WITCHCRAFT—_continued_
So far as we have gone, it will be evident to those who read a
little between the lines, that mixed up with fact, imagination, and
exaggeration, there exists a very considerable amount of respectable
myth. But to which of the ancient myths we owe many of the stories
told in connexion with our local witches, is often somewhat difficult
to determine; but certain it is that nearly all of them possessed the
power, so common to those of an earlier date, of changing themselves
into some animal, the hare and cat being the favourite forms which
they assumed when hard pressed. Very similar stories exhibiting
this power are told of the following well-known local witches, all
of whom flourished during the present century:— Peggy Flaunders, of
Marske-by-the-Sea; Bessy Slack, of West Burton, Wensleydale; Nanny
Pearson, of Goathland; the Guisborough witch, Ann Grear; Nan Hardwicke,
of Spittal Houses; Au’d Nanny, of Great Ayton; Nanny Howe, of Kildale;
and Nanny Newgill, of Broughton and Stokesley. Then there was Dolly
Makin and Au’d Mother Stebbins, who seem to have had no regular place
of abode, but tramped the country with a few small wares.
Of these and others, pretty much the same stories are told, differing
only in slight details. These also bear a very strong resemblance to
others current in different parts of Europe, but of much earlier times.
Then, too, we have their malicious attacks on the dairy, either in
the form of spoiling or purloining the produce, or in surreptitiously
milking the cows, though the latter was more prevalent further north,
and often practised by the German witches. But in the exercise of the
evil eye, and in the committal of all manner of evil acts, our North
Riding witches held a position second to none.
Again, the methods used to overcome their power and break their spells,
as has been said, runs very much on the same lines throughout Europe.
Peggy Flaunders died in 1835, at the age of eighty-five, and was buried
in the churchyard at Marske-by-the-Sea.
Many old people have a lively remembrance of Peggy, with her tall hat
and red cloak; and the stories which are told to-day of the pranks
she played and the wonders she worked, make us open our eyes with
amazement, because we are not listening to the marvellous deeds of
some person who lived in mediaeval times, but of one who lived amongst
those now living. Do you wish to hear of her doings from one who knew
her? then find your way to Boyes Wetherell’s cottage, and have a chat
with the old worthy, and you will have such an outpouring of ancient
customs, rites, lore, smuggling stories, and the doings of days gone
by, together with touches of his own eventful life, as will stock your
mind with information such as it is only possible to obtain from an
original source[36].
But of Peggy and her doings.
On one occasion Peggy is said to have cast a spell against one Tom
Pearson (who lived on a farm near Marske), and every head of cattle
he possessed died. Whether this ruined him or not, is not known, but
he left the farm, and his cousin took it. As this cousin crossed the
threshold for the first time, Peggy passed by. (This cousin, it seems,
had once befriended Peggy.) She called out to him as she passed, ‘Thoo
’ez mah good wishes,’ and with that she turned three times round, threw
her cloak on the ground, jumped over it, mumbled something, and walked
away, and from that day everything prospered ’awlus wiv him.’
For three weeks in succession, Hannah Rothwell’s butter didn’t come
rightly, churn as long as she might; and at the same time Mary Parker,
her next-door neighbour, began to get very little milk from her cow.
These two old worthies having talked the matter over, decided they
would pay a visit to Jonathan Westcott of Upleatham, a wise man of that
day[37]. Jonathan, on hearing what they had to say, declared it was
all owing to Peggy’s malice. So far as Mrs. Rothwell was concerned,
she was told to return home, scald her churn out three times, first
with boiling water, in which a handful of salt had been dissolved;
secondly, with boiling water in which a handful of wicken-tree berries
had been thrown; and, thirdly, with a large amount of plain boiling
water. She had also to get two small wickenwood pegs and drive them
into each end of the churn, and whilst turning the churn with the last
filling of water, she had to repeat, as she pretended to look if the
butter was coming,—
This tahm it’s thahn,
T’ next tahm it’s mahn,
An’ mahn foor ivver mair.
This had to be repeated nine times, giving nine turns before repeating
the lines, when the churn would be found to be all right. At least
it would be quite clean, and that is needful for the making of good
butter. The milk case was a much more difficult one to tackle. However,
after Jonathan had consulted his almanack, and seen what direction and
position the heavenly bodies were in—he was great on the planetary
world—he advised the following: first, a good drench[38] must be
given the cow, followed by gentle exercise; secondly, it was not to
be milked to its full yield for nine days, but on the tenth, before
seating herself to milk, Mary had to whisper in the cow’s ear, ‘Ah’s
milking tha foor Peggy Flaunders.’ The cow would then yield its proper
quantity. This pious fraud of deliberately whispering tarradiddles into
the cow’s ear had to be continued indefinitely. On the other hand, if
after having so whispered Mary drew no more milk than usual, Jonathan
declared Peggy had nothing to do with the case, that she would be free
from all suspicion of milking the cow at home by magic art, and that
it was nothing ’neea warse ’an that t’ au’d coo war a larl bit oot o’
fettle, an’ wad mebbins cum roond iv a bit; if nut, sha mud git shut
on’t sumhoo.’
On one occasion some sportsmen, coursing in the old close field at
the top end of Marske, put up a hare, which was recognized as one the
dogs had often tried unsuccessfully to capture. Peggy’s son was one
of the company. The lad, it seems, had heard his mother say no hare
could escape their black bitch, but he was to be very careful not to
mention the fact, and never to slip it at one without her consent. In
the excitement the lad disregarded his mother’s commands, and repeated
what she had said. The black bitch was slipped, and, after an exciting
chase, seized the hare by the haunch just as it was trying to enter
Peggy’s worral hole[39]. On Peggy being examined, teeth-marks were
found on a corresponding part of her body.
The Guisborough witch, Jane Grear, was perhaps more widely known than
Peggy. She, like Peggy, was bitten by a dog, and bore the marks until
the day of her death. She received her injuries when trying to jump
through her own key-hole: it must have been either a very small hare
she had turned herself into, or she must have owned an abnormally
large key-hole; but this is a matter of detail. Whatever Jane may have
been like in the decline of her life, in her youthful days she must
have been quite a good-looking girl. There are two old rhymes still
remembered, one of which tells of her various charms, perhaps a little
too freely. So much into detail does it go, that only a few lines can
possibly be given. The second recounts a mighty hunt which once took
place.
