could not bear to be alone, she again entreated her cousin to remain
with her for a time.
The sale of her niece's stock and furniture proceeded. At the
conclusion, the villagers, to whom she had always been an object of
dislike, made a large straw effigy, and paraded it up and down the
place. They then set fire to it in front of her window, and saluted her
with songs, hisses, and execrations.
The sight of the fire thoroughly alarmed her, and throwing open the
window she screamed and swore like a mad woman. She sent for a constable
and shouted for help. No one appeared to interfere on her behalf, but
when the effigy had ceased burning, the crowd dispersed of their own
accord.
Nancy Nicholson was so offended at having been burnt in effigy that she
determined to leave Asselby, and as she had again a house at liberty at
Drax, she moved her furniture into it, and persuaded her cousin to
accompany her.
About six weeks after the death of her husband, an elderly gentleman
began to pay his addresses to Mrs. Nicholson. A second suitor speedily
followed, and shortly afterwards a third. This bevy of suitors had a
wonderful effect on the old lady, and she began to pay great attention
to her dress and personal appearance. She purchased within one week
three new gowns, all of which she had made up with flounces; she got
also a new bonnet, and had several caps newly trimmed. She then brought
from her stores several rings, not one of which was gold except her
marriage ring, and with these she adorned her fingers. An hour or more
she would spend every morning in rubbing her rings, and in oiling and
dressing her hair, taking great pains to set herself off to the best
advantage, assuming all the giddy flirting airs of a girl of sixteen.
There is little doubt she would have married a second time, but feared
parting with her money, and it is thought that none of her suitors were
particularly anxious to take her without it.
About this time she began to attend the Roman Catholic chapel at Howden,
and shortly after was received into the Roman Church by baptism; and at
that time she certainly appeared to have more devotional feeling than
she ever displayed either before or afterwards. But on being applied to
for a small donation towards the new church then in course of erection
at Howden, she speedily withdrew from the Roman communion, remarking
that she had a good pew in the parish church, to which she could go
without expense whenever she felt disposed, and she would, too, in spite
of every one.
Mrs. Nicholson could never get a servant to live with her for any length
of time, her filthy habits being past endurance. She endeavoured to do
without assistance, but finding that impossible, she prevailed on her
cousin to come once a week to help her to clean up a little. She had her
bed in the room down-stairs where she lived, and her chambers were not
swept for months previous to her death. If her cousin offered to clean
up-stairs, she would reply that it was of no consequence, for no one
went up but herself. Her cousin received no payment for her attendance,
although she found her own provisions, relying entirely on Mrs.
Nicholson's oft-repeated promise that she should be rewarded in her
will. Her weekly attendance was continued until about the beginning of
July, 1854, when Mrs. Nicholson engaged a daughter of the niece before
mentioned, to go three times a week. She also found her own provisions,
but had wages for her labour. The cousin, at Mrs. Nicholson's request,
still went occasionally.
Soon after this Mrs. Nicholson became very ill, but was without medical
advice until the 4th of August, making her words good in that respect,
that she would never have another doctor until the last extremity. On
that day she allowed one to be sent for, and on the following day she
gave instructions for her will to be made. She bequeathed the farm and
house she occupied, with all her furniture and money in the bank, to the
niece before mentioned. She left another farm to the cousin in Ireland,
who had been defrauded when they separated their land. She left £1500 to
the son of a half-cousin by her mother's side, residing in Cumberland.
But the great bulk of her property was left to her half-nephew mentioned
in the account of her visit to Cumberland.
Although both the medical gentlemen and the solicitor very kindly urged
her to remember the cousin who had so constantly attended upon her,
without having hitherto received the slightest recompense or reward for
her trouble and expense, she refused to leave her anything.
About a fortnight before her death she wished for some wine, and sent
for a bottle of the best that could be procured. The wine was brought,
and she was informed the price was four shillings, which caused her
great dissatisfaction. She accused the person who brought it with
extravagance in paying so much, and with folly in not ascertaining what
would be allowed for the bottle when empty.
