CHAPTER IV
Mr. Hawker’s Politics—Election of 1857—His Zeal for the Labourers—“The Poor Man and his Parish Church”—Letter to a Landlord—Death of his Man, Tape—Kindness to the Poor—Verses over his Door—Reckless Charity—Hospitality—A Breakdown—His Eccentric Dress—The Devil and his Barn—His Ecclesiastical Vestments—Ceremonial—The Nine Cats—The Church Garden—Kindness to Animals—The Rooks and Jackdaws—The Well of St. John—Letter to a Young Man entering the University.
Mr. Hawkerin politics, as far as he had any, was a Liberal; and in 1857 he voted for Mr. Robartes, afterwards Lord Robartes.
March 26, 1857.My Dear Sir,—Your mangold is remarkably fine. I must, of course, visit Stratton, to vote for Robartes; and I do wish I could be told how far a few votes would throw out Kendall by helping Carew, then I would give the latter one. If I can contrive to call at Flexbury, I will; but Mrs. Hawker is so worried by bad eyes that she will not risk the roads. Last time we were annoyed by some rascals, who came after the carriage, shouting, “Kendall and protection!” It will be a dark infamy for Cornwall if Nick, the traitor to every party, should get in. Tom S—— has been out to-day, blustering for Nick, but, when asked what party he belonged to, could not tell. How should he? A note from M—— to-night, dated Bude, informs me that he is there. I am glad to find that, though not yet registered as a Cornish voter, his heart and wishes are for Robartes. It will always be to me a source of pride, that I was the first, or well-nigh, I think, the only clergyman in this deanery who voted for a Free-trade candidate. Yours, my dear sir, faithfully,
R. S. Hawker.
J. Carnsew, Esq.
... I cannot conclude without a word about the mighty theme of elections. When Carew’s address arrived, and I read it to Mrs. Hawker, her remark was: “It doesn’t ring well.” Nor did it. There were sneaky symptoms about it. S—— writes that “sinister influence, apart from political, has been brought to bear against Carew.” We save a breakfast by this; for Mrs. Hawker had announced her intention to give one, as she did last time, to Mr. Robartes’ voters; and I save what is to me important—a ride. When I was in Oxford, there was a well-known old man, Dr. Crowe, public officer, etc. He had risen from small beginnings, and therefore he was a man of mind. Somewhat rough, and so much the better, as old wine is. Him the young, thoughtless fellows delighted to tease after dinner in the common-room, over their wine at New College. (N.B.—The rumour used to run, that, when the fellows of the college retired from the hall, the butler went before, with a warming-pan, which he passed over the seat of every stuffed chair, that the reverend fogies might not catch cold as they sat down.) Well, one day, said a junior to old Crowe: “Do you know, Dr. C., what has happened to Jem Ward?”—“No, not I. Is he hanged?”—“Oh, no! they say he is member of Parliament.”—“Well, what of that?”—“Oh, but consider what a thing for a fellow like that to get into the House of Commons—such ablackguard!”—“And pray, young man, where should a blackguard go, but into the House of Commons, eh?”
Good-night, dear sir, good-night. Yours faithfully,
R. S. Hawker.
But Mr. Hawker’s sympathies were by no means bound up with one party. He was as enthusiastic in 1873 for the return of a Conservative member for Exeter, as he had been in 1857 for that of a Free-trade candidate for East Cornwall.
Morwenstow, Dec. 11, 1873.My dear Mr. and Mrs. Mills,—The good tidings of your success in Exeter has only just arrived in our house; and I make haste to congratulate you, and to express our hearty sympathy with Mr. Mills’ great triumph. Only yesterday Mr. M—— was here, and we were discussing the probabilities and chances of the majority. I had heard from Powderham Castle that the contest would be severe, and the run close; but every good man’s wishes and sympathies were with Mr. Mills. I hope that God will bless and succour him, and make his election an avenue of good and usefulness to his kind, which I am sure you both will value beyond the mere honour and rank. Our men heard guns last night, but could not decide whether the sound came from Bude or Lundy. But to-day I heard there were great and natural rejoicings around your Efford home. How you must have exulted also at your husband’s strong position in London, and at the School Board! He must have been very deeply appreciated there, and will, of course, succeed to the chairmanship of his district. You will be sorry to hear that Mr. R——[22]has disappointed us, and will not be back again until after Christmas. So, although I am so weak that I can hardly stagger up to the church, and I incur deadly risk, I must go through my duty on Sunday. Our dutiful love to you both. I am, yours ever faithfully,
R. S. Hawker.
It was his intense sympathy with the poor that constituted the Radicalism in Mr. Hawker’s opinions. A thorough-going Radical he was not, for he was filled with the most devoted veneration for the Crown and Constitution; but his tender heart bled for the labourer, whom he regarded as the sufferer through protection, and he fired up at what he regarded as an injustice. When he broke forth into words, it was with the eloquence and energy of a prophet. What can be more vigorous and vehement than the following paper, which he wrote in 1861?
There are in Morwenstow about six thousand acres of arable land, rented by seventy farmers; forty large, and thirty small.
There are less than sixty able-bodied labourers, and twenty-five half-men, at roads, etc.
With this proportion of one labourer to a hundred acres, there can be no lack ofemploy.
The rate of wages is eight shillings a week, paid, not in money, but by truck of corn.
A fixed agreement of a hundred and thirty-five pounds of corn, or eighteen gallons (commonly called seven scores), is allotted to each man in lieu of fourteen shillings, be the market price what it will.
