WITCHCRAFT
Witch-lore runs so very much in the same groove, that one fairly good
example throws light on many points of interest. It was either the evil
eye, or the working of some spell, injury to cattle, or surreptitiously
riding horses during the midnight hour, an amusement which it would
seem witches were very prone to indulge in. Then followed a visit to
the wise man, during which he did something, usually winding up on his
part with an incantation, or the working of some anti-witch spell by
the injured ones on their own account at home.
These charms for destroying the power of witches were numerous; in
fact a careless inquirer would be led to the conclusion that every
dale of any size possessed its own peculiar charm, but after a little
careful research and comparison, such an opinion will be found to be
untenable. The difference exists only in detail, nearly all springing
from one or two common roots. When and how it came about these varied
alterations crept in, is somewhat of a mystery, because one would
naturally suppose, where such a vital point was at issue, every word
and detail as to manipulation would be most carefully handed down. The
only solution I can offer—and I do so in all humility—is that these
charms had their birth in remote ages. Afterwards local circumstances
may have placed almost insuperable difficulties in the way of certain
details being carried out; others would then be substituted as nearly
approaching to the original as possible, probably by order of the
priest or wise man. Add to this the fact that a fable told through
long ages in different districts always unconsciously takes a local
colouring, and you have a partial solution. Still, if the details
differ, they do not run on widely diverging lines; in general they
manage to keep fairly parallel, the main essentials being always kept
well in sight. Whether animate or inanimate, the _thing_ had to be
injured, and then something burnt; midnight was always the time chosen
for the final part of the ceremony, seclusion, as far as possible, and
absolute silence being necessary. Many of these rites and ceremonies,
especially in connexion with witchcraft, consisting as they do of
blood, death, and burning by fire, seem to be all that is left us of
what may have been in remote ages a propitiatory sacrifice to some
pagan god.
Chatting with an old mother one day, she remarked, ‘Aye, things is
altered noo. T’ young uns to’n up ther neeases’ (noses) ’at ommaist
ivvery thing ’at yan yance thowt an’ did; tha deea nowt bud mak gam
o’ yan if yan diz tell ’em owt, seea Ah nivver tells ’em nowt.’ This
statement explains much; the old people nowadays do keep their mouths
shut. It often happens that after an hour’s chat with some grey-headed
occupant of the big armchair, you gain more information about the
doings of days past than the rest of the household could have given
you, were they even willing to do so, because in many cases they have
little interest in things which ’happen’d afoor their tahm.’ But,
bear in mind, the unsealing of aged lips can only be accomplished
when properly approached, and a bond of mutual sympathy has been
established; then the lips and hearts will pour forth such a wealth of
bygone lore, that you will hardly be able to jot down your notes fast
enough.
But to return to my old lady. ‘Why,’ said I, ‘when you were a girl
there would be witches, or was that before your time?’ For the benefit
of my readers I will give the rest of the story literally, but in
standard English. ‘No,’ said she, ‘that it is not. There was one Dolly
Makin; I once saw her myself, but she will be dead now, for she was
over a hundred then; but my aunt once had a strange bout with her.’
‘And where did Dolly live?’ I asked, for I had years before heard of
this same Dolly Makin. ‘Nay, that’s mair ’an Ah can tell ya,’ said
she. ‘And what did she do to your aunt?’ I inquired. ‘Nothing; she
only tried to. It was like this. There was one Tom Pickles wanted to
keep company with my aunt, but he found out that she had a liking
for one William Purkis. It was always thought, when Tommy found this
out, that he went to the witch and gave her something to work a spell
on my aunt. Anyhow, one night when she had just finished milking, a
fortune-teller came up and took hold of her hand, and told her a long
story about the carryings-on of William Purkis and another lass, and
she advised my aunt to take up with Tommy, telling her that things
looked very black for her if she did anything else. But my aunt said
that she would wed who she liked, and it would not be Tommy. At that
the fortune-teller struck the cow with her stick; the cow lashed out
and knocked the milk-pail over; my aunt flung the milk-stool at the
fortune-teller’s head, but she ducked, and it missed her, and next
moment they were one grappling with the other like all that. My aunt,
however, was a well-built, strong lass, and after they had fought for
a long time, neither gaining an advantage, the fortune-teller screamed
out that my aunt had something about her that belonged to the unburied
dead, or otherwise she would have mastered her, and had her in her
power for ever. “But,” said she, as she walked away, “I have not done
with you yet;” and then my aunt saw it was the old witch. My aunt did
not know what the witch meant by saying she had something about her
that belonged to the unburied dead; but news came next morning that her
uncle had died the day before, and it happened that a brooch she was
wearing had a bit of his hair in it. It was that which had saved her.