She then ordered in a five-gallon barrel of ale, all of which she
consumed in the week previous to her death. Hearing from the doctor that
she could not live long, she was dreadfully afraid of dying before she
had finished the barrel, and so not have had all she could out of her
money. As she had not been accustomed to drink fermented liquors for
some years before, there is no doubt she must have been half-stupefied
with beer during the last week of her existence.
She signed her will on Sunday morning, August 6th, 1854, and died the
evening of the same day.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] "The Life of Mrs Nancy Nicholson, who died August 6th, 1854."
Howden: W. Small. 1855.
[21] The Free Grammar School at Drax, where twelve boys are boarded and
educated from a fund left for the purpose.
THE WOODEN BELL OF RIPON.
Near the railway station at Ripon is a quaint block of old almshouses,
with an ancient chapel dedicated to St. Mary Magdalen, of grey stone,
backed by a grove of elms. The little chapel contains some curious wood
carving, the original stone altar, and a large oak chest in which
reposes a solitary curiosity--a wooden bell, painted grey-green. The
chapel is fortunately unrestored, left in its picturesque antiquity to
moulder away. Any one who had seen the chapel of Barden Tower some years
ago, and what it has become under the hand of the restorer, will know
what it is to be grateful that a venerable relic of antiquity has not
been furbished up to suit modern taste. That St. Mary Magdalen's would
have fallen into bad hands had it been given over to restoration may be
judged by the hideous new chapel which the authorities have recently
erected close to the almshouses.
By that wooden bell in the oak chest hangs a tale.
In the time of our grandfathers, Dr. W----, was Dean of Ripon, a divine
of the old port-wine-drinking school.
Now St. Mary Magdalen's chapel was no longer used. By the ancient
endowment there was to be a resident chaplain and daily service in the
little church, which the inmates of the almshouses were expected to
attend. But the chaplaincy and its emoluments were usually held by one
of the canons of the Minster. The stipend went into his pocket; the
duties were neglected. If the old almsfolk wished to pray to God daily,
they might totter three-quarters of a mile up to the Minster.
Dean W----, took on himself the chaplaincy; that is, he appropriated to
the stocking of his cellar the money bequeathed to the almonership of
the Magdalen Hospital.
But his cellar fell low. The Dean wanted money; his credit with the
wine-merchants was as low as his cellar. How was money to be raised?
One day he had the bell of the Magdalen Chapel removed from the gable in
which it had hung for many centuries, and had hung silent for many
years.
The bell was supposed to have gone to the founders; and the money paid
for it to the wine-merchant; anyhow, soon after, a hamper of fine old
crusted port arrived at the Deanery.
But Ripon people, though long-suffering, could not quite endure the
"robbing of churches." Murmurs were heard; the Dean was remonstrated
with. He puffed out, turning as red as a turkey-cock--
"Well, well! the bell shall go back again."
And sure enough next week the bell was seen once more hanging in the
gable of St. Mary Magdalen's chapel as of yore.
The Ripon people were content. The bell was never rung, but to that they
were accustomed. Who cared whether the old goodies in the hospital were
ministered to or not? It was no affair of theirs if the founder's wishes
were set at nought, and the walls of the Magdalen never sounded with the
voice of prayer.
But next spring, as on many a former one, the swallows built their nests
among the eaves, and found a place about the altar of God's deserted
house, as they had done in the days of the Psalmist. When nesting-time
came, some boys began climbing about the roofs in quest of eggs.
One of them, seeing a rope dangling from the bell, caught it and began
to pull, when, to his amazement, the bell uttered no sound. He crept
under it. There was no clapper; and what was more, it hardly looked
hollow. His curiosity was excited, and he climbed up to it, and
discovered that the bell was only a piece of deal turned, and painted
the colour of bell metal!
The story sounded further than ever had the old bell; and for very shame
the Dean was obliged to take it down, and hide it in the chest of the
Magdalen chapel.
Autumn came round. The Dean had notable espalliers in his garden. His
trees were too attractive to the urchins of Ripon to escape visits. This
highly incensed the Dean; and one night, hearing the boys at his
apple-trees, he rushed, stick in hand, upon them. One he caught by the
scruff of his neck. The others fled over the wall.
"Oh, you young ruffian! you audacious young scoundrel!" roared the Dean;
"where do you think thieves will go to hereafter? What do you think will
happen to them here?"