A man with a wife and three or four children will consume the above quantity of corn in fourteen days.
Therefore, such a man, receiving for his fortnight’s work fourteen shillings’ worth of corn, will only leave in his master’s hand one shilling a week, which one shilling usually is paid for house-rent.
Now, this inevitable outlay for the loaf and for the rent will leave—for fuel, for shoes, for clothing, for groceries, for tools, for club ...nil: 0l.0s.0d.
But, but.But in the year 1860-61, the fourteen shillings paid for that corn will only yield in flour and meal ten shillings and sixpence, the millers being judges.
“If a man have only a wife and two children to house and feed, his surplus money above his bread and rent will be one shilling (?) a week beyond the above example.”But,but, in the recited list of exigencies, will that suffice?
It was from a knowledge of the state of the parish, that I assented to the collection, of which I enclose a statement.
Two farmers only had the audacity to allege that the effort was uncalled for; and a labourer of one of these must have gone barefooted to his work the whole winter, had not the money for a pair of shoes been advanced to him by the victim of the parish.
It appears to be a notion entertained by a chief patron of all our charities, that the wages and the treatment of the labourers in Kilkhampton are more favourable than in Morwenstow.But, but, but——
What is the weekly wage?
How paid?
If in corn, at what price?
And are there contracts in other respects?
These are not questions which I want to be answered, but only questions for your own private consideration.
A letter narrating the success of this appeal is in my hands, and may find a place here.
Feb. 21, 1861.My dear Sir,—I have postponed replying to your last letter until I could acquaint you with the progress or result of the subscriptions to the poor. Lord J. Thynne has given five pounds; Mr. Dayman, three pounds; Messrs. Cann and Harris, churchwardens, one pound each; other parishioners, about three or four pounds. So that we shall divide twenty-five pounds and upwards among the really destitute. I am much obliged to you for your readiness to allow my influence to count with that of others in the parish; but the reference in my letter to the churchwardens was to the past, and not altogether to the future. Be this as it may, when Moses languishes, manna falls, thank God!
You will be sorry to hear that Mrs. H—— is very ill. Her attack is so full of peril, and demands such incessant medical succour, that Capt. H—— resolved on removing her while she could be moved to London, to the charge of her accustomed doctor; and thither they went last Monday. Our loss is deep. It was indeed a gift from God to have a thorough lady and gentleman in the parish to appreciate the utterance of truth, and the effects of duty: it was indeed a happiness, and it is now gone. Mrs. H—— had taken great trouble with our choir. Every Thursday evening she has allowed them to come to learn the musical scale, and they were fast learning to read and sing the notes.
We have been visited of late by the new kind of hurricane, the κύκλων, or whirl. It is just as fierce and strong as the old storm; but the scene of its onslaught is rigidly local: indeed, we might almost call them parochial. They had theirs at Kilkhampton two days before Mr. T——’s christening. The Poughill rush was the week after the vicar brought home his wife. A pinnacle was snapped off there, and the wall of the church rent. At Kilkhampton the damage done was in the immediate vicinity of the church. We had ours last night, but the church did not suffer harm, although two-thirds of the roof are rotten, and the pinnacles overhang. Lent is always the demon’s time, and the strength of evil. A woman who is just come in tells me that the new chimney in the kitchen at Tidnacombe was blown down last night, and is now lying on the roof in fragments. Yours faithfully,
R. S. Hawker.
The energy with which he upheld the cause of the labourer was one cause of some unreasonable resentment against him being felt by the farmers; and this explains his expression “the victim of the parish,” in reference to himself in his appeal.
The same intense sympathy with the poor and the down-trodden breaks out in his ballad, “The Poor Man and his Parish Church,” of which I insert a few verses:—
The poor have hands and feet and eyes,Flesh, and a feeling mind:They breathe the breath of mortal sighs,They are of human kind;They weep such tears as others shed,And now and then they smile;For sweet to them is that poor breadThey win with honest toil.The poor men have their wedding-day,And children climb their knee:They have not many friends, for theyAre in such misery.They sell their youth, their skill, their pains,For hire in hill and glen:The very blood within their veins,It flows for other men.They should have roofs to call their ownWhen they grow old and bent—Meek houses built of dark grey stone,Worn labourer’s monument.There should they dwell beneath the thatch,With threshold calm and free:No stranger’s hand should lift the latchTo mark their poverty.Fast by the church these walls should stand,Her aisles in youth they trod:They have no home in all the landLike that old house of God!There, there, the sacrament was shedThat gave them heavenly birth,And lifted up the poor man’s headWith princes of the earth.There in the chancel’s voice of praiseTheir simple vows were poured,And angels looked with equal gazeOn Lazarus and his Lord.There, too, at last, they calmly sleep,Where hallowed blossoms bloom;And eyes as fond and faithful weepAs o’er the rich man’s tomb.
The poor have hands and feet and eyes,Flesh, and a feeling mind:They breathe the breath of mortal sighs,They are of human kind;They weep such tears as others shed,And now and then they smile;For sweet to them is that poor breadThey win with honest toil.The poor men have their wedding-day,And children climb their knee:They have not many friends, for theyAre in such misery.They sell their youth, their skill, their pains,For hire in hill and glen:The very blood within their veins,It flows for other men.They should have roofs to call their ownWhen they grow old and bent—Meek houses built of dark grey stone,Worn labourer’s monument.There should they dwell beneath the thatch,With threshold calm and free:No stranger’s hand should lift the latchTo mark their poverty.Fast by the church these walls should stand,Her aisles in youth they trod:They have no home in all the landLike that old house of God!There, there, the sacrament was shedThat gave them heavenly birth,And lifted up the poor man’s headWith princes of the earth.There in the chancel’s voice of praiseTheir simple vows were poured,And angels looked with equal gazeOn Lazarus and his Lord.There, too, at last, they calmly sleep,Where hallowed blossoms bloom;And eyes as fond and faithful weepAs o’er the rich man’s tomb.
