“No, I don’t,” replied the man, puzzled.
“Then I will tell you—because there is no public-house here,” concluded the lady, triumphantly.
Almost due north of Charles is the parish of High Bray, where is a farmhouse called Ludcote, Liddicot, or Lidcote. The last is Sir Walter Scott’s spelling of the name, which is, after all, a secondary matter. What is of more importance is the imputed connection with the place of Amy Robsart and her family. Chapter xii. of Kenilworth commences as follows: “The ancient seat of Lidcote Hall was situated near the village of the same name, and adjoined the wild and extensive forest of Exmoor, plentifully stocked with game, in which some ancient rights belonging to the Robsart family entitled Sir Hugh to pursue his favourite amusement of the chase.” On the faith of this statement it has been generally assumed that the unhappy Amy sprang from a good old Devonshire stock. Reference to the standard authorities, however, has failed to discover the slightest trace of such a family, and one or two antiquaries of repute, whom I have consulted, confess themselves utterly at a loss to explain the allusion. It is a suspicious circumstance that in neither his introduction nor his notes does the author throw any light on the Devonshire connections of his heroine, and for all these reasons combined I am disposed to regard this portion of his narrative as wholly imaginary.
As the topic is literature, I may here allude to a contemporary writer, whose portrait I purchased in a shop opposite the Poltimore Arms. At the time I was quite ignorant of his precise claim to celebrity, and the silk hat, frock coat and walking-stick were too conventional to suggest genius, though the face, perhaps, was not strictly normal. However, experience told me that no man would figure on a picture post-card unless possessed of unusual gifts, and it turned out that Mr Richard Slader was a poet and a solitary, whose recreations—to borrow a hint from Who’s Who?—consist in keeping a hundred head of poultry and selling nuts and blackberries at Southmolton Fair. About forty-five years of age, and careless of appearances, he might be taken, as somebody expressed it, for an “old tramp,” but he belongs to a respectable family; indeed, the name occurs in the Blackmore pedigree. Moreover, it is known that his father left him a good round sum of money. Slader talks broad Devonshire, and “Rachard and his pigs” have passed into a proverb. Swine have been a source of infinite worry to him. Certain of the species owned by his sister at Pixyweek became infected with anthrax, and were ordered by the police to be destroyed. This annoyed Mr Slader, and he gave vent to his indignation in a poem. On another occasion he was summoned for allowing his own pigs to stray on the highway, convicted, and fined. Resentment at this petty tyranny led to his penning an effusion, which was printed and circulated in leaflet form.
Like all poets, Mr Slader has his critics and detractors. In a counter-leaflet put forth by some “snake in the grass,” he is reviled as the “silly old man of Northmolton,” but the hiss of these ignoble stanzas is as far beneath his polished verse as it is possible to conceive. It is proper to add that Mr Slader indited pathetic and very pious compositions on the deaths of his mother and sister, so that his graceful muse is not always wedded to satire.
“With various talents, variously we excel,” and as at Molland Cross we are not very far from Molland parish, in which Tom Faggus had land (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvi.), I am tempted to make a passing allusion to another family represented in the Blackmore pedigree—the Quartlys of Champson. When the Quartlys first sprang into fame as cattle-breeders, I cannot precisely state, but as such they certainly enjoyed a high reputation at the commencement of the last century, and they attained perhaps the acme of distinction during the reign of George IV., when their red kine were never shown at Smithfield without winning first prizes. The best animal painters in England visited Champson to inspect the stock, and among the rest came H. B. Chalon, animal painter to the king, who drew a sketch of two cows, afterwards engraved by Raddon for Mr White, of Pilton House, and dedicated to Mr T. W. Coke, M.P. for Norfolk.[20]
The Quartlys no longer reside at Champson, the death of the late Mr John Quartly on the railway, a few years ago, having led to the severance of a connection which had lasted for generations.[21]
The parish of Molland is associated with that of Knowstone. For centuries they have been consolidated as one benefice, and formed the original of Blackmore’s “Nympton-in-the-Moors.” Here, I must improve on this precedent by including a third parish, Lapford, which lies in a southerly direction. The reason is as follows. A reader of the Maid of Sker, who is also familiar with North Devon, must be struck with the, no doubt, intentional looseness of the geographical references. From a perusal of the romance, it would be natural to conclude that “Nympton-in-the-Moors” is much nearer Barnstaple and the coast than is actually the case,[22] and that no considerable town like Southmolton is interposed between them. Southmolton is ignored also in favour of Tiverton, for, although “Nympton” is in the rural deanery of the former town, it is to the old church of St Peter, Tiverton, that Chowne is appointed by his bishop to bring his young people to a “noble confirmation” (Maid of Sker, chapter liii.). The name “Nympton” is common in Devon, where there are four or five villages so called, and distinguished from each other by some addition like “King’s,” “Bishop’s,” “George,” etc. Besides these there is the form “Nymet” (apparently contracted in the first syllable of “Nympton”), which is found in Nymet-Roland, near Lapford, which, by virtue of the watercourses, stands in more direct relation to Barnstaple than the parishes before named. Still, I do not deny that on the whole, Blackmore intended by “Nympton-in-the-Moors” Knowstone-cum-Molland, of which the Rev. John Froude (“Parson Chowne”), who died in 1852, was incumbent for forty-seven years. It is distinctly stated that “Parson Chowne happened to have two churches” (Maid of Sker, chapter xxviii.), but it appears to me that, for certain purposes, he blended with them the parish of Lapford, of which his nephew, the notorious John Radford (“Parson Rambone”), was rector.
It was at Nymet-Roland that the “naked people,” who bulk so largely in the Maid of Sker, lived in semi-nudity and utter savagery, in an old cottage of clay, of which one wall had given way, so that in their only room grass grew on the earth floor. They stole what clothes they required, and continually got into trouble with the police, one of whom was felled to the ground by a girl of the family. Contrary to Blackmore’s account, they were finely built, muscular, and strong. The patriarch of the race died at Whitstone, having spent his declining years in a cider cask; and about 1860 the family was dispersed. These people were called Cheriton, and as they lived on their own freehold, could not be interfered with, until financial difficulties arose, which compelled them to give up possession.
Froude’s real “lambs” were not of this description, but ordinary village folk. With these his word was law, and no matter how extravagant his commands, they were obeyed to the letter. Though a man of unquestioned ability, the parson hardly possessed the diabolical cunning of Chowne, but it is to be feared that he had no small share of his cruel malice, and he carried buffoonery to a pitch utterly inconsistent with his cloth and calling. His moral character was such that his relations, some of whom I know, regard him as outside the pale of apology; while old labourers, who remember his white hat, though perhaps none too good themselves, are shocked to recall such conduct in a “minister.” Froude never issued instructions directly; he preferred oblique methods. Thus he would be riding along where a group of men were at work, and begin to mutter, “I’m certain sure Farmer Besley’s fuzz-brake will be burnt—I know ’twill.” The nearest man would prick up his ears, and, having accomplished the prophecy, would return to the spot, where he would find a sovereign on the gatepost. At another time, Froude would say to a follower severely, “Look here, John, don’t you cut off that donkey’s tail”—pointing to an animal on the other side of the hedge. The next day the unfortunate animal would be found minus its appendage. Froude’s “lambs” were staunch to him, and years afterwards one of them, called Peagram, who lived at Southmolton, refused to divulge anything of their relations.