It would have been useless trying to overtake the witch when she left
her, even on horseback, for she once went from the top of Ingleborough
to the top of Whernside at one stride.’ ‘But,’ I ventured to say, ‘it
is a long way, that.’ I was not quite sure of the distance, but I knew
I was within bounds when I added, ‘It will be quite nine miles.’ For a
moment the old lady hesitated; even to her, after making all allowance
for the witch’s marvellous power, it did seem a prodigious stride.
‘Well,’ she said, with a sigh of relief, as an idea struck her, ‘maybe
I am wrong; it would be a leap;’ or, as she put it, ‘mebbe Ah’s wrang;
sha wad loup it.’ Again I pointed out that it was an enormous leap.
‘Deean’t ya want her ti ’a’e deean’t?’ (i.e. ‘Don’t you want her to
have done it?’) she questioned, losing her temper. And then I had to
smooth her ruffled feelings. I knew I was precious near treading on
her pet corn, but I wished to see how, as I knew, she would explain
away the difficulty. ‘Whya, noo, ez you saay it’s a gertish loup,’ she
admitted, and then added, ‘maist leykly sha wad deea ’t iv a hitch,
strhad, an’ a jump; onny road, sha did it.’ That being settled, I asked
what took place when she herself saw the witch. ‘Nowt, bud summat might
‘ deean.’ And then she explained that one evening, a few months before
she was married, she and her sweetheart were walking to Feetham Holme
when they saw an old lady sitting on a great stone. It seems she looked
_that sackless_, that her sweetheart burst out laughing. The moment he
did that, the old lady sprang to her feet, and almost shrieked, ‘Ya
aren’t wed yet,’ and then disappeared. A moment afterwards, however,
a black cat sprang across their path, which was a most unlucky omen.
My informant could not say what it was, but something told her that
the black cat was none other than the old witch. She mentioned none of
her fears to her future husband, but the next day she paid a visit to
the wise man of Reeth. To him she unburdened herself of all her fears,
inquiring what would have to be done to break any spell Dolly might
work to prevent her marriage. It seems there were only two things the
wise man knew of equal to the occasion. One was to tear a piece of
cloth from the garment of a man hanging from a gibbet, cut it into nine
pieces, and burn them at dead of night, with every door and window not
only closed but securely fastened. This she had declared to be quite
impossible. Her next chance was to hear the last words of a man just
before he was hanged, write the same on nine pieces of paper, stick
a pin through each piece, and then burn them at midnight, doors and
windows as before. This she thought might be managed. From a copy of
the _Yorkshire Gazette_ which came into the dale every week, she learnt
that a man was to be hanged at York; so to Settle she went, and thence
by the carrier to her destination. She had a cousin living in York,
with whom she stayed until after the eventful day. She managed to hear
the last words, and carried out all other injunctions, and so, as
she said, ‘Dolly nivver c’u’d deea nowt nowther ti me ner onny o’ my
bairns.’
It is a well-known fact that witches have a decided aversion to a
stone with a hole through it. So one hanging in the house goes a long
way towards keeping them outside; and an old horse-shoe, which has
been picked up and nailed on the door, has even greater power. Again,
any girl, whilst a maiden, who was so fortunate as to find three
horse-shoes in one year, if she threw them over her left shoulder, and
walked round them three times, being careful to preserve all three, not
only she, but when married her children, could never be witch-held.
This, be it observed, only protected the person, it did not extend to
property of any kind.
Dolly Ayre, the Carthorpe witch, died within the ken of many now
living. Richard Kirby, an old inhabitant of Carthorpe, gave me the
following only a short time ago. I must really give it in his words.