The poor have hands and feet and eyes,Flesh, and a feeling mind:They breathe the breath of mortal sighs,They are of human kind;They weep such tears as others shed,And now and then they smile;For sweet to them is that poor breadThey win with honest toil.
The poor have hands and feet and eyes,
Flesh, and a feeling mind:
They breathe the breath of mortal sighs,
They are of human kind;
They weep such tears as others shed,
And now and then they smile;
For sweet to them is that poor bread
They win with honest toil.
The poor men have their wedding-day,And children climb their knee:They have not many friends, for theyAre in such misery.They sell their youth, their skill, their pains,For hire in hill and glen:The very blood within their veins,It flows for other men.
The poor men have their wedding-day,
And children climb their knee:
They have not many friends, for they
Are in such misery.
They sell their youth, their skill, their pains,
For hire in hill and glen:
The very blood within their veins,
It flows for other men.
They should have roofs to call their ownWhen they grow old and bent—Meek houses built of dark grey stone,Worn labourer’s monument.There should they dwell beneath the thatch,With threshold calm and free:No stranger’s hand should lift the latchTo mark their poverty.
They should have roofs to call their own
When they grow old and bent—
Meek houses built of dark grey stone,
Worn labourer’s monument.
There should they dwell beneath the thatch,
With threshold calm and free:
No stranger’s hand should lift the latch
To mark their poverty.
Fast by the church these walls should stand,Her aisles in youth they trod:They have no home in all the landLike that old house of God!There, there, the sacrament was shedThat gave them heavenly birth,And lifted up the poor man’s headWith princes of the earth.
Fast by the church these walls should stand,
Her aisles in youth they trod:
They have no home in all the land
Like that old house of God!
There, there, the sacrament was shed
That gave them heavenly birth,
And lifted up the poor man’s head
With princes of the earth.
There in the chancel’s voice of praiseTheir simple vows were poured,And angels looked with equal gazeOn Lazarus and his Lord.There, too, at last, they calmly sleep,Where hallowed blossoms bloom;And eyes as fond and faithful weepAs o’er the rich man’s tomb.
There in the chancel’s voice of praise
Their simple vows were poured,
And angels looked with equal gaze
On Lazarus and his Lord.
There, too, at last, they calmly sleep,
Where hallowed blossoms bloom;
And eyes as fond and faithful weep
As o’er the rich man’s tomb.
I know not why; but when they tellOf houses fair and wide,Where troops of poor men go to dwellIn chambers side by side,I dream of an old cottage door,With garlands overgrown,And wish the children of the poorHad flowers to call their own.And when they vaunt that in these wallsThey have their worship-day,Where the stern signal coldly callsThe prisoned poor to pray,I think upon an ancient homeBeside the churchyard wall,Where roses round the porch would roam,And gentle jasmines fall.I see the old man of my lay,His grey head bowed and bare:He kneels by our dear wall to pray,The sunlight in his hair.Well! they may strive, as wise men will,To work with wit and gold:I think my own dear Cornwall stillWas happier of old.Oh, for the poor man’s church again,With one roof over all,Where the true hearts of CornishmenMight beat beside the wall!The altars where, in holier days,Our fathers were forgiven,Who went with meek and faithful ways,Through the old aisles, to heaven!
I know not why; but when they tellOf houses fair and wide,Where troops of poor men go to dwellIn chambers side by side,I dream of an old cottage door,With garlands overgrown,And wish the children of the poorHad flowers to call their own.And when they vaunt that in these wallsThey have their worship-day,Where the stern signal coldly callsThe prisoned poor to pray,I think upon an ancient homeBeside the churchyard wall,Where roses round the porch would roam,And gentle jasmines fall.I see the old man of my lay,His grey head bowed and bare:He kneels by our dear wall to pray,The sunlight in his hair.Well! they may strive, as wise men will,To work with wit and gold:I think my own dear Cornwall stillWas happier of old.Oh, for the poor man’s church again,With one roof over all,Where the true hearts of CornishmenMight beat beside the wall!The altars where, in holier days,Our fathers were forgiven,Who went with meek and faithful ways,Through the old aisles, to heaven!
I know not why; but when they tellOf houses fair and wide,Where troops of poor men go to dwellIn chambers side by side,I dream of an old cottage door,With garlands overgrown,And wish the children of the poorHad flowers to call their own.
I know not why; but when they tell
Of houses fair and wide,
Where troops of poor men go to dwell
In chambers side by side,
I dream of an old cottage door,
With garlands overgrown,
And wish the children of the poor
Had flowers to call their own.
And when they vaunt that in these wallsThey have their worship-day,Where the stern signal coldly callsThe prisoned poor to pray,I think upon an ancient homeBeside the churchyard wall,Where roses round the porch would roam,And gentle jasmines fall.
And when they vaunt that in these walls
They have their worship-day,
Where the stern signal coldly calls
The prisoned poor to pray,
I think upon an ancient home
Beside the churchyard wall,
Where roses round the porch would roam,
And gentle jasmines fall.