"Please, sir! please, sir!----"
"Hold your wicked tongue, you rascal!" thundered the Dean, whistling his
cudgel round his head, "I shall thrash you unmercifully now, and lock
you up in the black-hole to-night, and take you to the magistrate
to-morrow, and have you sent to prison. And then, if you go on with your
stealing, sir! you will go--there!" And the Dean progged with his stick
in the direction of the centre of the globe.
Then he shook the boy furiously--"one, two," bang came the stick down.
"Please, mercy, Mr. Dean; spare me!"
"Spare you, sir! no--three."
"But, please, Mr. Dean, _my father made the wooden bell for you_."
"Go along, you rascal," gasped the Dean, relaxing his hold, and rushing
back into his house.
In 1877 the Dean of Ripon (Dr. Freemantle) wrote to me relative to this
matter:--"My attention has been directed to an anecdote told by you in
your book called 'Yorkshire Oddities' of the late Dean W----. I have
made it my business to ascertain the correctness of the story, as it has
excited a good deal of feeling in the minds of some of the old residents
here. We have found a bell which was sent from the Deanery at least 40
years ago, and which has been in the crypt of the Cathedral ever since.
It is exactly the same size as the wooden bell, which we have recovered
from a heap of cinders." So Dean W---- did not sell the bell after all!
OLD JOHN MEALY-FACE.
Old John M----[22], a character in his way, and a celebrity in his very
little circle, was born in the parish of Topcliffe, near Thirsk, on
February 20th, 1784.
He was thrice married. His first and second wives I did not know; the
third he married March 29th, 1838. She was afflicted with paralysis of
her legs during a great part of her later life. She was a charming old
woman--religious, amiable, and a general favourite with her neighbours.
Old John had sharp features, an eagle nose, and a prominent chin. He
wore drab corduroy breeches and blue stockings. He shaved all the hair
off his face. The nickname he bore in the village, where he resided on
his small farm, was "Mealy-Face." He obtained it by this means: John was
a close-fisted old man, who stinted himself, and his wife above all, in
every possible way, for he dearly loved money. He did not allow his wife
enough food, and she, poor thing, was wont, when he was out for the day
at market or at fair, to bake herself a loaf from which she could cut a
hunch when hungry.
Her husband found this out, and was very wroth. When he went to market
he pressed his face down in the flour at the top of the bin, and on his
return put his face back in the depressions, to make sure that the flour
had not been disturbed.
The old man was not without dry humour. The story is told of him that a
clergyman called on him one day to say he was about to leave his
present sphere of work, "the Lord having called him to work in another
vineyard."
"Then," said Old Mealy-Face, "I lay you get a better wage."
"Yes," answered the clergyman, "it is a better living by a hundred
a-year."
"Heh! I thowt seah (so)," said John, dryly; "else the Lord mud ha'
called while (till) he'd been hoarse, and ye'd niver ha' heeard."
An excursionist met him on Whitson Scar, on the Hambledons. The
traveller had come there from Thirsk, hoping to see the glorious view
stretching to Pendle Hill, in Lancashire. But a fog came on and obscured
the scene. The gentleman coming upon John, who had been to Helmsley on
some business or other, accosted him in an off-hand manner:
"Hey, gaffer! there's a fine view from here, ain't there, on fine days?"
"Aye, sur, it might be worse."
"One can see a long way, I'm told."
"I reckon one may if one's got eyes."
"Now tell me, gaffer, can one see as far as America, do you think?"
"One can see a deel furder," answered John
"You don't mean to say so?"
"Eh, but I do. One can see t' moon from Whitston on a moonshiny neet."
Old John had a famous pear-tree in his garden. Two years running his
pears were stolen, and no doubt were sold in Thirsk market, without John
being a penny the richer. The old man grimly awaited the thief as the
fruit ripened in the following autumn, sitting nightly in his window,
gun in hand.
One dark night, just before market-day, he heard some one at his tree.
He took careful aim at the spot whence the sound proceeded, fired, and a
scream told him his bullet had taken effect. In fact, he had hit the
thief in the thigh; but the ball had fortunately penetrated the flesh,
and broken no bone.