* * * * *
Plump ez a suker[40] war Jinny when young,
Wi’ t’ waast an’ t’ bust[41] ov a queen;
T’ gallants an’ t’ bucks did all on ’em sweear
Sha beeat owt ’at ivver tha’d seen.
Her hair it war black ez an au’d raven wing,
An’ breet war t’ glint ov her een;
Neea kerchief hauf hid sike an _ivory breast_[41],
Whahl her throat wad ’a’e deean foor a queen;
An’ larl war her feet, an’ trim war her waast,
An’ reead ez a roaze war her lips,
Whahl her cheeks egg’d yan on for ti steeal a sly kiss,
An’ shaply an’ roond war her hips.
* * * * *
An’ when, tripping ti music, sha pulled up her goon,
Tweea feet war nivver mair nim (nimble);
Her ankles an’ buckles fair ’wildered yan’s seet,
An’ seea, mun, did t’ shap ov each limb.
Bud noo ’at Ah’s au’d, Ah finnd ’at sha’s t’ seeam.
Her charms ’ev all swithered awaay;
Sha ’s ugly ez muck, wi’ black blood iv her heart.
Au’d Scrat’s[42] bowt her sowl, seea tha saay.
* * * * *
It would seem that Jane, like Peggy, occasionally afforded sportsmen
a good run; at least, so the following would lead us to believe.
But here, again, much has had to be suppressed, being unfit for
publication. The lines, however, which are given are valuable, showing
as they do that several old customs were quite common at the time—about
1820, I should imagine.
* * * * *
Fra t’ Applegarth, ti Slapewath slack,
Wi’oot a rist i’ seet all t’ waay,
Sha (the hare) teeak uz roond byv t’ alum warks
Ti Aisdale gaate, an’ gat awaay.
* * * * *
Wa knocked at Tom’s, bud he warn’t up;
Bud then, it’s t’ seeam wiv all. Besahd,
Yan may loup up ti cauv a coo,
Bud finnd t’ bed pull ti leeave a brahd.
* * * * *
Wa drank ther healths at Jack’s belaw,
Wa wished em weel, an’ soup’d wer beer,
All hoaping when tha did git up
Tha wad tigither loup on t’ fleear[43].
* * * * *
Jack leeaked bit dazed, an’ hauf asleep;
Bud then, he’s a fair Tyke wi’ t’ lasses.
He cuddles, kisses, drinks wiv all;
Neea hot pot ivver by him passes.
* * * * *
T’ race he’d won, an’ t’ brahd he’d kissed,
On t’ thresho’d knelt, her garter gitten,
Fra snowy breasts ther kerchiefs stown,
Then wi’ ther budding charms war smitten.
* * * * *
Again they put up the hare, and the old dog gave chase.
Fra Scaling dyke ti Wapley end,
Thruff Tommy[44] geese an’ Mary[44] stee,
Alang t’ au’d to’npike, here then theer
That witched hare alang did flee.
Neea cleeaser did wa ivver git,
Neea gerter leead it ivver teeak;
Ten yards i’ front o’ Billy bitch—
Fra t’ fost it seeam’d a narrer squeeak.
At last ’mang heather, brackken, whin,
Lang stanghow bru’, wi’ hosses blawn,
An’ Billy bitch wi’ tongue loll’d oot,
Fair beeaten it war fain ti awn.
Just when, wi’ yah gert loup, t’ bitch thowt
Ti grab t’ hare haunch, t’ poor spent au’d bitch
Fan nowt ti snap at; t’ hare ’ed geean.
An’ then wa kenn’d wa’d hunted t’ witch[45].
I know a very similar set of verses exist, telling of a wonderful run
after a hare in connexion with Bilsdale and that district. But the
language, in fact the whole tone of the rhyme, is much too loose for
the publication of any part of it.
A word here explaining what is meant by witches milking cows may not be
out of place. It has been mentioned that Peggy Flaunders was thought to
have drawn the milk from one Mary Parker’s cow. How or by what means,
deponent sayeth not, but one Ann Allan, of Ugthorpe, who kept pigs, was
almost caught in the act. This was about 1780, and as Ann’s procedure
was run on much the same lines as the most respectable witches used
some hundreds of years before her time, we may take hers as a typical
example.
Not one, but three or four Ugthorpe cows ceased to give their usual
quantity of milk. Of course the villagers talked, and at last the
priest was visited; but a hundred years ago many of the clergy, both
of Rome and the Church of England, so far as learning was concerned,
would have been knocked into a cocked hat by a Primitive Methodist
local brother of these days. So it will be readily conceived the visit
to the priest resulted in very little good. He declared the devil had
got hold of the defaulting cows by the tail, and this made them hold
their milk back; he further assured them the only way to get the devil
to let go was to say three pater nosters and Ave Marias over their
milk-pails, and to subscribe a certain sum, which had to be paid to
him, to celebrate a mass to Saint somebody, who would send a holy
angel to frighten the devil away. Now, I know nothing about doctoring
cows, but I am inclined to the belief that old Jonathan Westcott,
of Upleatham, was much nearer effecting a cure, when he ordered an
aperient draught, to be followed by gentle exercise, than prayers
muttered inside any number of milk-cans.