Filling his pipe, he began, ‘Aye! Ah ken’d her weel; she yance witched
sum coos ov au’d Tommy’s, an’ sha wadn’t tak ’t off.’ I inquired
what it was she would not take off, and was promptly informed it was
‘summat sha’d deean tiv ’em: a spell o’ sum soart ’at sha’d warked on
’em.’ Old Tommy, it seems, hurried off to the wise man, Sammy Banks o’
Mickly, who, after Tommy’s story had been told, ‘did summat, an’ Tommy
did summat, an’ atween ’em tha baith did summat else ’at completely
flustrated Au’d Dolly intiv a cocked hat, bud nut afoor sha’d mannished
ti spell t’ leyfe oot o’ yan o’ t’ coos—ya see, iv a waay, sha ’ed t’
fost ho’d.’ On asking what they had done to master Dolly, he replied,
with a shake of his head, ‘Naay, noo, Ah deean’t knaw; that war kept a
dark secret. All ’at ivver war knawn, war ’at Tommy ’ed driven a peg
o’ wickenwood inti summat, an’ ‘at he’d thrussen summat thruff t’ au’d
witch’s latch slit, but what it war no man nivver knew, bud it mun ’a’e
been summat varra larl, or else he c’u’dn’t ’a’e thrussen ’t thruff,
an’ he bo’nt’ (burnt) ‘summat at midneet ’at stank warse ’an nowt. Aye!
an’ noo ther war yance a queer thing happen’d at Ness, near Pickhill.’
A man, it seems, took a farm over the head of the then tenant. The man
who had been so shabbily treated had once done a great kindness to
Dolly, though, according to my informant, it was a most risky thing
to offer a kindness to a witch, as they might take offence even at
that. However, in the case mentioned, the kindness had been graciously
accepted. When the new-comers arrived with their goods and chattels,
they found written in blood-red writing on every door and shutter,
these words, BAD LUCK; there was also something written underneath,
which no man could make out. ‘Aye,’ said the old man, in words which
there was no gainsaying, ‘an’ afoor they’d gitten hauf ther sticks in,
doon cam a lahtle bit ov a shelf they’d putten sum pans on, an’ it
tumm’l’d reet on t’ top o’ yan o’ ther bairns, an’ killed it wheer it
stood, an’ ther’s neea gitting ower that; noo, is theer?’
In this same Carthorpe, years ago, one of the houses was suspected of
being witch-held, and everything about the place witch-stricken, and
for some time neither land nor beast throve. It happened that one who
possessed the power of smelling witches slept for a night under this
particular roof. In the morning he said they were quite mistaken in
supposing the house was witch-held, declaring that it was haunted. He
advised them to prevail upon the parson to shout it down. The then
Rector of Burneston, having been seen, kindly undertook the shouting
down of the said spirit. To this end he partook of a good meal, rested
for an hour, and then betook himself to the farmer’s well. There he
read something out of the Prayer Book, which ‘incanted t’ spirit up ti
t’ wellsahd,’ and then the parson called out, ‘For ever and for ay,’
to which the spirit replied, ‘For a year and a day.’ Then the parson at
it again, and the spirit did the same, ‘and they baith went at it leyke
all that foor ower tweea hoors, bud t’ parson gat t’ last wo’d acoz t’
spirit c’u’dn’t ho’d oot neea langer, an’ seea t’ parson wan t’ battle
i’ t’ end, an’ cungled it doon; an’ seea that spirit nivver na mair, at
noa tahm, ivver agaan c’u’d cum oot o’ t’ bad pleeace ti wark ill agaan
neeabody[30].’
For some unexplained reason, witches held in great aversion posthumous
children, more especially male children. In fact their malevolence
was often made manifest prior to the child’s birth. An old dame gave
me the following as having occurred years ago at Kirby Hill, near
Boroughbridge. A young couple, recently married, met the witch (Sally
Carey) near the Devil’s Arrows. What they had done to gain Sally’s
displeasure, legend does not say, but as they passed the old lady she
shook her stick, and almost screamed, ‘Ya want a lad, bud Ah’ll mak it
a lass’; and sure enough, when the baby arrived, it was a girl. They
had hoped it would be a boy, for much future fortune depended upon
their having a son and heir. Still they hoped, should they be blest
with a further addition, that the next arrival would be a boy. Three or
four months after the birth of their daughter, the husband was thrown
off his horse and killed.
