‘Late in 1800 or early in 1801, a horse had been stolen in the neighbourhood, and suspicion fell on Joshua Scamp, whose tent was near. He was taken up and tried at the Assizes at Salisbury, and was convicted and sentenced to death, which was the penalty for horse- and sheep-stealing, and formerly other petty crimes which are now (thank God) more leniently dealt with.
‘After his conviction, he persisted in asserting his innocence, and implied that he knew who the culprit was, but refused to disclose his name.
‘“No,” he said, “I am an old man, and it is better for me to hang than the real man.”
‘My father from whom I heard this story, and who had then only just come to Salisbury, and many others, were convinced that Scamp was telling the truth, and they interested your ancestor in their efforts to procure a reprieve. But there were no telegraphs or quick posts in those days, and the short interval between conviction and execution ebbed fast away, before the Home Office authorities could be impressed with the circumstances. So, at the appointed time, Joshua Scamp walked bravely to the gallows asserting his innocence, but silent as to who was really guilty.
‘After his death, it became known that the real thief was Joshua Scamp’s son-in-law, who had married his favourite daughter, for love of whom the old man was content to bear the penalty which should have fallen on her husband.
‘The gipsies placed a tomb over his grave in Odstock churchyard, which still stands, and for many years they were in the habit of visiting his resting-place in large numbers on the anniversary of his death, April 1st, 1801.
‘And now please Lady Jeane, do you and your brothers and sisters make a pilgrimage to the grave of Joshua Scamp, and think of the unselfish love and self-sacrifice for his daughter’s sake, of the convicted, but innocent, horse-stealer, Joshua Scamp.’
A contemporary of Mr. Squarey’s was Canon Jackson, who used to tell us another exciting old Wiltshire story. I am not sure whether or not he was actually present, but he well remembered that dark night in October 1816, when, as the London coach stopped at Winterslow Hut to deliver the mails, there broke upon the surrounding silence a terrifying roar, and a lioness leapt out: from the dark ominous spaces of Salisbury Plain. Canon Jackson gave a graphic account of the battle between the lioness and one of the coach horses, which fought furiously with its forefeet, striking at its enemy with its iron hoofs. He had nearly got her down, when he became entangled in the harness, and the lioness sprang upon his chest and hung there, her claws fastened into his throat, while blood spurted in all directions. Then there appeared upon the scene an enormous dog, which made a rear attack upon the lioness. She let go the horse, and turned upon this new enemy. The dog alternately attacked and withdrew, drawing the lioness after him towards what Canon Jackson used to call a ‘hovel’, which seems to have been a shed with a door which could be fastened. Here followed the last terrific fight, ending for the moment in victory for the lioness. The dog was killed. But reinforcements were now prepared. All this time, the innkeeper, the coach officials and the passengers had merely watched the amazing fight. They felt fairly safe so long as the animals were frantically engaged. Now the tremendous noise had called up the owners of the circus from which the lioness had escaped. Their vans were a short way up the road. By now they were on the spot. The mysterious ‘mastiff’ had, in the last round of his fight, lured the lioness inside the shed, and the spectators had the courage to shut the door. The cage was then brought up against it, and the lioness was successfully captured.
This blood-curdling scene took place while Hazlitt was living in Winterslow, and it did not change his opinion of the peacefulness of the place. His Winterslow Essays suggest that one is not likely to meet there any animal fiercer than a bookworm, although as a matter of fact it has always been something of a magnet for lions. Hazlett himself of course, and then his admirer, Lord Grey of Falloden, in later days sometimes tried vainly to inspire distinguished American visitors with his own enthusiasm for the plain little inn with its sober associations with the prose of the countryside. I heard one such guest openly avow her preference for ‘a cassle’.
Yet another lion to find himself in a dilemma at Winterslow was Siegfried Sassoon who once found his car and himself in a pond at the door of the inn, as he was driving from London in a thick fog. The owners retaliated by putting up a notice saying—
THIS POND IS PRIVATE
Another Winterslow character was Lyddie Shears, the witch, whose son had often been seen in my day by the oldest inhabitants—an old man, wandering about the ruins of his mother’s cottage. Lyddie herself lived I think quite early in the nineteenth century, and, like other witches, she had a way with hares. The poachers gave her presents of tobacco and snuff, and thus primed, she went on to the downs in the moonlight and, crouching low on the ground, she struck lights from flints. All about her, there then popped up startled heads with long quivering ears and mad eyes glancing from side to side. The poacher shot the hares while they sat thus, dazzled and bewildered.
Lyddie was not so friendly with a neighbouring farmer who was less generous with his tobacco than the poachers were. When he was going