I believe the good people of that day would have fallen in with the
prayers, but they drew a hard and fast line when the collection box
obtruded itself. They returned home dissatisfied. They were losing
their milk—that they could not help; but they could prevent their
pockets being dipped into, and they did. Another meeting was held, and
a watch was set on Ann, but nothing came of it. At last a neighbour’s
cow dried up altogether. At this the good man was so exasperated, that
he went to Ann’s and boldly accused her of milking the cows. Words
ran high, till in the end he seized a three-legged stool, intending
to hurl it at Ann’s head, when, lo! a curious thing happened—as
he gripped the leg of the stool, a stream of milk ran from it. The
neighbours, who by this time had flocked round the door, cried out
with one voice: ‘Thoo’s gitten ’t; that’s what sha milks wer coos
wi’.’ And sure enough such was found to be the case. On the name of
any neighbour’s cow being mentioned, and a leg of the stool handled as
in milking, a fine stream of milk came from it, and the bag of that
individual’s cow was found on examination to have shrunk. No wonder
she had fat pigs, when she could give them new milk in any quantity
and from any one’s cow she liked to name. Such a stool was not a fit
piece of furniture for any one to possess, so it was publicly burnt
on the moor just beyond the high end of the village, near to where
the windmill stands. Ann was ordered to walk three times from one end
of the village to the other, clothed in nothing but her sark[46],
i.e. chemise. The Godivan rule, which compelled every one to keep
within doors during the time of penance, seems (so far as Ugthorpe was
concerned) to have been absolutely reversed—they were all there, even
down to the babies in arms. From all accounts, Ugthorpe has never had
quite such a lively time since. Before judging the people and the ways
of that time as altogether too idiotic, indecent, and unjust, it is as
well to bear in mind that every age has its curious idiosyncrasies. In
1898 affiliation cases are heard in open court; a man may nearly kick
the life out of his wife with a pair of clogs at a small outlay of
about seven-and-six; but stealing a turnip necessitates a low form of
diet, and enforced seclusion for three months. These masterpieces of
our time will bring a smile to faces yet unborn.
Nan Hardwicke’s fame at one time was great, and her name and deeds
still live in many of the Cleveland dales. I remember once being
driven to Westerdale by an old chap, who gave me the following story.
I think the circumstance occurred to his father, and not himself—on
this point my notes are silent, anyway. Either his mother or his wife
was expecting the advent of a new baby, and the expectant mother’s
sister had to be sent for, to some place about five miles distant.
That afternoon Nan Hardwicke called as she was passing (she must have
been some miles from home), and asked for ’a shive o’ breead an’ a pot
o’ beer,’ which were given her. Nan let them know she was aware of
all that was about to transpire. Finishing her food, she opened the
door of the room where the wife was lying, and poking her head inside,
said, ‘Ah wish ya weell; ya’ll ’ev a lad afoor morning, an’ ya’ll call
him Tommy, weean’t ya?’ ‘Whya, wa ’a’e made up wer mahnds ti call him
John,’ replied the wife. ‘Aye, mebbe, bud ya’d best call him Tommy; an’
thanking ya, Ah’ll be saying good-daay ti ya.’ And with that she closed
the door and departed. The husband, on being made acquainted with the
witch’s request, declared that nothing of the sort should happen—John
they had decided to call the bairn, and John it should be—he dare not
run the risk of changing its name then. About six o’clock that evening
the husband put his horse in the gig, or whatever he had, and drove
away to bring back the sister-in-law. About three miles on the journey,
he had to cross a small bridge, but when within twenty or thirty yards
of it, the horse stopped, and could not be persuaded to move a step
further. The good man at last decided to get out and lead the mare
over, but in this he was wrong. Much to his amazement, he discovered he
could not leave his seat—he was ‘ez fast ez owt.’ Vainly did he strive,
but it was of no use. At last he came to the conclusion that a spell
was on them both, so he called out, ‘Noo, Nan, what’s ti eftther? this
is thi wark.’ Immediately he heard Nan commence to laugh, and then she
shouted, but he did not know where the voice came from, ‘Thoo’ll call
t’ bairn Tommy, weean’t ta?’ The husband was desperately bold for those
days, for he shouted, ‘Neea, Ah weean’t, nowther foor thoo na all t’
Nan divils i’ t’ country.’ ‘Then thoo’ll bahd wheer thoo is, whahl t’
bairn’s born an’ t’ muther dees,’ croaked Nan. This, in its way, was a
bit of a clincher, to sit stuck fast in a gig, neither able to proceed
nor get out, at a time too when all speed was necessary; add to this
a sinister threat of immediate death of the one he most loved, unless
he consented to christen an unborn child Tommy, when he had decided
to name it Johnny, and with a feeling at the bottom of his heart that
there was a margin for uncertainty, and that after all it might happen
to be a girl. Taking all these things into consideration, was it to be
wondered that he gave way, and swore the child, if a boy, should be
christened Tom? Having made this promise, he was allowed to proceed on
his way.
But Nan did not always have her own way. She had a habit of hiding
herself amongst the whins and brackens, which grew in abundance near
her humble roof. The young men used to collect all the hounds together
and put them on the scent of Au’d Nan. According to legend, they had
many a good run, ‘bud tha nivver catch’d her.’ One other unrecorded
story of Nan[47].
Nan had a relation living at Lowna Bridge, to whom she occasionally
paid a visit. This relation, I believe, only looked forward with
pleasure to Nan’s departure. On this point, however, Nan seems to
have been pretty thick-skinned. It is a mystery how this journey was
accomplished. Some thought she turned herself into a hare and ran the
distance of twenty miles easily in that form; anyway, the fact remains
that now and again Au’d Nan turned up at Lowna Bridge. It may, _en
passant_, be mentioned that human nature was very much the same in the
early part of this century as it is to-day. I mean, poor relations
are never welcome; their presence, or anything which calls them to
mind, makes one feel we ought to do something which we had very much
rather not do—their presence digs the spur into one’s conscience, you
know! But to return to Nan and her Lowna relations. I believe the
following occurred on her last visit: she arrived just after the bridal
procession of the daughter of the house had returned from church.
By-and-by the question arose—where could Au’d Nan sleep? On this
particular occasion every bed had more than one claimant already. The
matter was solved by a kindly bridesmaid offering to take Nan home and
share her bed with her, and then bring her back when the guests had
departed. Unfortunately, the bride, not knowing that Nan was near, said
to her friend, ‘Relation though the old thing is, I would not sleep
with her for anything.’ At this Nan turned round and, before the whole
company, exclaimed, ‘Neea, bud thoo wad sleep wi’ him,’ pointing to the
bridegroom; and then she added, shaking her stick,—
Ah’ve let tha be wedded,
Bud Ah’ll stop tha being bedded;
and so saying, turned about and left the house. Good cheer and bonny
bridesmaids soon banished any gloom the old lady’s words for the moment
had cast over the party.