Some time after the sad event, and late in the evening, Sally knocked
at the widow’s door; on its being opened, the old hag screamed,
brandishing her stick in the widow’s face, ‘It shan’t be a lad this
tahm, nowther.’ So terrified was her victim that she fainted, and
was found some time afterwards in a doubled-up position and unable to
rise. By-and-by, when sufficiently recovered, her friends strongly
urged her to pay a visit to the wise man of Aldborough. At last she was
prevailed upon to do so, when a supreme effort on his part was made to
break the witch’s power. Much of what the wise man did, the old lady
had forgotten. All she remembered was that at midnight, with closed
doors and windows, a black cat and a black cock bird were roasted
to a cinder, on a fire made from boughs of the rowan-tree; a long
incantation was also pronounced, of which she could not call to mind a
single word, for as she put it, ‘wa war all ti freetened.’ The ’all’
consisted of the widow, my informant—then a maiden—and a mother of
seven sons, the trio being necessary for the working of the charm. When
the baby was born, it was a boy, but a cripple. Once again the wise
man was visited. This time the almost heart-broken mother was assured
that, if she remained unwedded for seven years, her son would outlive
his weakness, his back would grow straight, and all would be well. This
demand was readily complied with. ‘But,’ added the old dame, ‘t’ au’d
witch tried all maks an’ manders o’ waays ti git her ti wed. Ah nivver
knaw’d a lass seea pesthered wi’ chaps iv all mah leyfe. Sha’ (the
witch) ‘war awlus sending some good leyke leeaking chap for ti ’tice
her, bud sha kept single, and bested t’ au’d witch i’ t’ end, fer t’
bairn grew up ti be ez straight an’ strang a chap ez yan need wish ti
clap yan’s e’es on. Ah mahnd him weel, an’ ther’s nowt aboot that.’
Only the other day I met an old fellow who firmly believed not only
in the power of witches, but that they existed at the present day.
He held that the evil eye accounted for many mishaps, which ‘fooak
c’u’dn’t account for nooadays neea road at all.’ Of witches he had
known several, but of fairies he could only speak from hearsay. ‘Nobbut
sum fooak,’ explained he, ‘war yabble ti see t’ fairies’; he had never
possessed that power; but he continued, ‘Ah’ve knawn fooak ’at ’ez
seean ’em monny a tahm, bud that’s years sen noo.’ He had come to the
conclusion that as people had got so into the way of saying there were
no such things, ‘tha ’ed all ta’en t’ hig, an’ takken thersens fo’ther
up t’ dale; bud tha cum back sumtahms ti t’ au’d spots, acoz yan offens
sees t’ rings wheear tha’ve danced owerneet. Onnybody can see t’ rings
fer thersens if tha nobbut tak ther een aboot wiv ’em; bud,’ said he,
emphatically, ‘Ah think ’at tha mun awlus keep ther heead-gear on noo.’
I was given to understand that so long as a fairy kept its cap or
bonnet on it was invisible, but this, I think, is a bit of lore gone
wrong; he ought to have said, so long as they keep their invisible caps
on, &c. This old chap gave me a bit of lore which was quite new to me.
We all know that witches kept a black cat, and as a rule it was a
Thomas cat; but if, to work something especially evil, a witch took to
keeping a black tabby, she was, by some higher power, compelled to keep
that tabby until it had kittens. When this interesting event was about
to come off, the said tabby was securely locked up and guarded until
the expected increase arrived; immediately this happened, the whole
lot were drowned. The reason for this hurried departure of mother cat
and kitten babies from the land of the living was made quite clear.
For had the witch a son when the kittens were born, and any person
managed to steal one of the said kittens, the witch from that moment
became a ’bustard,’ being bereft of all power to work evil; but if up
to that time she had only given birth to girls, she remained a bustard
only until a son was born; then all power was restored to her. My
informant remembers a witch who was made a bustard of, and who never
again regained power to work evil, being too old at the time to dream
of having a son.
