFACE

I

n treating of Devonshire Characters, I have had to put aside the chief Worthies and those Devonians famous in history, as George Duke of Albemarle, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Drake, Sir Joshua Reynolds, the Coleridges, Sir Stafford Northcote, first Earl of Iddesleigh, and many another; and to content myself with those who lie on a lower plane. So also I have had to set aside several remarkable characters, whose lives I have given elsewhere, as the Herrings of Langstone (whom I have called Grym or Grymstone) and Madame Drake, George Spurle the Post-boy, etc. Also I have had to pretermit several great rascals, as Thomas Gray and Nicholas Horner. But even so, I find an embarras de richesses, and have had to content myself with such as have had careers of some general interest. Moreover, it has not been possible to say all that might have been said relative to these, so as to economize space, and afford room for others.

So also, with regard to strange incidents, some limitation has been necessary, and such have been selected as are less generally known.

I have to thank the kind help of many Devonshire friends for the loan of rare pamphlets, portraits, or for information not otherwise acquirable—as the Earl of Iddesleigh, Lady Rosamond Christie, Mrs. Chichester of Hall, Mrs. Ford of Pencarrow, Dr. Linnington Ash, Dr. Brushfield, Capt. Pentecost, Miss M. P. Willcocks, Mr. Andrew Iredale, Mr. W. H. K. Wright, Mr. A. B. Collier, Mr. Charles T. Harbeck, Mr. H. Tapley Soper, Miss Lega-Weekes, who has contributed the article on Richard Weekes; Mrs. G. Radford, Mr. R. Pearse Chope, Mr. Rennie Manderson, Mr. M. Bawden, the Rev. J. B. Wollocombe, the Rev. W. H. Thornton, Mr. A. M. Broadley, Mr. Samuel Gillespie Prout, Mr. S. H. Slade, Mr. W. Fleming, Mrs. A. H. Wilson, Fleet-Surgeon Lloyd Thomas, the Rev. W. T. Wellacott, Mr. S. Raby, Mr. Samuel Harper, Mr. John Avery, Mr. Thomas Wainwright, Mr. A. F. Steuart, Mr. S. T. Whiteford, and last, but not least, Mr. John Lane, the publisher of this volume, who has taken the liveliest interest in its production.

Also to Messrs. Macmillan for kindly allowing the use of an engraving of Newcomen’s steam engine, and to Messrs. Vinton & Co. for allowing the use of the portrait of the Rev. John Russell that appeared in Bailey’s Magazine.

I am likewise indebted to Miss M. Windeatt Roberts for having undertaken to prepare the exhaustive Index, and to Mr. J. G. Commin for placing at my disposal many rare illustrations.

For myself I may say that it has been a labour of love to grope among the characters and incidents of the past in my own county, and with Cordatus, in the Introduction to Ben Jonson’s Every Man out of his Humour, I may say that it has been a work that hath bounteously pleased me; how it will answer the general expectation, I know not.

I am desired by my publisher to state that he will be glad to receive any information as to the whereabouts of pictures by another Devonshire Character, James Gandy, born at Exeter in 1619, and a pupil of Vandyck. He was retained in the service of the Duke of Ormond, whom he accompanied to Ireland, where he died in 1689. It is said that his chief works will be found in that country and the West of England.

Jackson of Exeter, in his volume The Four Ages, says: About the beginning of the eighteenth century was a painter in Exeter called Gandy, of whose colouring Sir Joshua Reynolds thought highly. I heard him say that on his return from Italy, when he was fresh from seeing the pictures of the Venetian school, he again looked at the works of Gandy, and that they had lost nothing in his estimation. There are many pictures of this artist in Exeter and its neighbourhood. The portrait Sir Joshua seemed most to value is in the Hall belonging to the College of Vicars in that city, but I have seen some very much superior to it.

Since then, however, the original picture has been taken from the College of Vicars, and has been lost; but a copy, I believe, is still exhibited there, and no one seems to know what has become of the original.

Not only is Mr. Lane anxious to trace this picture, but any others in Devon or Ireland, as also letters, documents, or references to this artist and his work.

HUGH STAFFORD AND THE ROYAL WILDING

H

ugh Stafford, Esq., of Pynes, born 1674, was the last of the Staffords of Pynes. His daughter, Bridget Maria, carried the estate to her husband, Sir Henry Northcote, Bart., from whom is descended the present Earl of Iddesleigh. Hugh Stafford died in 1734. He is noted as an enthusiastic apple-grower and lover of cyder.

He wrote a Dissertation on Cyder and Cyder-Fruit in a letter to a friend in 1727, but this was not published till 1753, and a second edition in 1769. The family of Stafford was originally Stowford, of Stowford, in the parish of Dolton. The name changed to Stoford and then to Stafford. One branch married into the family of Wollocombe, of Wollocombe. But the name of Stowford or Stafford was not the most ancient designation of the family, which was Kelloway, and bore as its arms four pears. The last Stafford turned from pears to apples, to which he devoted his attention and became a connoisseur not in apples only, but in the qualities of cyder as already intimated.