Late that evening, after the bride had retired to rest, one of the
bridesmaids, sister of the bridegroom, whispered to him, that it would
be useless trying to join his bride by way of the stairs, as there
was a plot on foot to keep him with the revellers the night long—not
an uncommon thing in those days—it often needing all the scheming of
bride and bridesmaids, to outwit the well-laid plots of the bucks of
those gay old times. The plan which the bridesmaids had arranged for
the bridegroom’s escape, was that a game of blindman’s-buff should
be played, and on a given signal a maiden was to call out, ‘Kiss the
girl you love in the dark’; on this being said, every candle was to
be blown out, and the bridegroom had to seize the opportunity to
escape. A ladder had been placed underneath the bride’s window, and
although it was a little short, the bridesmaids had tied a long towel
to the window-sash, by which he could pull himself through the window.
Everything worked splendidly until he was just going to pull himself
up by the towel, when some half-intoxicated idiot discovered he was
escaping, and pulled the ladder from underneath him, bringing him to
the ground with an awful bang. The poor fellow, on being carried into
the house, was found to have broken his leg. The old lady was right
after all. It seems they did have their little excitements in the good
old days of yore—in these days it is a shower of rice[48] and an old
shoe.
Wrightson, the wise man of Stokesley, although he died about seventy
years ago, has left such a record behind as few men in his position
ever build up to their credit[49]. He was known as the wise man of
Stokesley. He was the seventh son of a seventh daughter; and whether
such a concatenation of circumstances lift a man out of the ordinary
rut, I am not in a position to say. But judging Wrightson from the
lips of those who knew him—they are all about gone now—or from those
who have heard of him from their parents, one cannot but come to the
conclusion, that he was undoubtedly a man endowed with marvellous
psychic power, and with the smallest amount of charlatanry possible.
In fact, all agree in testifying to the fact that he claimed nothing
beyond the power which belonged to all such as are born under similar
circumstances; and that sort of thing was fully believed in then, and,
I might add, is yet, for the matter of that.
In dealing with such a celebrity—for such he was, his fame extending
far beyond the boundary of the North Riding—one cannot be too
particular as to the source from whence information is obtained.
Fortunately, years ago, I knew an old Yorkshireman, already alluded
to—William Scorer, a native of Basedale, but who for some years kept
an inn at Fearby above Masham. During the time I knew him, he was the
landlord of the Fleece, Bedale. He personally knew Wrightson.
Take the following as examples of the man’s marvellous power. A friend
of Scorer[50] had bought several head of cattle at Northallerton fair.
These had to be driven to Stokesley; to this end they were given in
charge of an old drover who was driving a lot to the same place for
another buyer. The drover, arriving late at night, put the two droves
into a field about a quarter of a mile on the other side of Stokesley,
but in the morning two of Scorer’s beasts were missing; the drover
declared they were all there when he gated them the night before. A
suspicion somehow arose that the old chap had sold them on the way, and
pocketed the money. At that time they were altogether without any proof
that he had done anything of the kind.
The only way to discover if their surmises were correct, was to visit
Wrightson. But to put the wise man’s power to the test, they decided to
say it was a horse they had lost; arguing, if he really knew anything
that could help them, he would find out the trick which was being
played upon him. On entering his cottage, and before they could speak,
Wrightson shouted from the scullery, where he was washing himself, ‘Noo
then, if you chaps is sharp eneaaf, an’ ez that mich off’ (i.e. know
that much) ‘’at ya can manish ti to’n tweea coos intiv a hoss, it’s
neea ewse cumin’ ti me, foor Ah can’t to’n a hoss back inti tweea coos,
an’ seea ya’d better mak yersens scarce. Ah’ve nowt ti saay ti ya.’
And for some time the wise man was past all persuasion. In the end he
shouted, without leaving the scullery, ‘Tha’re baith i’ t’ beck, an’
tha’ve been theer sen yester neet.’ And sure enough both their bodies
were found a good mile below the bridge; evidently they had missed the
bridge when being driven over late the night before, and had both been
drowned in the Leven, which was much swollen by recent rain. Here, as
in many other stories told of the marvellous man, was an evidence of
foreknowledge; and many of them rest upon what must be admitted to be
very reliable testimony, and vouched for by most respectable people
of that time[51]. Now for the other story, which occurred some years
afterwards.
One Nathan Agar, for security, hid a stocking-foot (in which he had
wrapped five golden guineas) under a portion of the thatch. One
day, intending to add another golden one to his store, he found the
stocking-foot, guineas and all, had vanished. Nathan said nothing
to any one, but just went straight to Wrightson. ‘Thoo’ll knaw what
Ah’ve cum’d aboot,’ said Nathan. Wrightson at once twitted the old
man, touching some previous conversation they had held as to the
advisability of Nathan, who was about sixty years of age, marrying a
girl not quite nineteen. But the combined wisdom and unhappy future
which had been foretold by Wrightson, had not been sufficient to
overcome the old fool’s idiotic passion for the buxom lass. In the end
he was told to go home, and when no one was in the house, he had to
lift up the flag in front of the doorstep, and place a certain leaf
of the Bible underneath, and carefully watch who stumbled over the
threshold as they entered. This, Nathan most carefully carried out. The
first who entered was their young lodger, and he stumbled; after awhile
in came the wife, and she stumbled. I don’t know if the flag tilted,
or whether the next person would have stumbled also, because Nathan
didn’t wait to test the result of a third entry, but hurried off to
Wrightson, to whom he made known the result. Wrightson told him that
his property was hidden in a certain part of a pig-sty, together with
an old watch, which up to that time Nathan had not missed. Other and
more serious charges were made, which for ever destroyed Nathan’s hope
of future happiness. Wrightson’s advice was that he should return home,
secure his watch, give them the five guineas, and send them about their
business. This was promptly carried out, and I believe is the quickest
and cheapest divorce proceeding on record. One other story has just
come into my mind, which, if true, proves to what a wonderful degree
he must have possessed a clairvoyant power.