The pear-stealer was caught, and on the first opportunity brought before
the magistrates at Thirsk. The presiding magistrate--I think it was Sir
John Galway, but am not certain--deemed it advisable to caution John
M---- against too free a use of his gun.
"You know, my good friend, that a gun loaded with a bullet might have
killed the man who stole your pears."
"Ah, it might, and it would, but t' gun snecked (kicked) as I were
blazin' wi' it."
"If the gun had not 'snecked,' as you call it, the bullet would probably
have gone into the poor fellow's heart and killed him dead."
"I'll tak' care it deean't sneck again," said Old John, who had no
scruples against shooting a pear-stealer.
Whilst in the parish of Topcliffe I am constrained to relate an anecdote
illustrative of Yorkshire shrewdness, though unconnected with
Mealy-Face.
An old woman--Molly Jakes, we will call her--died, or was thought to
have died, and was buried by the parish. A few days after the funeral
the vicar was talking to the sexton, when the latter said, drawing the
back of his hand across his nose, "Ye thowt old Molly Jakes were deead,
sur?"
"Dead, dead! bless my soul! of course she was."
"Well, mebbe she is neah (now)."
"What do you mean? Speak, for heaven's sake!"
"Nay, sur, it's nowt! Only I thowt efter I'd thrown the mould in as I
heeard her movin' and grum'ling under t' greand (ground)."
"You dug her up at once, of course, man?"
"Nay," said the sexton, "I know two o' that," casting a knowing look at
the parson. "T' parish paid one burying: who was to pay me for digging
her up and putting her in ageean, if she died once maire? Besides," said
the sexton, drawing his hand back again across his nose, "Old Molly cost
t' parish hef-a-croon a week when she war wick (alive). Noo she's felted
(hidden) under t' greeand, she costs nowt. If I'd dug her up and she
lived ever seah (so) long, what would ha' t' rate-payers 'a said teah
(to) me?"
John M----, once, when I was in his house, told me a curious tale about
himself. He was riding one night to Thirsk, when he suddenly saw passing
him a radiant boy on a white horse. There was no sound of footfall as he
drew nigh. Old John was first aware of the approach of the mysterious
rider by seeing the shadow of himself and his horse flung before him on
the high-road. Thinking there might be a carriage with lamps, he was not
alarmed till by the shortening of the shadow he knew that the light must
be near him, and then he was surprised to hear no sound. He thereupon
turned in his saddle, and at the same moment the radiant boy passed him.
He was a child of about eleven, with a bright, fresh face.
"Had he any clothes on, and, if so, what were they like?" I asked. But
John was unable to tell me. His astonishment was so great that he took
no notice of particulars.
The boy rode on till he came to a gate which led into a field. He
stooped as if to open the gate, rode through, and all was instantly
dark.
"I'm an owd customer," said John when he presented himself to be married
the third time; "soa, vicar, I hope ye'll do t' job cheap. Strike off
two-thirds, as it's the third wife."
John Mealy-Face died at the age of eighty-four, and was buried at
Topcliffe on November 5th, 1868.
FOOTNOTE:
[22] I suppress the name, as the old man died but lately.
THE BOGGART OF HELLEN-POT.
A TALE OF THE YORKSHIRE MOORS.[23]
I took the opportunity last autumn, just before the break-up of the
weather, of shaking off the dust of shoddy-mills, and getting a whiff of
air, unadulterated with smoke, in a run among the Yorkshire moors for
the better part of a week. I spent the first night at Bolton, and slept
soundly, after a ramble through the beautiful Wharfedale, and an
examination of the Strid, where the river gushes through a rift in the
rock so narrow that it is supposed possible to stride across it, though
I never heard of any man venturesome enough to make the attempt. A
friend accompanied me, a Mr. Keene, and on the following day we ascended
the valley of the Wharfe to Arncliffe, visiting on the way the
picturesque ruin called Barden Tower, and the magnificent hanging crags
at Kilnsea.