Perhaps the most widely adopted anti-witch charm was that of sticking
a beast’s heart full of pins and roasting the same at midnight, being
careful to observe the rule of closed doors and windows, absolute
silence, and the refusal to admit any one during the performance of the
rite; this, however, will be referred to by-and-by.
I think it must be put on record that witches sometimes did good even
if they committed evil to bring it about. To do this, I shall have to
step just over the boundary of the North into the West Riding. There
was a widow residing in the village of Aldfield, whose son, her only
support, lay at death’s door: he, so I was informed, was afflicted with
a disease which was consuming his vitals. After the matter had been
fully discussed by the neighbours, the consuming of his vitals was
pronounced to be the result of a bad wish, the evil eye, or a witch
spell, and, according to their verdict, one Nanny Appleby was suspected
of being the spell-worker. Nanny lived somewhere on the other side
of Dalla Moor. This must have been before the days of the wise man of
Mickley, or assuredly thither the widow would have gone. It seems that
the poor mother screwed up courage to seek Nanny out herself, hoping to
appease her—an almost hopeless task. Anyway, early one morning off she
set; fortunately she met the old witch before she had completed half
her journey.
On being questioned, Nanny swore she was innocent, but declared she
knew what ailed the lad, and offered to go back with her and cure him.
In much fear and trembling, the widow returned with Nanny, to the
astonishment of the whole village. After having been left alone with
the young fellow for some little time, Nanny told the weeping mother
that her lad was possessed of a devil, which she promised to drive out.
By what means she managed to induce the devil to let go his hold ’of
the vitals’ is not known; but a terrific fight took place, furniture
was smashed and pots were broken, amidst yells Satanic, and Nanny came
off victorious. Having got the devil out of the young fellow, the next
thing was, what must be done with the little imp? Nanny, however, seems
to have been equal to the occasion. Of course such a doubtful customer
could not be allowed to roam about at his own sweet will; oh dear no,
Nanny would not grant a favour of that kind. The spirit was commanded
to enter the body of a certain Tom Moss. Probably she had a spite
against Tom; anyway the order seems to have been most promptly obeyed,
for within a month Tom was found drowned in Grantley Lake. The invalid
recovered, and so there is no doubt about anything.
The following witch story unfortunately is wanting in one or two points
of interest. I am unable to give the witch’s name, or with certainty
her dwelling-place. One or two things, however, tend to the belief that
she was the Ayton witch, who flourished about 1750-80. If in this I am
correct, she was known as Au’d Nanny; and though a native of Stokesley,
she lived for many years in a tumble-down old cottage in the far corner
of the green near the mill at Great Ayton.
Though doubtless a terror in her day, nearly all her deeds, like
herself, have passed away. Two or three stories are yet told concerning
Au’d Nanny, but they are unauthenticated and of doubtful origin. They
seem to me most like latter-day ghost stories told to terrify children,
with Nanny’s name tacked on to them. They preserve her memory and
christian name, and that is all.
One story, however, I had from an old lady whose grandmother once had
an encounter with Au’d Nanny. As the story was told to me in that
matter-of-fact way which leaves small room for imagination to exploit
itself, I have no doubt it was repeated, for my benefit, as her mother
or grandmother had told it her years before. The main interest of the
story lies in the fact that it contains a witch’s curse, and sets forth
the proposition that a witch had the power not only of assuming the
form of one recently dead, but could even inhabit the body itself.
To divest the story of much repetition and redundancy, it will be
better to keep mainly to ordinary English.
It seems that her grandmother lived at Stokesley, and had a cousin
living at Kildale, to whom she was deeply attached. This cousin’s name
was Martha Sokeld. One day Martha was taken very ill, and sent for
her cousin Mary Langstaff to come at once and nurse her. Mary sent
word back she would be along directly; so after she had cleaned up and
‘putten things ti reets,’ she put on her hood and shawl and set off to
walk to Kildale—‘an’ it’s a goodish step an’ all, Ah can tell ya; an’
ther’s nowt aboot that.’ Well, when Mary had walked above halfway, she
saw an old woman ’hoppling alang t’ road.’ It seems there was something
about the old lady which struck Mary as curious—‘sha didn’t leyke t’
leeak on her.’ What it was which made her feel certain the old body
approaching was none other than ’t’ au’d witch[31],’ she never could
tell, but such became her conviction. So, to avoid the necessity of
speaking to her, she stooped down and commenced to cull flowers from
the hedge side. But on the old witch drawing near, she called out in a
creaking voice, ‘Thoo’s neea call ti hing thi heead doon i’ that waay.