A lady residing in some part of South Durham was likely to die from a
lump in her throat—possibly a quinsy. Nothing that was done gave her
ease; at last some one suggested the wise man of Stokesley. A man on
horseback was dispatched—I believe the son of the lady. On approaching
Wrightson’s house, even before he got to the door, the wise man looked
out, saying, as the young man came up, ‘Bait thi hoss, git summat ti
eat, an’ git thisen back agaan; t’ bleb’s brussen; sha’s all reet now;’
i.e. ‘Bait your horse, get some refreshment, and return home again; the
lump has burst; she is all right now.’
I have just had the following story given me by Old Willie Bradley of
Great Ayton. His father, who was a quarryman, had some tools stolen,
and, like every one else in those days, he went to Wrightson. ‘Noo,
then,’ said that worthy, on Willie’s father entering, ’thoo’s cum’d
aboot thi teeals, bud Ah can deea nowt fur tha, ez they’ve been hugg’d
accross watter; bud Ah can let tha see wheear tha’re liggin.’ Wrightson
then put him in front of a seeing-glass (looking-glass) in a darkened
room, and told him to keep looking at the glass, telling him if he
took his eyes off something awful would happen, but my informant
cannot remember what. Anyway, his father never was so terrified in
all his life, and wished he had never bothered about the lost tools.
In a little while, however, he saw them quite plainly, lying amongst
some bracken in a wood—the place he recognized quite easily. On
telling Wrightson what he had seen, he was cautioned not to touch
them. Wrightson said he must bring him a live magpie. This he tried to
obtain, but failed; he could not catch one, neither, for some reason,
would any boy who had one part with his pet; so, after a week, he
had to tell the wise man that the task was impossible. ‘Then,’ said
Wrightson, ‘Ah caan’t wark him onny harm, an’ thoo’ll ‘ ti loss the
teeals[52].’
Other stories of this man’s foreknowledge could be given almost ad lib.
Many of his methods suggested and adopted were of the heart-frizzling,
pin-sticking, wickenwood, and bottery-tree order. His rites and
ceremonies, too, occasionally savoured of the time in which he lived;
and, after all, there is not much to wonder at.
We are most of us very much influenced by the environments of our
own day; and after seeing a few of my own sex in Town, I can forgive
Wrightson much. Like many another clever man, he played to suit his
audience, and sang the songs of the day. There was, if all is true, no
need that he should have done so, and possibly he knew it—who knows?
Nanny Pearson was held in great fear by the good people of Goathland,
and that, too, a good way into the present century. As a witch of
the old school, Nanny’s fame was not confined to that locality. Many
stories are still told of her and her doings, two of which I will
give, as they afford a bit of new information, i.e. the power which
holy water had over witches. I believe in her younger days she was a
communicant of the Roman Catholic faith; be that as it may, she was
neither better nor worse than her sister witches of any other faith, or
no faith at all. It seems that a Mrs. Webster had a goose, which, as
was the custom of the time, was sitting on a cletch of eggs near the
fireside. Now, Nanny came daily to Mrs. Webster’s for milk, bringing an
empty jug, which she left, taking a full one away with her. The goose
was set one morning, and remained dutifully on her nest until evening;
but as Nanny approached the house, off flew the goose in a great state
of agitation, breaking two eggs, and could not be pacified until Nanny
was well off the premises. The same thing occurred each time Nanny came
for her milk, until some one, who was going to Scarborough, called upon
the wise man and asked his advice. He told them to get a little holy
water, put it in the jug with Nanny’s milk, and her power would be
broken—I suppose that meant her power over the goose, for she worked a
vast deal of ill after that. This was done; the jug with the holy water
and milk in due course was handed to Nanny, and just as she took hold
of it, the goose plucked up courage and flew at her, knocking it out of
her hand. It was broken in the fall, the contents splashing over her
feet and gown; with a shriek she fled, and from that day the goose was
never disturbed again.
Years ago, the Squire of Goathland had a very beautiful daughter.
Some old chap with any amount of money, and quite ugly, wished to
wed her, and for some unknown reason the Squire favoured his suit;
but, as is often the case, the damsel had given her heart to a young
farmer in the neighbourhood. The elder lover got it into his head
the couple would elope, so he sought the aid of Nanny; and the old
hag helped him with a vengeance, inasmuch as she so sorely afflicted
the damsel that she could not rise from her bed, and her legs began
to die—I don’t quite know what that means; anyway, her limbs became
useless. Her father told her that one of the female saints was greatly
displeased with her obduracy, and would not restore power to her limbs
until she consented to marry the man of his choice. This she flatly
refused to do, choosing rather to die outright. The younger lover was
distracted; he could not gain any reliable information, and a personal
interview was impossible. So he did as every one else did in those
days—he paid a visit to the wise man of Scarborough. The wise man,
after a considerable performance of his own, placed a seeing-glass in
front of the young fellow, desiring him to gaze steadily thereon, and
to tell him if he saw the likeness of any one appear. Presently the
young chap swore he had seen the face of Nanny Pearson. The wise man,
on hearing this, declared that she was the origin of all the evil,
and told him to return home, procure by some means a drop of Nanny’s
blood, and steal a few drops of holy water; these had to be mixed in a
cup of milk drawn from a red cow, and rubbed by him on the soles and
calves of his lady-love, when all would be well. This was a strongish
order, and well-nigh staggered the young chap. Firstly, how was he to
procure a drop of Nanny’s blood? Stealing the holy water was a simple
affair, as also was the red cow’s milk; but how to gain admission to
his lady-love’s chamber, and apply the remedies when obtained, was not
only a task of difficulty, but of danger. Bear in mind this was in the
days of dogs and horsewhips, which were often freely used; but then, as
now, love laughs at difficulties. Once let him become possessed of a
drop of Nanny’s blood, and he would overcome all the other obstacles.
On making his trouble known to an old dame in the village, one Janet
Haswell, she told him something he already knew in part, i.e. that in
a certain field a hare nightly sat, which neither dog could catch nor
man shoot; this hare, declared the old lady, was none other than Nanny
herself. She further assured him that if he melted some silver and made
shot of it, he would be able to hit the hare, and perhaps he might
find some blades of grass stained with blood. Most carefully the young
fellow carried out the old dame’s advice. He was successful; he hit the
hare, and found several blades of grass spotted with blood, which he
carefully gathered. Next day Nanny was confined to bed, and for some
weeks after. At the time, he alone knew the cause. Having procured a
ladder, he invaded his love’s room, and applied the remedy, when she
recovered instantly; he then retired. The damsel, rising and dressing
herself, descended the ladder, and was conveyed to a place of safety,
where she remained until they were wedded. This, by-the-way, I believe
is the first recorded case of massage.