I see the old man of my lay,His grey head bowed and bare:He kneels by our dear wall to pray,The sunlight in his hair.Well! they may strive, as wise men will,To work with wit and gold:I think my own dear Cornwall stillWas happier of old.
I see the old man of my lay,
His grey head bowed and bare:
He kneels by our dear wall to pray,
The sunlight in his hair.
Well! they may strive, as wise men will,
To work with wit and gold:
I think my own dear Cornwall still
Was happier of old.
Oh, for the poor man’s church again,With one roof over all,Where the true hearts of CornishmenMight beat beside the wall!The altars where, in holier days,Our fathers were forgiven,Who went with meek and faithful ways,Through the old aisles, to heaven!
Oh, for the poor man’s church again,
With one roof over all,
Where the true hearts of Cornishmen
Might beat beside the wall!
The altars where, in holier days,
Our fathers were forgiven,
Who went with meek and faithful ways,
Through the old aisles, to heaven!
A letter to one of the landlords in his parish shows how vehemently Mr. Hawker could urge the claims of one of the farmers.
Morwenstow, May 21, 1867.My dear Mr. Martyn,—Just as I was about to write to you on other matters, your advertisement for the letting of your lands reached me. It is not, of course, my duty to express any opinion between landlord and tenant, or to give utterance to my sympathy with any one candidate over another; yet there is a matter on which I am sure you will forgive me if I venture to touch. It is on the tenancy of your farm of Ruxmoore by Cann. He has been my churchwarden during the whole of his last term. He and his have been the most faithful adherents to the church of their baptism in my whole parish; and he has been to me so sincere and attached a friend in his station of life, that he without Ruxmoore, or Ruxmoore without the Canns, would be to me an utterly inconceivable regret. It was I who first introduced him to the choice of your family, twenty-eight years agone; and throughout the whole of that time he has been, in his humble way, entirely faithful to me and to you. I do not imagine that you intend to exclude him from your farm, but I venture to hope that you will put me in possession confidentially of your wishes in regard to his future tenancy. Do you mean that he shall tender as before? and does your valuation of his part of your land ascend? He is not aware that I write to you hereon; and, if you are disinclined to answer my questions, I hope you will allow me to record my hearty hope and trust that you will give him the preference over other new and local candidates, in or out of Morwenstow. I have firm confidence in the justice and mercy of your heart. But you must not infer that Cann alone of all your tenants is, or has been, the object of my special regard.... In Wellcombe, B——, whom you remember, no doubt, by name, is one of my regular communicants. And now the very kind and generous sympathy which Mrs. Martyn and yourself have shown towards my school demands a detail of our success.
The children on the day-school books amount to sixty-three. The inspectors (diocesan) pronounce it to be the most satisfactory school in their district. I always visit and instruct the children in person once a week. Mrs. Hawker has had a singing class of boys and girls weekly at the vicarage. But this duty and the harmonium in church are now undertaken by Mrs. T——, for a reason that will readily suggest itself to your mind. But why should I hesitate to avow to old friends that we expect another guest at the vicarage? How I hope that God may grant us a boy, that I may utter the words of the fathers of holy time, “My son, my son!”
Morwenstow, Jan. 22, 1857.My dear Sir,—It is no longer possible to nourish the project which I have all along, every week and day, intended to essay,viz., a journey down to Flexbury Hall. We have continually talked of it, more than once fixed the day, but we have been as singularly prevented as if some evil spirit had it at heart to hinder our purpose. And these obstacles have very often been occurrences full of pain, domestic or personal. You have no doubt heard of the frightful accident to poor old George Tape, my caretaker and very excellent servant. He lived all his early life with old Mr. Shearm, here in the old Vicarage House; was sexton twenty-five years; worked with me from 1835 to 1851; then visited Australia as a gold-digger; returned about two years agone with enough to live on, aided by a little work, and came back to be again my hind at Michaelmas last. He was, therefore, a long-accustomed face, almost as one of my own family. You will, therefore, understand the shock when we heard a man rushing up stairs to our little sitting-room with the tale of fear; and on going down, I found poor George seated in a chair, with the hand crushed into pulp below the wrist, and dangling by the naked sinews. I made a rude tourniquet, in haste, of a silk handkerchief and short stick, and so the hemorrhage was stopped. We got him home. I was with him nearly all night, and the next day till he died; but the amputation I could not witness. We found two fingers and other pieces of flesh among the barley afterwards.... I remain yours, my dear sir, very faithfully,
R. S. Hawker.
T. Carnsew, Esq.
The generosity of the vicar to the poor knew no bounds. It was not always discreet, but his compassionate heart could not listen to a tale of suffering unaffected; nay, more, the very idea that others were in want impelled him to seek them out at all times, to relieve their need.
On cold winter nights, if he felt the frost to be very keen, the idea would enter his head that such and such persons had not above one blanket on their beds, or that they had gone, without anything to warm their vitals, to the chill damp attics where they slept. Then he would stamp about the house, collecting warm clothing and blankets, bottles of wine, and any food he could find in the larder, and laden with them, attended by a servant, go forth on his rambles, and knock up the cottagers, that he might put extra blankets on their beds, or cheer them with port wine and cold pie.
The following graphic description of one of these night missions is given in the words of an old workman named Vinson.
It was a very cold night in the winter of 1874-75, about half-past nine: he called me into the house, and said: “The poor folk up at Shop will all perish this very night of cold. John Ode is ill, and cannot go: can you get there alive?”
“If you please, sir, I will, if you’ll allow me,” I said.