Ah ken tha, Mary Langstaff, reet weel; aye, ez weel ez if thoo ow’d ma
summat. Noo, ’t wadn’t ’a’e cossen[32] tha mich ti ’a’e passed t’ tahm
o’ daay wi’ ma; bud sitha, Ah s‘an’t forgit ti-daay, an’ Ah knaw all
’at thoo off’ns sez aboot ma an’ all; but Ah’ll paay tha oot for ’t,
Ah’ll paay tha oot for ’t.’ She then banged the ground three times with
her stick, and when my informant’s grandmother looked up, the witch had
disappeared. The reason why the witch did not do her an injury at that
time was easily accounted for—she happened to be wearing in her bosom a
bunch of wicken-tree, i.e. mountain ash, berries.
On arriving at her cousin’s, she found her almost recovered. She stayed
with her a few days and then returned to Stokesley—this was on a Monday
afternoon. Much to her surprise, who should walk in on Wednesday
evening but Martha Sokeld. Martha told her she had had another bad
bout, and felt she was not going to last long, but before she died she
would like to see her sister who lived at Northallerton. She had got a
ride so far on the way that afternoon, and then, after a night’s rest,
she thought she would be able to go by the carrier to Northallerton.
Just then she felt very tired, and thought if Mary would go over to
Hannah’s and get her to put some things together which she wished to
send to her sister, she could manage to get a nap lying on the settle.
She was most pressing that Mary should not hurry back, but stop a good
hour, giving as an excuse—she did not wish to be ‘wakken’d efter sha
’ed yance gitten ti sleep.’ Mary went to Hannah’s, but there was a
something that made her feel very uneasy—she did not know what it was;
‘an’ i’ t’ end it gat sike a grip on her, ‘at sha left an’ set off yam
agaan.’ So that she should not awaken her cousin if she had fallen
asleep, she approached the house very quietly; and peeping between the
shutters (they did not fit very closely), she beheld a sight which
made her ’oppen wide baith e’es’—her cousin, instead of being asleep,
was sitting in front of a blazing fire, dropping things into a pan ‘an’
saying ower an’ up agaain’—
Fire cum,
Fire gan,
Curling smeeak
Keep oot o’ t’ pan.
Here’s a teead, theer’s a frog,
An’ t’ heart frev a crimson ask;
Here’s a teeath fra t’ heead
O’ yan at’s deead,
‘At nivver gat thruff his task[33];
Here’s pricked i’ blood a maiden’s prayer
‘At t’ e’e o’ man maunt see;
It’s pricked reet thruff a yet warm mask,
Lapt aboot a breet green ask,
An’ it’s all foor him an’ thee.
It boils, thoo’ll drink,
He’ll speeak, tho’ll think,
It boils, thoo’ll see,
He’ll speeak, thoo’ll dee.
Something seemed to say to Mary, ‘Sha’s working a curse on thee an’
Tom’ (Tom was her sweetheart). ‘Thoo mun deea summat, or sha’ll mak
mischief atween ya.’ So Mary opened the door and walked boldly in. She
then told the witch—for by this time she had no doubt her visitor was
such—that she had heard all she had said, and seen all she had done.
She then took hold of the Bible, and said, ‘Ya mun deea yer warst; Ah
ho’d byv this,’ meaning the Bible. No sooner had she said that she
had heard and seen all, and declared that she held by the Bible, and
dared her to do her worst, than the witch turned the pan wrong side
up on the fire, and shrieking out, ‘Thoo’s ’scaped ma this tahm, bud
Ah’ll mell on tha yet,’ disappeared. Early next morning a man rode
over from Kildale, with the news that Martha Sokeld was nowhere to be
found, and it was not until three days afterwards that her dead body
was discovered on the moor head. The conclusion come to at that time
(and which my informant thought most probable) was that the witch had
lured Martha on to the moor and then spelled the soul out of her,
taking possession of the body herself, and so deceived her grandmother.