A curious belief still clings to Gribdale Gate. Any one who dares to
stand near the said gate on New Year’s Eve, will see an old man open
it, pass through, and then vanish. This takes place just as the new
year is born. There is one man still living in Great Ayton who has seen
the old chap thus herald in the new year. Again, old people of Great
Ayton still aver that on a certain night a once noted witch, Nanny
Howe, may be seen riding astride on a broomstick over Howe Wood just at
midnight. This witch, so mounted, is said once to have chased the devil
for miles—on this occasion the two must have fallen out; perhaps at
that time honest folk got their due. Howe Wood is near Kildale.
Ailer Wood, her real name being Alice, was a witch of considerable note
throughout the Bilsdale district fifty years ago. In the form of a cat
or hare, she seems to have cared little either what kind or colour the
hounds were which chased her. She never was caught, but then she had a
little way of making herself invisible when too hard pressed; but in
this she was not alone, a case in point having already being mentioned.
Innumerable times was she fired at, ‘bud nivver nobody could hit her.’
On one occasion a damsel named Annie Wilson felt sure the old thing
had bewitched her sweetheart. The reason for such a supposition lay in
the fact that the young fellow had transferred his affections to some
other fair charmer. My idea is that the other girl had bewitched him;
that, however, was not Annie’s notion. She, like many another maiden
of her time, went with the sorrow of her aching heart to the wise man
of those parts, one Henry Wilson, who, after carefully listening to
Annie’s woeful story, told her how she could discover if it was the
witch who had cast a spell on her lover. She was to return home, turn
the cricket[53] wrong side uppermost, pushing pretty close together
and very securely into the wood nine pins, saying, as she pushed in
the last one, ‘There’s nine for him and her and the witch’; in another
place she had to push in another nine, repeating at the ninth, ‘There’s
nine for the witch and her and him’; and lastly, in another place,
another nine, concluding at the ninth by saying, ‘And there is nine
more for all three of them, wi’ her in t’ middle.’ By this arrangement,
the vile creature who had stolen her lover, was always mentioned so
that she occupied a place nearest the witch. All this having been
accomplished, the stool had to be set on its feet, and, under some
pretext or other, Ailer was to be induced to seat herself thereon. On
doing so, she would be unable to get up again until she truly answered
any questions Annie asked her. Everything was carried out as ordered by
Wilson: Ailer was called in, and offered a cup of tea, the stool having
been pushed toward her; she was invited to seat herself, and have her
bite and sup comfortably. Now, was ever a maiden nearer finding out
just why her lover had deserted her? The stool was even put in front
of the fire, and Ailer again invited to seat herself; but no, the
witch quietly replied, it would not be possible for her to enjoy the
good things they had given her, seated on the back of a ‘pricky-back
otch’n[54].’ Ailer by some means had found out what had been done, and
so escaped the charm which had been prepared for her.
No doubt exists in the minds of many people now, that hedgehogs milk
the cows[55]. It seems they creep up to them whilst they are resting,
and draw their milk from them. My old friend told me they always killed
a hedgehog whenever they saw one, for that reason.
One Nancy Newgill, a Broughton witch, used to set hedgehogs to milk the
cows of those she had a spite against, and it was commonly believed
that at times she used to turn herself into one, and then ‘neeabody’s
coos had onny chance’; anyway, there was one hedgehog which could run
as fast as a hare, and never was catched, ‘ner killed ner nowt.’ This
Nancy Newgill cast a spell on a certain Martha Brittain, from which
she could obtain no ease, no matter what she took; so off to the wise
man[56] Martha went. She was told to go to Stokesley, and buy a new
fire-shovel, upon which she had to chalk Nancy’s name[57]; then to make
a cake—the ingredients need not be given—and, after closing her doors
and window, the cake was to be baked upon the shovel resting on the
fire. This was done at four o’clock in the afternoon[58]. Now, at the
time this cake was being baked, Nancy Newgill was ’luking’ weeds in a
field a mile away, and standing quite close to her was my informant,
Mrs. Peary. Suddenly Nancy clapped her hand on her stomach, crying out,
‘Ah mun gan yam! Ah mun gan yam!’ She left the field, and was ill for
days after; but Martha Brittain began to mend straight away, and was as
right as ever she could be.
This, however, is a small affair, compared with the case of a man who
lived at Broughton, and had a spell cast on him, by whom he did not
know; at least, he was divided in his doubts. He suspected first Nancy,
and also a man with an evil eye at Nunthorpe, but he could not really
say which of them had cast the spell; so he went to the wise man, but
in this he got little comfort. The wise man told him, before he could
do anything he must be quite certain who had cast the spell, because if
he worked a counter-charm on any one, and they were innocent, what he
did would fall upon the complainant, in addition to what he was already
suffering. He advised him to ‘plump[59]’ both Nancy and the Nunthorpe
man with it. On accusing Nancy, she was so indignant, and looked him
so straight in the face, and swore such a fearful oath, that he felt
certain she for once was innocent; in such contrast was the behaviour
of the evil-eyed one of Nunthorpe, that he was equally satisfied that
he was the man. So sure was he, that he told the wise man he would
chance it; so they set to work. A fire of wickenwood having been
lighted close on midnight, a ball of clay was beaten flat with the back
of an old Bible; on this a rude figure was scooped out in the shape of
a man. Into this rough mould was poured a mixture of pitch, beeswax,
hog’s lard, bullock’s blood, and a small portion of the fat from a
bullock’s heart. The whole having been melted and well stirred on the
wickenwood fire, what remained of the mixture after filling the mould
was divided; one-half was thrown into water, worked into a ball, and
thrown away; the remaining portion was poured on to the fire, causing
a most tremendous blaze; when this died out, the ashes were buried in
the churchyard. The figure having been removed from its mould, and two
small holes made to represent the eyes, a pin was thrust into one of
these eyes, an incantation pronounced, and the spell was concluded.