“Take them these four bottles of brandy,” he says; and he brought up four bottles with never so much as the corks drawed. “Now,” says he, “what will you have yourself?” And I says, “Gin, if you plase, sir,” I says. And he poured me out gin and water; and then he gi’ed me a lemonade bottle of gin for me to put in my side-pocket. “That’ll keep you alive,” he says, “before you come back.” So he fulled me up before I started, and sent me off to Shop, to four old people’s houses, with a bottle of brandy for each. And then he says: “There’s two shillings for yourself; and you keep pulling at that bottle, and you’ll keep yourself alive afore you come back.” So I went there, and delivered the bottles; and I’d had enough before I started to bring me home again, so I didn’t uncork my bottle of gin.
And it isn’t once, it’s scores o’ times, he’s looked out o’ window, after I’ve going home at night, and shouted to me: “Here, stay! come back, Vinson,” and he’s gone into the larder, and cut off great pieces of meat, and sent me with them, and p’raps brandy or wine, to some poor soul; and he always gi’ed me a shilling, either then or next day, for myself, besides meat and drink.
“They are crushed down, my poor people,” he would say with energy, stamping about his room—“ground down with poverty, with a wretched wage, the hateful truck system, till they are degraded in mind and body.” It was a common saying of his, “If I eat and drink, and see my poor hunger and thirst, I am not a minister of Christ, but a lion that lurketh in his den to ravish the poor.”
The monetary value of the living was £365. He wrote up over the porch of his vicarage—
A house, a glebe, a pound a day,A pleasant place to watch and pray:Be true to Church, be kind to poor,O minister, for evermore!
A house, a glebe, a pound a day,A pleasant place to watch and pray:Be true to Church, be kind to poor,O minister, for evermore!
A house, a glebe, a pound a day,A pleasant place to watch and pray:Be true to Church, be kind to poor,O minister, for evermore!
A house, a glebe, a pound a day,
A pleasant place to watch and pray:
Be true to Church, be kind to poor,
O minister, for evermore!
Of his overflowing kindness to the shipwrecked, mention shall be made in another chapter. The many sufferers whom he rescued from the water, housed, fed, nursed and clothed, and sent away with liberal gifts, always spoke of his charity with warmth and gratitude. In no one instance would he accept compensation for the deeds of charity which he performed. He received letters of thanks for his services to the shipwrecked from shipowners in Norway, Denmark, France, Scotland and Cornwall, who had lost vessels on this fatal coast, as well as from the Consuls of the several nations.
Like his grandfather, Dr. Hawker, he was ready to give away everything he had; and he was at times in straitened circumstances, owing to the open house he kept, and the profusion with which he gave away to the necessitous.
This inconsiderate generosity sometimes did harm to those who received it. One instance will suffice.
The vicar of Morwenstow had, some years ago, a servant, whom we will call Stanlake: the man may be still alive, and therefore his real name had better not be given to the world.
One day Mr. Hawker ordered his carriage to drive to Bideford, some twenty miles distant. The weather was raw and cold. He was likely to be absent all day, as he was going on to Barnstaple by train to consult his doctor. His compassion was roused by the thought of Stanlake having forty miles of drive in the cold, and a day of lounging about in the raw December air; and just as he stepped into the carriage he produced a bottle of whisky, and gave it to Stanlake.
Mr. Hawker was himself a most abstemious man: he drank only water, and never touched wine, spirits, or beer.
On the way to Bideford, at Hoops, thinking the coachman looked blue with cold, the vicar ordered him a glass of hot brandy and water. When he reached Bideford station he said: “Now, Stanlake, I shall be back by the half-past four train: mind you meet me with the carriage.”
“All right, sir.”
But Mr. Hawker did not arrive by the half-past four train.
Up till that hour Stanlake had kept sober, he had not touched his bottle of whisky; but finding that his master did not arrive, and that time hung heavily on his hands, he retired to the stable, uncorked the bottle, and drank it off.
At six o’clock Mr. Hawker arrived at Bideford. There was no carriage at the station to meet him. He hurried to the inn where he put up, and ordered his conveyance. He was told that his man was incapable.
“Send him to me, send him here,” he thundered, pacing the coffee-room in great excitement.
“Please, sir, he is under a heap of straw and hay in a loose box in the stable dead drunk.”
“Make him come.”
After some delay the information was brought him, that, when Mr. Stanlake after great efforts had been reared upon his legs he had fallen over again.
“Put the horses to. I can drive as well as Stanlake. I will drive home myself; and do you shove that drunken boor head and crop into the carriage.”
The phaeton was brought to the door: the vicar mounted the box, the drunken servant was tumbled inside, the door shut on him, and off they started for a long night drive with no moon in the sky, and frosty stars looking down on the wintry earth.
Half-way between Bideford and Morwenstow, in descending a hill the pole-strap broke; the carriage ran forward on the horses’ heels; they plunged, and the pole drove into the hedge; with a jerk one of the carriage springs gave way.
Mr. Hawker, afraid to get off the box without some one being at hand to hold the horses’ heads, shouted lustily for help. No one came.
“Stanlake, wake up! Get out!”
A snore from inside was the only answer. Mr. Hawker knocked the glasses with his whip handle, and shouted yet louder: “You drunken scoundrel, get out and hold the horses!”
“We won’t go home till morning, till daylight doth appear,” chanted the tipsy man in bad tune from within.