However, her grandmother lived until she was eighty-five, having
brought up a large family; and so, as the old lady put it, ‘Efter that
t’ au’d witch ’ed nivver been yabble ti deea owt tiv her; sha aiblins
off’ns aim’d ti deea, bud it seeams ’at it nivver cam tiv a heead.’
The following further information regarding Molly Cass, the Leeming
witch, of whom mention has been made, was given to me by Abe
Braithwaite, a noted character of Bedale twenty-five years ago. Molly,
although a native of Exelby, lived for many years in a cottage close
to Leeming Mill: some declare in a disused part of the mill itself.
Be that as it may, one night whilst the miller, two others, and Abe’s
grandfather were playing cards in the mill, George Winterfield (one
of the players) had the nine of hearts dealt to him eight times in
succession. As the ninth deal was proceeding, one of the players laid
a guinea on the table, offering to wager Winterfield that amount to a
shilling, that the nine of hearts did not fall to his hand that deal.
‘Put thi brass i’ thi pocket,’ said Au’d Molly, popping her head just
inside the door; ‘thi brass is nut foor him, an’ his brass is nut
foor thee. Put thi brass i’ thi pocket, an’ leeak sharp aboot it.’ So
terrified was the owner of the guinea of gaining the ill-will of Molly,
that he pocketed his guinea at once. When the last card of the deal
fell, and whilst the cards still lay on the table, Molly said, ‘Thoo’s
gitten ’t again, George; tak thi han’ up and see,’ and such turned out
to be the case. ‘Aye, thoo’s gitten it hard eneeaf, an’ thoo’s had it
eight times alriddy; t’ au’d un’s[34] i’ tha noo, an’ he’ll nut leeav
tha whahl he’s gitten tha altogither. Thoo hed thi chance, an’ thoo
wadn’t tak’t, seea Ah’ve potched it inti t’ Swale’ (the name of the
river hard by), ‘an’ thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan theer ti late it. T’ Swale’s
waiting ti be thi brahdal bed. Thoo’d better gan noo; think on t’
langer thoo waits, an’ t’ langer thoo’ll stay[35].’ On hearing this,
George, turning as white as chalk, arose, saying, ‘Ah’ll wed her; Ah’ll
mak an honest woman on her, if thoo’ll nobbut gi’e ma anuther chance;
Ah’ve rewd all ’at Ah’ve deean.’ To which Molly replied, ‘Ah’s nut
off’ns i’ t’ mahnd o’ gi’ing onnybody yah chance, let aleean tweea;
thoo sez ’at thoo’ll tak her ti thi bed, Ah’ve sed ’at thoo s’all gan
tiv hers. Noo, then, gan thi waays; thi brahd’s waiting foor tha, sha’s
ligging asleep on a bed o’ bulls an’ segs. Oh, what a brahdal bed! Oh,
what a brahdal bed!’ she screamed, banging to the door.
Winterfield left the company, saying he would go at once to his old
sweetheart and promise to marry her. The night was intensely dark, and
whether he missed his way and slipped into the beck, which was much
swollen at the time, and his body drifted into the Swale, or whether
it was as Molly shouted to him as he left, ‘Good-neet, George, all
roads leead ti t’ Swale ti-neet,’ it is impossible to say. One thing,
however, is certain—though he joined his old sweetheart, he never saw
her again. It was as a corpse the current carried him along, and left
his body late that night by the side of her, who, only a few hours
before, in a fit of desperation and despair, had confided to the
silent waters the whole of her sin and shame. Both bodies were found
quite close together, tightly held by the ‘bulls and segs,’ in the
backwater where the beck joins the Swale. I well remember, when fishing
near the spot late in the evening for eels, an old lady remarking on
what she considered my temerity, for she fully believed that any one
who ventured near at midnight would see the dead body of a girl, and
presently that of a man, float by, both being quite visible until they
joined each other in the high seaves and bulrushes.