The pain left the man as he was returning home, and that very night
the evil-eyed Nunthorpian was seized with a fearful pain, and before
morning was blind of an eye—the eye corresponding to the one through
which the pin had been thrust in the wax figure. I had the above from
one who well knew the trio. My informant is still living.
Matthew Appleton, of Busby, for many years ruled the planets—it seems
he ruled them so well that he found a pot of gold. This was ruling the
planets to some purpose, and it is a great pity astronomers don’t work
this seemingly dead science up a bit.
In connexion with the witch-lore of the riding, it strikes one as
singular, that whilst many of the stories told of local witches closely
resemble those of other countries, yet other stories, equally common,
both abroad and a little further north, so far as I have investigated,
are with us conspicuous by their absence. Of witches turning their
victims into horses by throwing a bridle over their heads and riding
them the night through, or of a witch having been outwitted and treated
in like manner, even in some instances casting a shoe, and of being
reshod during the night, the shoe remaining nailed to the hand on
regaining their natural form—of such stories, I repeat, not a vestige
remains amongst us. Thorpe’s _Mythology_ and the Wilkie MS. give many
instances; and though some of the stories are dated almost in recent
times, doubtless their radicals are to be found in the myth of times
remote.
Again, whilst we retain the belief in the efficacy of the dead hand in
the curing of certain diseases, one never hears mention of the ‘hand of
glory[60].’ There are old people to-day who tell you of its marvellous
power, but their knowledge is that gained from hearsay. I have never
met a single person who knew of an instance of its having been used in
the North Riding; and if ever such was the case, it must have been long
ago, for many of the old folk know absolutely nothing about it.
Silver shot was a deadly charge, because, in some way not explained,
it was charmed. Jane Wood, who was accounted a witch about seventy
years ago in the Basedale district, gave little heed either to dogs
or guns; when she assumed the form of a hare, she escaped from the
former quite easily, and the latter never could hit her. At last one
sportsman, acting on the advice of a wise man, melted some silver
coins in an iron ladle smeared with the blood of a hare. This was done
at the blacksmith’s forge, the same being plentifully supplied with
wickenwood. The melted silver was poured into a basin of water, which
divided it into fine particles; suitable pieces were collected, the gun
charged, and next evening the venturesome hare was fired at. Though it
escaped, it was evidently badly hit. Suspicion had for some time rested
on Jane. Her cottage was visited; she declared she was too ill to rise
and open the door, having, as she said, accidentally turned a beehive
over and got severely stung. This statement did not satisfy those
outside. The door was burst open, and Jane pulled out of bed; over one
part of her body she was found to be covered with small sores, which
there was no doubt had been caused by the silver shot. Anyway, that
venturesome hare was never seen again, so no further proof was required.
There is one point which requires a few words of explanation, at least
so far as it can be explained. We have heard of witches who allowed
themselves to be chased as hares, some of which, if not caught, were
bitten just as they were entering their own homes; on examination,
teeth-marks were found on a corresponding part of their body. The
same may be said of the injuries inflicted by the silver shot. The
telling of these stories leaves no doubt in one’s mind that the witches
in the cases mentioned are supposed to have turned themselves into
hares. This, however, was not always the case, as the following story
will show. There was a woman on whom grave suspicion rested; for
some reason or other she was never openly charged with being a witch,
but old heads were ominously shaken when her name was mentioned. In
the district in which she lived, there was a notorious hare, which
simply jeered at dogs and guns alike. At length some one suggested
silver shot; this was duly made, and the hare shot dead. Afterwards,
on comparing the times, it was found that Mrs.—— had thrown up her
arms the very moment when the hare was shot, ejaculating, ‘They have
killed my familiar spirit’; uttering these words, she fell dead on her
kitchen floor. Now Mrs.—— had not been out that day—there were plenty
of witnesses to testify that—so it would seem it was not always a case
of transformation, but a familiar spirit which was chased, whilst the
individual herself was at home attending to her household duties. Of
course all such were subject to the ills which might befall their
familiars.
There seems to be a very close connexion between a hare being shot and
corresponding wounds being found on the person of those who had so
transformed themselves, and the stories told of the witch mares being
shod and the shoes remaining fixed to their hands when their original
form was resumed.
_Hobmen._
At one time the family of Oughtred, who lived on a farm near Hob Hill,
Upleatham, were greatly assisted in their various occupations by the
hobman, who lived in the Hob Hill. These hobmen are heard of now and
again in the North Riding. The hobman[61] with us seems to hold the
same place as the brownies of the north, and the pixies of Devonshire.
Anyway, the hobman still did his work as recently as 1820; for the
Oughtreds had their hay turned, their cattle brought home and driven
back again, their corn and other grain winnowed, their turnips topped
and tailed, and I do not know what all. What they did to offend the
hobman, is not known. But it is thought that a man hung his coat on
the winnowing machine, and forgot to remove it when his day’s work was
done. The hobman possibly thought, when he entered late at night, that
it had been left for him; and no offence, it seems, could be greater
than to offer a hobman clothes of any kind, so he went away, and has
never been heard of since. It seems at the very time they unfortunately
displeased their friend the hobman, they also incurred the ill-will
of Peggy Flaunders; for about this time, late one evening, a fearful
knocking came at the back door. The maid, on opening it, saw a fearful
thing like a blazing pig standing on the step; with one wild shriek
she fled, crying out to her master and mistress that the devil had
come, and was standing on the back doorstep. They at once asked, had
she closed the back door? On being told that she was too frightened
to do anything else but flee from such a monster, they both sank back
in dismay, well knowing the evil spirit had been given a chance to
enter, which they rightly feared it would not fail to avail itself
of. They rushed to the back door, but nothing was there; still they
had their misgivings—they were terribly apprehensive. And sure enough
it turned out not without cause—crockery was smashed, machinery was
broken, cattle died; in fact things got into such a parlous state, that
they decided to leave. On the day when they were preparing to flit, a
friend looked in, and asked Oughtred if he really meant shifting. As he
asked the question, a queer little head popped out over the top of the
press, and a voice squeaked out, ‘Aye, we’re gahin ti flit ti morn’; on
hearing which, Oughtred said, ‘Whya, if thoo’s gahin wiv uz, it’s teea
neea ewse gahin; wa mud ez weel stop[62].’ The wise man was eventually
consulted. Legend sayeth not where he lived; but under his directions a
live black cock bird was pierced with pins, and roasted alive at dead
of night, with every door, window, and cranny and crevice stuffed up.
