“I ran that fox an hour, and lost him near where he was found. Then, just as I was calling the hounds away to go home, down came a crowd of men, women, and children to see this fox murdered. Many of them had brought their loaded guns, were full of beer, and eager for the fray. And when they discovered that I had disturbed their fox, as they were pleased to designate him, their language was anything but choice.
“A strapping young fellow, one of the principal farmers in the parish, came up to me and said, ‘Who are you, sir, to come here and spoil our sport?’ ‘You would have spoiled mine,’ I replied, ‘if you could.’ ‘We’ll shoot them foxes whenever we can—that I’ll promise you,’ he said in an angry tone. At that moment one of the hounds began to howl. I looked round, saw she was in pain, and asked in a threatening manner, ‘Who kicked that hound?’
“No one spoke for half a minute, when a little boy said, pointing to another, ‘That boy kicked her.’ ‘Did he?’ I exclaimed. ‘Then ’tis lucky for him that he is a little boy.’ ‘Why?’ said the farmer with whom I had been previously talking. ‘Because,’ I replied, ‘if a man had kicked her I would have horse-whipped him on the spot.’ ‘You would find that a difficult job if you tried it,’ was his curt answer. I jumped off my horse, threw down my whip, and said, ‘Who’s the man to prevent me?’
“Not a word was spoken. I stood my ground, and one by one the crowd retired, the young farmer amongst the number; and from that day forward I secured for myself not only the goodwill and co-operation but the friendship of some of the best fox-preservers that the county of Devon has ever seen.”
I have thought it as well to let Mr. Russell tell his own story. If the reader considers this a dignified scene for a clergyman to be engaged in I beg to differ from him. In 1832, after he had been six years at Iddesleigh, Mr. Russell moved to Tordown, a lone country house in the parish of Swymbridge, and in 1833, the perpetual curacy of Swymbridge and Landkey becoming vacant, he was appointed to the benefice by the Dean of Exeter, and there he remained almost till his death.
“When I was inducted,” wrote he, “to this incumbency there was only one service here every Sunday—morning and evening alternately with Landkey—whereas now, I am thankful to say, we have four services every Sunday in Swymbridge alone.”
This shows that Parson Jack was not a mere mighty hunter before the Lord. He was a sincerely good man up to his lights, and never neglected a duty for the sake of a gallop after his hounds.
When he lost Mr. Sleeman he advertised for another curate in the North Devon Journal. “Wanted a curate for Swymbridge; must be a gentleman of moderate and orthodox views.”
Mr. Hooker, vicar of Buckerell, was standing in a shop door in Barnstaple shortly after the appearance of this advertisement, when he was accosted by Will Chapple, the parish clerk of Swymbridge, who entered the grocer’s shop. “Hav’ee got a coorate yet for Swymbridge, Mr. Chapple?” inquired the grocer in Mr. Hooker’s hearing. “No, not yet, sir,” replied the sexton, “Master’s ’nation particler, and the man must be orthodox.”