To a branch of this family belonged Sir John Stowford, Lord Chief Baron in the reign of Edward III, who built Pilton Bridge over the little stream of the Yeo or Yaw, up which the tide flows, and over which the passage was occasionally dangerous. The story goes that the judge one day saw a poor market woman with her child on a mudbank in the stream crying for aid, which none could afford her, caught and drowned by the rising flood, whereupon he vowed to build the bridge to prevent further accident. The rhyme ran:—

Yet Barnstaple, graced though thou be by brackish Taw,

In all thy glory see that thou not forget the little Yaw.

Camden asserts that Judge Stowford also constructed the long bridge over the Taw consisting of sixteen piers. Tradition will have it, however, that towards the building of this latter two spinster ladies (sisters) contributed by the profits of their distaffs and the pennies they earned by keeping a little school.

HUGH STAFFORD

From the original painting in the collection of the Earl of Iddesleigh

I was travelling on the South Devon line some years ago after there had been a Church Congress at Plymouth, and in the same carriage with me were some London reporters. Said one of these gentry to another: "Did you ever see anything like Devonshire parsons and pious ladies? They were munching apples all the time that the speeches were being made. Honour was being done to the admirable fruit by these worthy Devonians. I was dotting down my notes during an eloquent harangue on ‘How to Bring Religion to Bear upon the People’ when chump, chump went a parson on my left; and the snapping of jaws on apples, rending off shreds for mastication, punctuated the periods of a bishop who spoke next. At an ensuing meeting on the ‘Deepening of Personal Religion’ my neighbour was munching a Cornish gilliflower, which he informed me in taste and aroma surpassed every other apple. I asked in a low tone whether Devonshire people did not peel their fruit before eating. He answered leni susurro that the flavour was in the rind."

Cyder was anciently the main drink of the country people in the West of England. Every old farmhouse had its granite trough (circular) in which rolled a stone wheel that pounded the fruit to a pummice, and the juice flowed away through a lip into a keeve. Now, neglected and cast aside, may be seen the huge masses of stone with an iron crook fastened in them, which in the earliest stage of cyder-making were employed for pressing the fruit into pummice. But these weights were superseded by the screw-press that extracted more of the juice.

In 1763 Lord Bute, the Prime Minister, imposed a tax of 10s. per hogshead on cyder and perry, to be paid by the first buyer. The country gentlemen, without reference to party, were violent in their opposition, and Bute then condescended to reduce the sum and the mode of levying it, proposing 4s. per hogshead, to be paid, not by the first buyer, but by the grower, who was to be made liable to the regulations of the excise and the domiciliary visits of excisemen. Pitt thundered against this cyder Bill, inveighing against the intrusion of excise officers into private dwellings, quoting the old proud maxim, that every Englishman’s house was his castle, and showing the hardship of rendering every country gentleman, every individual that owned a few fruit trees and made a little cyder, liable to have his premises invaded by officers. The City of London petitioned the Commons, the Lords, the throne, against the Bill; in the House of Lords forty-nine peers divided against the Minister; the cities of Exeter and Worcester, the counties of Devonshire and Herefordshire, more nearly concerned in the question about cyder than the City of London, followed the example of the capital, and implored their representatives to resist the tax to the utmost; and an indignant and general threat was made that the apples should be suffered to fall and rot under the trees rather than be made into cyder, subject to such a duty and such annoyances. No fiscal question had raised such a tempest since Sir Robert Walpole’s Excise Bill in 1733. But Walpole, in the plenitude of his power and abilities, and with wondrous resources at command, was constrained to bow to the storm he had roused, and to shelve his scheme. Bute, on the other hand, with a power that lasted but a day, with a position already undermined, with slender abilities and no resources, but with Scotch stubbornness, was resolved that his Bill should pass. And it passed, with all its imperfections; and although there were different sorts of cyder, varying in price from 5s. to 50s. per hogshead, they were all taxed alike—the poor man having thus to pay as heavy a duty for his thin beverage as the affluent man paid for the choicest kind. The agitation against Lord Bute grew. In some rural districts he was burnt under the effigy of a jack-boot, a rustic allusion to his name (Bute); and on more than one occasion when he walked the streets he was accused of being surrounded by prize-fighters to protect him against the violence of the mob. Numerous squibs, caricatures, and pamphlets appeared. He was represented as hung on the gallows above a fire, in which a jack-boot fed the flames and a farmer was throwing an excised cyder-barrel into the conflagration, whilst a Scotchman, in Highland costume, in the background, commented, It’s aw over with us now, and aw our aspiring hopes are gone; whilst an English mob advanced waving the banners of Magna Charta, and Liberty, Property, and No Excise.