After some time a labourer, seeing from a distance the stationary carriage lamps, and wondering what they were, arrived on the scene. By his assistance the carriage was brought sideways to the hill, the horses were taken out, a piece of rope procured to mend the harness and tie up the broken spring; and Mr. Hawker, remounting the box, drove forward, and reached Morwenstow vicarage about one o’clock at night.
In the morning Stanlake appeared in the library, very downcast.
“Go away,” said the vicar in a voice of thunder. “I dismiss you forthwith. Here are your wages. I will not even look at you. Let me never see your face again. You brought me into a pretty predicament last night.”
Two days after he met the man again. In the meantime his wrath had abated, and he began to think that he had acted harshly with his servant. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,” ran in his head.
“Stanlake,” said he, “you played me a hateful trick the other night. I hope you are sorry for it.”
“I’se very sorry, your honour, but you gave me the whiskey.”
“You think you won’t do it again?”
“I’se very sure I won’t, if you give me no more.”
“Then, Stanlake, I will overlook it. You may remain in my service.”
Not many weeks after, the vicar sent Stanlake to Boscastle, and, thinking he would be cold, gave him again a bottle of whisky. Of course, once more the man got drunk. This time the vicar did not overlook it; but which of the two was really to blame?
Mr. Robert Stephen Hawker was a man of the most unbounded hospitality. Every one who visited Morwenstow met with a warm welcome: everything his larder and dairy contained was produced in the most lavish profusion. The best that his house could afford was freely given. On one occasion, when about to be visited by a nephew and his wife, he sent all the way to Tavistock, about thirty miles, for a leg and shoulder of Dartmoor mutton. If he saw friends coming along the loop drive which descended to his vicarage, he would run to the door, with a sunny smile of greeting, and both hands extended in welcome, and draw them in to break his bread and partake of his salt. Sometimes his larder was empty, he had fed so many visitors; and he would say sorrowfully: “There is nothing but ham and eggs: I give thee all, I can no more.” And visitors were most numerous in summer. In one of his letters he speaks of having entertained 150 in a summer.
His drawing-room on a summer afternoon was often so crowded with visitors from Bude, Clovelly, Bideford, Stratton and elsewhere, come to tea, that it was difficult to move in it.
“Look here, my dear,” he would say to a young wife, “I will tell you how to make tea. Fill the pot with leaves to the top, and pour the water into the cracks.” His tea was always the best Lapsing Souchong from Twining’s.
He was a wretched carver. He talked and laughed, and hacked the meat at the same time, cutting here, there and anywhere, in search of the tenderest pieces for his guests.
“One day that we went over to call on him unexpectedly,” says a friend, “he made us stay for lunch. He was in the greatest excitement and delight at our visit, and in the flurry decanted a bottle of brandy and filled our wine-glasses with it, mistaking it for sherry. The joint was a fore-quarter of lamb. It puzzled him extremely. At last, losing all patience, he grasped the leg-bone with one hand, the shoulder with the fork driven up to the hilt through it, and tore it by main force asunder.”
Another friend describes a “high tea” at his house. A whole covey of partridges was brought on table. He drove his fork into the breast of each, then severed the legs by cutting through the back, and so helped each person to the whole breast and wings. The birds had not been cooked by an experienced hand, and properly trussed. The whole covey lay on their backs with their legs in the air, presenting the drollest appearance when the cover—large enough for a sirloin of beef—was removed from the dish.
“When you steal your own cream, my dear,” was a saying of his to ladies, “don’t take just a spoonful on a bit of bread, but clear the whole pan with a great ladle and no bread.”
One story about a breakdown when driving has been told: another incident of the same description shall be given in his own words:—
Nov. 4, 1856.My dear Sir,—When I relate the history of our recent transit through Poughill by night, I think you will allow that I am not nervous beyond measure when I say that I am obliged through fear to deny myself the pleasure of joining your hospitable board on Thursday next. Before we had crossed Summerleaze one lamp went out; another languished. My clumsy servant John had broken both springs. A lantern, which we borrowed at Lake Cottage of a woman called Barrett, held aloft by our boy, just enabled us to creep along amid a thorough flood of cold rain, until we arrived at Stowe. There we succeeded in negotiating a loan of another piece of candle, and moved on, a rare and rending headache meanwhile throbbing under my hat. Half-way down Stowe hill, the drag-chain broke suddenly, and but for extreme good behaviour on the part of the horses—shall I add good driving on mine?—we must have gone over in a heap, to the great delight of the Dissenters in this district. We did at last arrive home, but it was in a very disconsolate condition. Still, good came of our journey; for Mrs. Hawker cannot deny that I drove in a masterly manner, and therefore is bound to travel anywhere with me byday. We mean, with your leave, to come down to you early one day soon, and depart so as to be at home before dark. Tell your son that on Saturday night last, at eight o’clock, tidings came in that carriage-lamps flared along our in-road. I found at the door “a deputation from the Parent Society,” the Rev. L. H——. Three friends had previously suggested his visit here, and all three had been snubbed. But he put into my hand a note from Leopold Ackland, so there was no longer any resistance. He had travelled far—Australia, Egypt, the Crimea during the Anglican defeat. So his talk amused us. With kindest regards to all at Flexbury, I remain, yours, my dear sir, very faithfully,
R. S. Hawker.
T. Carnsew, Esq.
Mr. Hawker, as has been already intimated, was rather peculiar in his dress. At first, soon after his induction to Morwenstow, he wore his cassock; but in time abandoned this inconvenient garb, in which he found it impossible to scramble about his cliffs. He then adopted a claret-coloured coat, with long tails. He had the greatest aversion to anything black: the only black things he would wear were his boots. These claret-coloured coats would button over the breast, but were generally worn open, displaying beneath a knitted blue fisherman’s jersey. At his side, just where the Lord’s side was pierced, a little red cross was woven into the jersey. He wore fishing-boots reaching above his knee.