By these means Peggy’s power and the imp were overcome.
Years ago, when the old church at Marske-by-the-Sea was condemned,
and a new one about to be built, it was decided to pull down the old
structure and use the stone for building the new. This bit of vandalism
was duly commenced; part of the old building was razed, and the stone
carted to the new site[63]—so far, so good. The old people murmured,
for they objected greatly to the demolition of the edifice in which
they and their fore-elders had worshipped; but they were powerless—they
could only stand by and watch with aching hearts stone after stone
being carted away. And so the first day’s work came to an end, which
to them was work of desecration, and they returned home sad at heart.
But if they were powerless, they had a champion, and one whom they
had never dreamt of taking up their cause. Next morning, when the men
returned to their work, what was their surprise, and the amazement of
every one else, to find the old church whole again, without a stone
displaced or a mark of the previous day’s work to be found anywhere.
Every stone had been brought back again and replaced _in situ_, and the
mortar which had been used to reset the displaced stones was as hard
and set as that of hundreds of years before.
This marvellous occurrence was duly reported at head-quarters. What
the officials thought or imagined, is not recorded; they ordered the
work to proceed, and even set on more men to pull the old place down,
so that on the second day a considerable portion was carted away and
stacked on the new site; but next morning the old church was found to
have been fully repaired during the night, every stone having once
again been brought back and placed in its original position. Things
were now looking a bit serious. On the third day, however, work was
resumed, a portion again pulled down and carted away, but this time
men were set to watch the stones and find out who came for them. Now,
whether these watchers fell asleep—they declared they did not—or
whether in the darkness the stones were all stolen away so quietly that
they never heard or saw anything of what was transpiring, cannot be
stated; one thing is only known—when daylight appeared, every stone had
vanished, and again the old church was found to have been restored, so
perfectly that no one could tell that ever a stone had been removed.
Those in authority were bound to admit that it was useless to contend
further against such a powerful and invisible opponent. For long it
was not generally known by what means the work of replacement had been
wrought; but there were those who knew, and in time every one did. It
was the hobman, assisted by others of his friends. In those days it
was simply the essence of folly for architects and bricklayers to pit
themselves against a hobman, just the same it would be to-day, if the
hobmen took it into their heads to undertake a job—but they don’t now.
There was a hobman once had his home in a hill near to Hob Garth,
and no doubt in his day performed many acts which are now forgotten;
however, I had one related to me years ago by an old chap who at that
time was working on the Mulgrave estate. His grandfather, Thomas
Stonehouse, lived at Hob Garth for many years. I think he had a small
holding; anyway, he kept sheep. It seems that some misunderstanding
arose between him and one Matthew Bland, of Great Fryup. Bland was of a
vindictive nature—at least, if the supposition was true that he broke
Tommy’s hedge down late one night, drove the sheep out, and left them
to wander whither they liked. And wander they did to some purpose,
for at the close of the day following, Stonehouse had only managed to
find five out of forty. Next morning, what was his surprise not only
to find his sheep back in the field, but the hedge repaired with new
posts and rails. The neighbours knew that he could not have done the
repairing, for he had caught a severe cold, having been wet to the skin
searching for the lost sheep the day previous. Next night, however,
every head of cattle belonging to Bland was turned loose. ‘And great
deed there was lating on ’em; it war ower a fo’tnit afoor they war all
gitten tigither again.’ That Stonehouse was quite innocent of this bit
of retaliation was clear even to Bland, as it was well known he was too
ill to stir out of doors. But when Bland had recovered all his lost
cattle, Stonehouse’s were set loose again, and the damage done was even
greater this time; and as the poor fellow was still too ill to turn out
to find them, the neighbours did what they could. This time, however,
even fewer were found, but again on the following morning all but four
were safely back in the field, and all damage repaired; subsequently
the four were found dead, having fallen into a disused quarry. People
talked, as naturally they would, and the bringing back of the lost
sheep and repairing of the rails was put down to the hobman. When this
conclusion was come to, heads were shaken in an ominous manner, for
evidently if Tommy was befriended by the hobman, Matthew would have to
mind what he did. As soon as Tommy could, he set off to see his sheep.
It happened to be rather late when he paid the first visit after his
illness, owing to the fact that a neighbour was driving past where
the sheep were, and as he was returning presently, he offered to put
Stonehouse down and pick him up again as he returned. Tommy counted his
sheep, and after cutting some hay for them—it was wintertime—he sat
by the gate waiting for the return of his neighbour. Presently an old
man accosted him, and begged him not to fret about the lost sheep, as
they would be more than compensated for when lambing time came. The
old chap told him that Bland had on both occasions been guilty, but
that he had not to mind. Just then his friend drove up. Tommy bade his
new acquaintance good-night, thanked him, and got into the cart. No
sooner was he seated, than the good neighbour asked him what he meant
by saying good-night and thanking nobody at all. It transpired that the
owner of the cart had not noticed any one speaking to Tommy. In the
end he thought the old chap ’war a bit waak an rafflin.’ Anyway, when
lambing time came, though the weather was very severe, and every one
else, and more particularly Bland, lost many lambs, Stonehouse never
lost one. Ewes, during Tommy’s absence, were found safely delivered of
their lambs, and mostly had two, and never a black one amongst them.
‘An’ noo that war a larl bit sing’lar, warn’t it? Bud then, ya knaw,
i’ them daays when t’ hobman did tak ti yan, ya war yal reet i’ t’
lang-run; an’ ivvery wo’d ’at Ah’ve tell’d ya’s trew, ’coz Ah’ve heeard
mah gran’father tell t’ taal ower an’ up agaan; bud it’s a gay bit
sen noo,’ wound up my informant. The hobman was described as a little
old fellow, with very long hair, large feet, eyes, mouth, and hands,
stooping much as he walked, and carrying a long holly stick. The date
of the story would be about 1760.