I give one of the ballads printed on this occasion: it is entitled, "The Scotch Yoke, and English Resentment. To the tune of The Queen’s Ass."

Of Freedom no longer let Englishmen boast,

Nor Liberty more be their favourite Toast;

The Hydra Oppression your Charta defies,

And galls English Necks with the Yoke of Excise,

The Yoke of Excise, the Yoke of Excise,

And galls English Necks with the Yoke of Excise.

In vain have you conquer’d, my brave Hearts of Oak,

Your Laurels, your Conquests are all but a Joke;

Let a rascally Peace serve to open your Eyes,

And the d—nable Scheme of a Cyder-Excise,

A Cyder-Excise, etc.

What though on your Porter a Duty was laid,

Your Light double-tax’d, and encroach’d on your Trade;

Who e’er could have thought that a Briton so wise

Would admit such a Tax as the Cyder-Excise,

The Cyder-Excise, etc.

I appeal to the Fox, or his Friend John a-Boot,

If tax’d thus the Juice, then how soon may the Fruit?

Adieu then to good Apple-puddings and Pyes,

If e’er they should taste of a cursed Excise,

A cursed Excise, etc.

Let those at the Helm, who have sought to enslave

A Nation so glorious, a People so brave,

At once be convinced that their Scheme you despise,

And shed your last Blood to oppose the Excise,

Oppose the Excise, etc.

Come on then, my Lads, who have fought and have bled,

A Tax may, perhaps, soon be laid on your Bread;

Ye Natives of Worc’ster and Devon arise,

And strike at the Root of the Cyder-Excise,

The Cyder-Excise, etc.

No longer let K—s at the H—m of the St—e,

With fleecing and grinding pursue Britain’s Fate;

Let Power no longer your Wishes disguise,

But off with their Heads—by the Way of Excise,

The Way of Excise, etc.

From two Latin words, ex and scindo, I ween,

Came the hard Word Excise, which to Cut off does mean.

Take the Hint then, my Lads, let your Freedom advise,

And give them a Taste of their fav’rite Excise,

Their fav’rite Excise, etc.

Then toss off your Bumpers, my Lads, while you may,

To Pitt and Lord Temple, Huzza, Boys, huzza!

Here’s the King that to tax his poor Subjects denies,

But Pox o’ the Schemer that plann’d the Excise,

That plann’d the Excise, etc.

The apple trees were too many and too deep-rooted and too stout for the Scotch thistle. The symptoms of popular dislike drove Bute to resign (8 April, 1763), to the surprise of all. The duty, however, was not repealed till 1830. In my Book of the West (Devon), I have given an account of cyder-making in the county, and I will not repeat it here. But I may mention the curious Devonshire saying about Francemass, or St. Franken Days. These are the 19th, 20th, and 21st May, at which time very often a frost comes that injures the apple blossom. The story goes that there was an Exeter brewer, of the name of Frankin, who found that cyder ran his ale so hard that he vowed his soul to the devil on the condition that his Satanic Majesty should send three frosty nights in May annually to cut off the apple blossom.

And now to return to Hugh Stafford. He opens his letter with an account of the origin of the Royal Wilding, one of the finest sorts of apple for the making of choice cyder.

"Since you have seen the Royal Wilding apple, which is so very much celebrated (and so deservedly) in our county, the history of its being first taken notice of, which is fresh in everybody’s memory, may not be unacceptable to you. The single and only tree from which the apple was first propagated is very tall, fair, and stout; I believe about twenty feet high. It stands in a very little quillet (as we call it) of gardening, adjoining to the post-road that leads from Exeter to Oakhampton, in the parish of St. Thomas, but near the borders of another parish called Whitestone. A walk of a mile from Exeter will gratify any one, who has curiosity, with the sight of it.

"It appears to be properly a wilding, that is, a tree raised from the kernel of an apple, without having been grafted, and (which seems well worth observing) has, in all probability, stood there much more than seventy years, for two ancient persons of the parish of Whitestone, who died several years since, each aged upwards of the number of years before mentioned, declared, that when they were boys, probably twelve or thirteen years of age, and first went the road, it was not only growing there, but, what is worth notice, was as tall and stout as it now appears, nor do there at this time appear any marks of decay upon it that I could perceive.

"It is a very constant and plentiful bearer every other year, and then usually produces apples enough to make one of our hogsheads of cyder, which contains sixty-four gallons, and this was one occasion of its being first taken notice of, and of its affording an history which, I believe, no other tree ever did: For the little cot-house to which it belongs, together with the little quillet in which it stands, being several years since mortgaged for ten pounds, the fruit of this tree alone, in a course of some years, freed the house and garden, and its more valuable self, from that burden.

