The following feature is reproduced from the Surrey Mirror in July 1963, when W. H. Chouler wrote about the eccentric gentleman who is buried upside down on top of Box Hill:

It was two o'clock in the afternoon of Saturday, June 11, 1800. Along the main London Road, leading out of the sleepy old town of Dorking, vehicles of every conceivable description streamed towards the distant white chalk cliffs of Box Hill.

Even in those early days of the 19th century, the hill was famous all over England for its wild beauty, being the grandest piece of natural river cliff in southern England and one of the wonders of chalk scenery.

The western face was clothed with dark woods of box and yew.

The northern face of sheer white cliff rose to a height of 400ft above the lovely River Mole, sweeping against its foot while the long grassy ridge of the southern face climbed like a buttress wall from the Wealden plain below.

The polished and shining coaches seemed to move faster and faster along the dusty road, the splendid horses being driven furiously by skilful drivers.

They needed all their skill, for never before had there been seen in Dorking such numbers of vehicles, nor for that matter such numbers of people walking and running on the grassy verges on both sides of the road.

Strange faces were everywhere. Some were London visitors, for in the later years of the 18th century a London physician had stayed in Dorking and he and other practitioners had recommended a stay here in the summer for their patients.

WELL-KNOWN FIGURE: Major Peter Labelliere who is buried upside down on Box Hill. H
WELL-KNOWN FIGURE: Major Peter Labelliere who is buried upside down on Box Hill. H

They said that the alkaline properties of the hill were conducive to good health.

The "quality gentry" from the many country seats and villas of the neighbourhood were soon scrambling and clambering up the hillside in a most unusual fashion, there was a constant buzz of excitement, laughter and catcalls from the young bucks in their swallow-tail coats, much slipping and sliding on the short wiry grass and much calling for assistance by the ladies.

Now and again some would stop and rest and, shading their eyes, look down towards the tiny snake-like roadway zigzagging up the western slopes.

On this lovely summer day the onlookers were almost dazzled by the glint of sunlight on the sharp broken flints forming the road surface over the chalk.

Groups of people were climbing slowly along this path, and they, too, were stopping and turning every few steps to see what was happening down below.

Some held branches of box trees, while others, waving yew twigs aloft, ran and danced on the roadway.

Obviously something unusual was afoot, it seemed as though the annual fair had come to soon.

Suddenly there was a shout, people pointed and some began to run.

Far down below, a closed black van, drawn by two black horses, approached through the trees, the hooves of the heavy lumbering carthorses sending up clouds of white dust from the chalky road.

INSCRIPTION: The gravestone at the final resting place of Major Peter Labelliere atop Box Hill. Photo: Ruth Aldridge
INSCRIPTION: The gravestone at the final resting place of Major Peter Labelliere atop Box Hill. Photo: Ruth Aldridge

Close behind came two smaller open carts, both drawn by black horses and both piled high with branches of yew and box. In the front of each of these cars stood a man, a horseman from the local farm, holding tightly to the reins, for the excitement was catching and the horses difficult to control. Another man stood in the cart, waist deep in the strange load and, as the procession slowly wended its way up the steep roadway, he threw out on both sides branches of yew and box.

These were quickly seized by eager hands, although some local people already had branches. The two carts had passed through the crowded streets of Dorking in the morning, strewing them all over the main street in readiness for the events of the afternoon.

Here a huge crowd had already gathered.

Many had brought their dinners and had picnicked on the southern slopes.

Others had watched all the morning, while three of four workmen, taking turns, had dug out a hole in the solid chalk in a small piece of open ground, surrounded by box trees.

This hole grew deeper and deeper until it looked just like a well.

On the bottom of the thick chalk was laid a blanket of yew twigs and leaves.

At last the wagons arrived and the crowd surged forward. Four men dressed in black stepped to the rear of the van and slowly brought out a polished wooden coffin.

This they had carried towards the hole and without any religious ceremony at all, except perhaps for the silent prayers of a few friends, the coffin was placed on its end, head downwards, in the hole.

More branches of yew and box were thrown in followed by earth and lumps of chalk, until the hole was completely filled and all that remained was a large white mound.

On this, branches were thrown by a strangely noisy crowd.

Probably the whole population of Dorking, something like 3,000 people, were laughing, singing and dancing and waving their green branches.

A stranger might have thought that the war with Napoleon was over. Instead he would have found himself present at a funeral, a funeral unique in the long history of Surrey and even of our country.

A strange man had received a strange burial.

TOPSY-TURVY: Major Peter Labelliere's grave. The Dorking eccentric is buried upside-down
TOPSY-TURVY: Major Peter Labelliere's grave. The Dorking eccentric is buried upside-down

Major Peter Labelliere had been granted his last wish.

The huge crowd gradually began to disperse, some people returned along the dusty white roadway, while the more venturesome wandered through the dense undergrowth of the box trees and then down the steep grassy slopes to the hotel, its white-washed walls showing between the huge trees lining the main highway.

Others, and especially the ladies, took the quickest route down to the river, along the shady path beneath the trees, shorter perhaps, but much steeper.

Walking was a most unpopular pastime in those days, with ladies in particular, and we can imagine how tired and hot they were when eventually they arrived at the river.

Here, there were no stepping stones as there are today, but a slight wooden bridge crossed the Mole from bank to bank.

To their horror, nothing was to be seen of this bridge but a few broken planks floating in the stream, for a group of mischievous youngsters, seizing their opportunity while the ceremony was in progress, had broken it to pieces.

A harsh decision awaited the ladies and their escorts, either to go a long way round to reach the road, or to cross the stream. Not an easy or pleasant choice.

The life story of Major Labelliere was a chapter of strange but highly interesting incidents.

The Labellieres were French and being staunch Huguenots, they suffered intense hardships for their religious views.

The mother fled for safety to England, bringing with her an infant son, Peter, while the father eventually died from the suffering he had to bear alone in France. In England, his wife managed to make a poor living and continually struggled to bring up her son as best she could.

Without any schooling other than that his mother gave him, Peter obtained a job as a pupil teacher, then as an assistant teacher in a large London school of 300 pupils.

Many people had tried in vain to keep order in this extremely unruly school. Peter held this exacting job for a number of years with considerable success and then joined the Army, where his training stood him in good stead.

He soon became an officer and finally a major in the Marines.

He fell in love with a lovely lady but she did not encourage his advances and somehow he could never forget this slight on his person.

As soon as he retired from the Army, he began to be a little eccentric in his ways.

He lived for a time at Chiswick, where, we are told, "he frequently walked to London, followed by a tribe of ragged boys whom he would occasionally harangue.

"Both his pockets were generally filled to an overflow with newspapers and political pamphlets".

Later, he lived in Dorking in a cottage called "The Hole in the Wall".

This was an extremely poor habitation for a Major who was receiving a pension of £100 a year from the Duke of Devonshire.

This was a considerable sum in those days and, moreover, he was invited every year to spend a month on one of the Duke's estates.

To be continued...

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