The claret-coloured cassock coats, when worn out, were given to his servant-maids, who wore them as morning-dresses when going about their dirty work.
“See there! the parson is washing potatoes!” or, “See there! the parson is feeding the pigs!” would be exclaimed by villagers, as they saw his servant girls engaged on their work, in their master’s coats.
At first he went about in a college cap; but this speedily made way for a pink or plum-coloured beaver hat without a brim, the colour of which rapidly faded to a tint of pink, the blue having disappeared. When he put on coat, jersey or hat he wore it till it was worn out: he had no best suit.
Once he had to go to Hartland, to the funeral of a relative. On the way he had an accident—his carriage upset, and he was thrown out. When he arrived at Hartland, his relations condoled with him on his upset. “Do, Hawker, let me find you a new hat: in your fall you have knocked the brim off yours,” said one.
“My dear ——,” he answered, “priests of the Holy Eastern Church wear no brims to their hats; and I wear none, to testify the connection of the Cornish Church with the East, before ever Augustine set foot in Kent.” And he attended the funeral in his brimless hat. He wore one of these peculiar coloured hats, bleached almost white, at the funeral of his first wife, in 1863, and could hardly be persuaded to allow the narrowest possible band of black crape to be pinned round it.
The pink hats were, however, abandoned, partly because they would not keep their colour; and a priest’s wide-awake, claret-coloured like the coat, was adopted in its place.
“My coat,” said he, when asked by a lady why he wore one of such a cut and colour, “my coat is that of an Armenian archimandrite.” But this he said only from his love of hoaxing persons who asked him impertinent questions.
When Mr. Hawker went up to London to be married the second time, he lost his hat, which was carried away by the wind as he looked out of the window of the train, to become, perhaps, an inmate of a provincial museum as a curiosity. He arrived hatless in town after dark. He tied a large crimson silk handkerchief over his head, and thus attired paced up and down the street for two hours before his lodging, in great excitement at the thought of the change in his prospects which would dawn with the morrow. I must leave to the imagination of the reader the perplexity of the policeman at the corner over the extraordinary figure in claret-coloured clerical coat, wading-boots up to his hips, blue knitted jersey, and red handkerchief bound round his head. His gloves were crimson. He wore these in church as well as elsewhere.
In the dark chancel, lighted only dimly through the stained east window, hidden behind a close-grated screen, the vicar was invisible when performing the service, till, having shouted “Thomas,” in a voice of thunder, two blood-red hands were thrust through the screen, with offertory bags, in which alms were to be collected by the churchwarden who answered the familiar call. Or, the first appearance of the vicar took place after the Nicene Creed, when a crimson hand was seen gliding up the banister of the pulpit, to be followed by his body, painfully worming its way through an aperture in the screen, measuring sixteen inches only; “the camel getting at length through the eye of the needle,” as Mr. Hawker called the proceeding.
In church he wore a little black cap over his white hair, rendered necessary by the cold and damp of the decaying old church.
At his side he carried a bunch of seals and medals. One of his seals bore the fish surrounded by a serpent biting its tail, and the legend ἰχθύς. Another bore the pentacle, with the name of Jehovah in Hebrew characters in the centre. This was Solomon’s seal. “With this seal,” he said, “I can command the devils.”
His command of the devil was not always successful. He built a barn on the most exposed and elevated point of the glebe; and when a neighbour expostulated with him, and assured him that the wind would speedily wreck it, “No,” he answered: “I have placed the sign of the cross on it, and so the devil cannot touch it.”
A few weeks after, a gale from the south-west tore the roof off.
“The devil,” was his explanation, “was so enraged at seeing the sign of the cross on my barn, that he rent it and wrecked it.”
A man whom he had saved from a wreck, in gratitude sent him afterwards, from the diggings in California, a nugget of gold he had found. This Mr. Hawker had struck into a medal or seal, and wore always at his side with the bunch.
Attached to the button-hole of his coat was invariably a pencil suspended by a piece of string.
He was a well-built man, tall, broad, with a face full of manly beauty, a nobly cut profile, dark, full eyes, and long, snowy hair. His expression was rapidly changing, like the sea as seen from his cliffs; now flashing and rippling with smiles, and anon overcast and sad, sometimes stormy.
Mr. Hawker, some short time after his induction into Morwenstow, adopted an alb and cope which he wore throughout his ministrations at matins, litany and communion service. But he left off wearing the cope about ten or twelve years ago, and the reason he gave for doing so was his disapproval of the extravagances of the Ritualist party. Till the year before he died he had no personal knowledge of their proceedings, and related as facts the most ridiculous and preposterous fables concerning them which had been told him, and which he sincerely believed in.
The ceremonial he employed in his church was entirely of his own devising. When he baptised a child he raised it in his arms, carried it up the church in his waving purple cope, thundering forth, with his rich, powerful voice, the words: “We receive this child into the congregation of Christ’s flock,” etc. His administration of this sacrament was most solemn and impressive; and I know of parents who have gone to Morwenstow for the purpose of having their children baptised by him.
In celebrating marriage it was his wont to take the ring and toss it in the air before restoring it to the bridegroom. What was symbolised by this proceeding I have been unable to ascertain, unless it were to point out that marriage is always more or less of a toss-up.