"Mr. Francis Oliver (a gentleman of the neighbourhood, and, if I mistake not, the gentleman who had the mortgage just now mentioned) was one of the first persons about Exeter that affected rough cyder, and, for that reason, purchased the fruit of this tree every bearing year. However, I cannot learn that he ever made cyder of it alone, but mix’d with other apples, which added to the flavour of his cyder, in the opinion of those who had a true relish for that liquor.

"Whether this, or any other consideration, brought on the more happy experiment upon this apple, the Rev. Robert Wollocombe, Rector of Whitestone, who used to amuse himself with a nursery, put on some heads of this wilding; and in a few years after being in his nursery, about March, a person came to him on some business, and feeling something roll under his feet, took it up, and it proved one of those precious apples, which Mr. Wollocombe receiving from him, finding it perfectly sound after it had lain in the long stragle of the nursery during all the rain, frost, and snow of the foregoing winter, thought it must be a fruit of more than common value; and having tasted it, found the juices, not only in a most perfect soundness and quickness, but such likewise as seemed to promise a body, as well as the roughness and flavour that the wise cyder drinkers in Devon now begin to desire. He observed the graft from which it had fallen, and searching about found some more of the apples, and all of the same soundness; upon which, without hesitation, he resolved to graft a greater quantity of them, which he accordingly did; but waited with impatience for the experiment, which you know must be the work of some years. They came at length, and his just reward was a barrel of the juice, which, though it was small, was of great value for its excellency, and far exceeded all his expectations.

The TYBURN INTERVIEW:

A New SONG.

By a CYDER MERCHANT, of South-Ham, Devonshire.

Dedicated to JACK KETCH.

To the Tune A Cobler there was, &c.

As Sawney from Tweed was a trudging to Town,

To rest his tir’d Limbs on the Grass he sat down;

When growsing his Oatmeal, he turn’d up his Eyes,

And kenn’d a strange Pile on three Pillars arise.

Derry down, &c.

Amaz’d he starts up, "Thou Thing of odd Form,

That stand’st here defying each turbulent Storm;

What art thou? Thy Office declare at my Word,

Or thou shalt not escape this strong Arm and broad Sword."

Derry down, &c.

Quoth the Structure, "Altho’ I’m not known unto thee,

Thy Countrymens Lives have been shorten’d by me;

To strike thee at once, know that Tyburn’s my Name,

In Scotland, no doubt, you have heard of my Fame.

Derry down, &c.

When arm’d all rebellious, like Vultures you rose,

A Set of such Shahrags, you frighten’d the Crows;

To rid the tir’d land of such Vermin as you,

I groan’d with receiving but barely my Due.

Derry down, &c.

And still I’m in Hopes of another to come,

For Tyburn will certain at last be his Home;

He’ll come from the Summit of Honour’s vast Height,

With a Star and a Garter to dubb me a Knight."

Derry down, &c.

His Passion now Sawney no more could contain,

My Sword shall strait prove all thy Hopes are in vain;

So saying; he brandish’d it high in the Air,

When strait a Scotch Voice cry’d out—Sawney forbear!

Derry down, &c.

The Phantom that spoke now appear’d in a trice,

And to the fear’d Scotsman thus gave his Advice:

"Calm thy Breast that now boils with Vexation and Rage,

And let what I speak thy Attention engage.

Derry down, &c.

No longer with Fury pursue this old Tree,

His Back shall bear Vengeance for you and for me;

For know, my dear Friend, the Time is at Hand,

When with Englishmen, Tyburn shall thin half the Land.

Derry down, &c.

The Case is revers’d by a good Friend of ours,

All Treason is English, and Loyalty yours:

Posts, Honour, and Profit all Scotsmen await,

While the Natives shall tremble and curse their hard Fate.

Derry down, &c.

The War is no more, and each Soldier and Tar,

The Strength and the Bulwark of England in War,

Are coming to prove our Friend’s deep Penetration,

As the first Sacrifice to our Scotch Exaltation."

Derry down, &c.

Here ended the Phantom, and sunk in the Ground,

While the blue Flames of Hell glar’d terrible round;

When for London young Sawney around turn’d his Eyes,

Where he march’d for a Place in the new-rais’d EXCISE.

Derry down, &c.

Ye National Schemers, come tell me, I pray,

Your Intention in this. To bring more Scotch in play!

For this must the Tax be enforc’d with all Speed,

For Thousands are coming between here and Tweed.

Derry down, &c.

Ah! hapless Old England, no longer be merry,

Since B— has thus tax’d your Beer, Cyder and Perry;

Look sullen and sad, for now this is done,

No doubt in short Time they’ll tax Laughing and Fun.

Derry down, &c.

Yet let the Proud Laird, who presides at the Helm,

Extend his Excise to each Thing in the Realm:

A Tax on Spring-Water I think would be right,