"Ah! I reckoned you was there," shouted Chowne, and went at him with his horse-whip, and lashed the fellow about the kitchen, down the passage, into the hall, and out at the front door, where he dismissed him with a kick. I tell the tale as it was told to me, but I suspect the conclusion of this story. It reminds me of a familiar folk-tale. But then--is it not the prerogative of such tales to attach themselves to the last human notoriety? [Illustration: Parson Chowne and Sally's young Man.] That this same crop, or hunting-whip, was applied to Mrs. Chowne's shoulders and back was commonly reported in Blackamoor, and indeed is so reported even unto this day. The following story is on the authority of Jack Russell, Vicar of Swimbridge. He had called one day at Blackamoor parsonage, and found Chowne sitting over his fire smoking, and Mrs. Chowne sitting in one corner of the room, against the wall. Her husband had turned his back on her. Russell was uneasy, and asked if Mrs. Chowne were unwell. Chowne turned his head over his shoulder and asked, "Mrs. Chowne, be you satisfied or be you not? You know the terms of agreement come to between us. If you are not satisfied, you can go home to your friends, and I won't hinder you from going. I don't care a hang myself whether you stay or whether you go." "I am content," said the lady faintly. "Very well," said Chowne. "Then we'll have a drop of cider, Jack. Go and fetch us a jug and tumblers, madam." In _The Maid of Sker_ Chowne is represented as torn to pieces by his hounds. The real Chowne did not meet this fate. His death was, however, tragic in another aspect. He had left his rectory, and lived in a more sheltered spot in a house of his own. Before the windows grew a particularly handsome box-tree. Now Chowne had done some dastardly mean and cruel act to a young farmer near, tricking him out of a large sum of money in a way peculiarly base. One night the box-tree was taken up and carried away, no one knew whither, though every one suspected by whom. Chowne raged over this insult; and as he was unable to bring the act home to the culprit, his rage was impotent. But the uprooting of the box-tree was apparently the death of him. He felt that the dread he had inspired was gone, his control over the neighbourhood was lost, the spell of his personality was broken. This thought, even more than mortified rage at being unable to discover and punish the man who had pulled up his box-tree, broke him down, and he rapidly sank, intellectually and physically, into a ruin, and died. Chowne had a friend, a man, if possible, worse than himself, him whom we will call Jack Hannaford, who was Vicar of Wellclose. It was said that Hannaford was brutal, but Chowne fiendish.