After abandoning the cope for the reasons stated, his appearance in girdled alb was not a little peculiar. The alb, to any one not accustomed to see it, has much the look of a nightgown. Over his shoulders he wore a stole of which he was very fond. It was copied for him from one found at Durham, which had been placed in the shrine of St. Cuthbert, on the body. Mr. Hawker bore a special reverence for the memory of St. Cuthbert, who, living on his islet of Farne, the haunt of sea-mews, taming the wild birds, praying, meditating amidst the roar of the North Sea, he thought occupied a position not unlike his own. The week before he died, Mr. Hawker sent to Morwenstow for this stole, and was photographed in it.
“We are much taken with the old church,” wrote a well-known public man a few years ago to a friend, “to say nothing of the vicar thereof, who reminds me immensely of Cardinal Wiseman. He is a sight to see, as well as a preacher to hear, as he stands in his quaint garb and quaint pulpit, and looks as if he belonged to the days of Morwenna Abbatissa herself.”
He was usually followed to church by nine or ten cats, which entered the chancel with him and careered about it during service. Whilst saying prayers Mr. Hawker would pat his cats, or scratch them under their chins. Originally ten cats accompanied him to church; but one, having caught, killed and eaten a mouse on a Sunday, was excommunicated, and from that day was not allowed again within the sanctuary.
A friend tells me that on attending Morwenstow Church one Sunday morning, nothing amazed him more than to see a little dog sitting upon the altar step behind the celebrant, in the position which is usually attributed to a deacon or a server. He afterwards spoke to Mr. Hawker on the subject, and asked him why he did not turn the dog out of the chancel and church.
“Turn the dog out of the ark!” he exclaimed: “all animals, clean and unclean, should find there a refuge.”
His chancel, as has been already said, was strewn with wormwood, sweet marjoram and wild thyme.
He had a garden which he called his church garden, below his house, in a spot sheltered by dwarfed trees. In this garden he grew such flowers as were suitable for church decoration, and were named in honour of the Virgin Mary or the saints, such as columbine, lilies, Barnaby’s thistle, Timothy grass, the cowslip (St. Peter’s flower), Lady’s smock, etc.
Mr. Hawker’s kindness to animals was a conspicuous feature in his character. The birds of Morwenstow became quite tame, and fluttered round him for food. “Ubi aves,” he said, “ibi angeli.” To the north side of the church, above the vicarage, is a small grove of trees, oaks and sycamores. There were nests in them of magpies: Mr. Hawker thought that they were those of jackdaws, but these birds do not build nests among branches. He was very anxious to get rooks to inhabit this grove; to obtain them he went to his chancel, and, kneeling before the altar, besought God to give him a rookery where he wanted. Having made his prayer, full of faith, he had a ladder put to the trees, and he carefully removed the nests to a chimney of his house which was rarely used.
“Jackdaws,” said he, “I make you a promise: if you will give up these trees to rooks, you shall have the chimney of my blue room insæcula sæculorum.”
The jackdaws took him at his word, and filled the chimney with their piles of sticks which serve as nests. Somehow rooks were persuaded to settle among the tree-tops of his grove, and there the colony subsists to the present day.
Some years ago, when Dr. Phillpotts was Bishop of Exeter, a visit of the bishop to Morwenstow had been planned and decided upon. Mrs. Hawker insisted on having the blue room fitted up for his lordship. A fire would have to be lighted in the grate: the chimney would smoke unless cleared of nests.
Mr. Hawker stood by whilst Mrs. Hawker and the maid prepared the blue room. He would not have the jackdaws disturbed; he had given them his word of honour. Mrs. Hawker argued that necessity knows no law: the bishop must have a fire, and the jackdaws must make way for the bishop. She prevailed.
“I wrung my hands, I protested, entreated and foretold evil,” was the vicar’s account of the affair.
“Well, and did evil come of it?”
“Yes, the bishop never arrived, after all.”
Mr. Hawker was warmly attached to the Bishop of Exeter, and was accustomed to send him some braces of woodcocks every October.
Not far from the church and vicarage was the Well of St. John, a spring of exquisitely clear water, which he always employed for his font.
Sir J. Buller, afterwards Lord Churston, claimed the well, and an expensive lawsuit was the result. The vicar carried his right to the well, and Sir J. Buller had to pay expenses. Mr. Hawker would tell his guests that he was about to produce them a bottle of the costliest liquor in the county of Cornwall, and then give them water from the Well of St. John. The right to this water had cost several thousands of pounds.
A letter dated 7th Feb., 1852, to a young friend going up to the university, refers to his cats and dogs, and to his annual gift of woodcocks to the bishop, and may therefore be quoted at the conclusion of this chapter.
Our roof bends over us unchanged. Berg (his dog) is still in our confidence, and well deserves it. The nine soft, furry friends of ours are well, and Kit rules them with a steady claw. Peggy is well and warm.... I never knew game so scarce since I came to Morwenstow; except some woodcocks, which I sent to the bishop as usual in October and November, we have had literally none.
And now for one of those waste things, a word of advice. You are in what is called by snobs a fast college. I earnestly advise you to eschew fast men. I am now suffering from the effects of silly and idle outlay in Oxford. I do hope that nothing will induce you to accept that base credit which those cormorants, the Oxford tradesmen, always try to force on freshmen, in order to harass and rob them afterwards. No fast undergraduate in all my remembrance ever settled down into a respectable man. Ask God for strong angels, and He will fulfil your prayer. Never forget Him, and He will never neglect you.