At Arncliffe, a quaint moor village, my companion fell lame, and was
unable to accompany me next day on a mapless ramble in search of
whatsoever was picturesque and wild. It was a glorious day, the sky pure
and blue, the air elastic, the heather and fern twinkling with dew. It
was really very hard for poor Keene to spend ten hours alone in a dismal
little country inn, without either a book or a newspaper, whilst I was
brushing through the heather, scrambling limestone scaurs, and exploring
ravines, inhaling at every breath life and health and ozone. But it
served him right. What was the fellow thinking of when he put on a pair
of new boots for his walking expedition? He looked wistfully after me
out of the parlour window, and called to me to be back for a dinner-tea
at seven, adding that he hoped his feet would be better in the
afternoon, and then he would stroll to meet me.
Leaving Arncliffe, and noticing a bright, fretful little stream, dashing
through a broken and beautiful cleft in the hills, I took a sheep-track
above it, and determined on following its course. In a few minutes I
seemed to have left civilisation behind me entirely. The great expanse
of moorland which opened before, the utter absence of all signs of
cultivation, the wild rocky pile of the Hard Flask on one side and of
Fountains Fell on the other, gave the scene a savage grandeur which one
hardly expects to find in England. The little beck moaned far away below
me out of sight, the wind soughed pleasantly among the heather, and the
curlew, which I constantly started, rose with a melancholy pipe and flew
away to the grey scaurs on the side of Fountains Fell.
Being of the geological persuasion, I usually carry about with me a
hammer and a small sack or pouch, which I sling round my neck, for the
conveyance of specimens. I revelled in these limestone hills, spending
hour after hour chipping off fragments of rock, and breaking them up to
extract the fossils. I hardly knew whither I rambled, but I certainly
got into Silverdale, for I lunched on my bread and cheese with Penigent
towering above me on the west, and beyond it rose the glorious pile of
Ingleborough. I ascended Penigent, the height of which is 2270 feet, and
watched the sunset from the top. Then I followed the precedent of the
illustrious King of France who, having marched to the top of a hill,
marched down again. But I was quite out in my geography. Now, with the
map before me, I see that my ideas as to the direction in which
Arncliffe lay were entirely wrong. My walk during the day had been of
such a zig-zag nature that I had lost my compass points, and had made no
landmarks. The consequence naturally was, that I descended Penigent on
the wrong side, and then instinctively perceiving I was in the wrong, I
did a foolish thing--I struck off from my line of course at right
angles. It would have been better for me to have retraced my steps up
the mountain-side, and taken bearings again whilst there was still a
little light; but instead of doing so, I involved myself more and more
in confusion, and at last, as it became dark, I was utterly ignorant of
where I was, and which was the direction in which my face was turned.
Under such circumstances a man is tempted to allow himself to be that
which in a brighter hour he would repudiate--a fool. I remember mentally
expressing my conviction that I was an idiot, and indignantly asking
myself how I could have thought of setting out on a walk in an unknown
country without map or compass? My exasperation with self was by no
means allayed when I tripped over a stone and fell my length in a sludgy
patch of swamp. At the same time I became conscious of a growing pain in
my vitals, and was sensible of a vacuum in that region of the body which
is situated beneath the lower buttons of the waistcoat; and a vacuum is
what nature is well known to abhor. There was a dinner-tea spread for me
in the inn at Arncliffe: chickens and ham I knew had been promised;
trout I naturally anticipated would prove part of the fare in a famous
fishing district; veal cutlets perhaps, and mashed potatoes. Heavens!
and I not there. I know I groaned at the thought, for the sound as it
issued from my lips startled me. As I walked on with drooping head,
those veal cutlets and mashed potatoes rose up before me tauntingly. I
am a man of resolution, and finding that the vision only aggravated
matters, I beat the veal cutlets down; yet, when they vanished, a new
phantom rose to distress me. During the day I had examined on the slopes
of Coska, Fountains, and Penigent several of those curious pots which
are peculiar to the Yorkshire limestone moors. These pots, as they are
called, are natural wells, hideous circular gaping holes opening
perpendicularly into the bowels of the mountain. In rainy weather the
tiny rills which descend the fells precipitate themselves into these
black gulfs and disappear. Far down at the bottom of the mountain the
streams bubble out again from low-browed caverns. Some of these pots are
many hundred feet deep; some are supposed by the vulgar to be
unfathomable, for certainly their bottoms have not been sounded yet, and
a stone dropped falls and falls, each rebound becoming fainter, but the
ear catches no final splash.