“In the year 17--, in a lonely gill, not far distant from Arncliffe,
stood a solitary cottage: a more wretched habitation the imagination
cannot picture. It contained a single apartment, inhabited by an old
woman, called Bertha, who was throughout the valley accounted a wise
woman, and a practiser of the ‘art that none may name.’ I was at that
time very young, and unmarried; and, far from having any dread of her,
would frequently talk to her, and was always glad when she called at my
father’s house. She was tall, thin, and haggard; her eyes were large,
and sunk deep in their sockets; and the hoarse masculine intonations of
her voice were anything but pleasing. The reason I took such delight in
the company of Bertha was this--she was possessed of much historical
knowledge, and related events which had occurred two or three centuries
ago, in a manner so minute and particular, that many a time I have been
induced to believe she had been a spectatress of what she was relating.
Bertha was undoubtedly of great age; but what that age was no one ever
knew. I have frequently interrogated her on the subject, but always
received an evasive answer to my inquiries.
“In the autumn, or rather in the latter end of the summer of 17--, I set
out one evening to visit the cottage of the wise woman. I had never
beheld the interior; and, led on by curiosity and mischief, was
determined to see it. Having arrived at the cottage, I knocked at the
gate. ‘Come in,’ said a voice, which I knew was Bertha’s. I entered; the
old woman was seated on a three-legged stool, by a turf fire, surrounded
by three black cats and an old sheep-dog. ‘Well,’ she exclaimed, ‘what
brings you here? what can have induced you to pay a visit to old
Bertha?’ I answered, ‘Be not offended; I have never before this evening
viewed the interior of your cottage; and wishing to do so, have made
this visit; I also wished to see you perform some of your
_incantations_.’ I pronounced the last word ironically. Bertha observed
it, and said, ‘Then you doubt my power, think me an impostor, and
consider my incantations mere jugglery; you _may_ think otherwise; but
sit down by my humble hearth, and in less than half an hour you shall
observe such an instance of my power as I have never hitherto allowed
mortal to witness.’ I obeyed, and approached the fire. I now gazed
around me, and minutely viewed the apartment. Three stools, an old deal
table, a few pans, three pictures of Merlin, Nostradamus, and Michael
Scott, a caldron, and a sack, with the contents of which I was
unacquainted, formed the whole stock of Bertha. The witch having sat by
me a few minutes, rose, and said, ‘Now for our incantations; behold me,
but interrupt me not.’ She then with chalk drew a circle on the floor,
and in the midst of it placed a chafing-dish filled with burning embers;
on this she fixed the caldron, which she had half filled with water.
“She then commanded me to take my station at the farther end of the
circle, which I did accordingly. Bertha then opened the sack, and taking
from it various ingredients, threw them into the ‘charmed pot.’ Amongst
many other articles I noticed a skeleton head, bones of different sizes,
and the dried carcasses of some small animals. My fancy involuntarily
recurred to the witch in Ovid--
Semina, floresque, et succos in coquit acres;
Addidit et exceptas lunâ pernocte pruinas,
Et strigis infames ipsis cum carnibus alas,
Vivacisque jecur cervi; quibus insuper addit,
Ora caputque novem cornicis sæcula passæ.’
While thus employed, she continued muttering some words in an unknown
language; all I remember hearing was the word _konig_. At length the
water boiled, and the witch, presenting me with a glass, told me to look
through it at the caldron. I did so, and observed a figure enveloped in
the steam; at the first glance I knew not what to make of it, but I soon
recognised the face of N----, a friend and intimate acquaintance: he was
dressed in his usual mode, but seemed unwell, and pale. I was
astonished, and trembled. The figure having disappeared, Bertha removed
the caldron, and extinguished the fire. ‘_Now_,’ said she, ‘do you doubt
my power? I have brought before you the form of a person who is some
miles from this place; was there any deception in the appearance? I am
no impostor, though you have hitherto regarded me as such.’ She ceased
speaking: I hurried towards the door, and said, ‘Good night.’ ‘Stop,’
said Bertha, ‘I have not done with you; I will show you something more
wonderful than the appearance of this evening: to-morrow, at midnight,
go and stand upon Arncliffe bridge, and look at the water on the left
side of it. Nothing will harm you; fear not.’
“‘And why should I go to Arncliffe bridge? What end can be answered by
it? The place is lonely; I dread to be there at such an hour; may I have
a companion?’
“‘No.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘Because the charm will be broken.’
“‘What charm?’
“‘I cannot tell.’
“‘You will not.’
“‘I will not give you any further information: obey me, nothing shall
harm you.’
“‘Well, Bertha,’ I said, ‘you shall be obeyed. I believe you would do me
no injury. I will repair to Arncliffe bridge to-morrow at midnight; good
night.’”
I then left the cottage, and returned home. When I retired to rest I
could not sleep; slumber fled my pillow, and with restless eyes I lay
ruminating on the strange occurrences at the cottage, and on what I was
to behold at Arncliffe bridge. Morning dawned, I arose unrefreshed and
fatigued. During the day I was unable to attend to any business; my
coming adventure entirely engrossed my mind. Night arrived, I repaired
to Arncliffe bridge: never shall I forget the scene. It was a lovely
night: the full orb’d moon was sailing peacefully through a clear blue
cloudless sky, and its beams, like streaks of silvery lustre, were
dancing on the waters of the Skirfare; the moonlight falling on the
hills formed them into a variety of fantastic shapes; here one might
behold the semblance of a ruined abbey, with towers and spires, and
Anglo-Saxon and Gothic arches; at another place there seemed a castle
frowning in feudal grandeur, with its buttresses, battlements, and
parapets. The stillness which reigned around, broken only by the
murmuring of the stream, the cottages scattered here and there along its
banks, and the woods wearing an autumnal tinge, all united to compose a
scene of calm and perfect beauty. I leaned against the left battlement
of the bridge; I waited a quarter of an hour--half an hour--an
hour--nothing appeared. I listened, all was silent; I looked around, I
saw nothing. Surely, I inwardly ejaculated, I have mistaken the hour;
no, it must be midnight; Bertha has deceived me, fool that I am, why
have I obeyed the beldam? Thus I reasoned. The clock of the neighbouring
church chimed--I counted the strokes, it was twelve o’clock; I _had_
mistaken the hour, and I resolved to stay a little longer on the bridge.
I resumed my station, which I had quitted, and gazed on the stream. The
river in that part runs in a clear still channel, and ‘all its music
dies away.’ As I looked on the stream I heard a low moaning sound, and
perceived the water violently troubled, without any apparent cause. The
disturbance having continued a few minutes ceased, and the river became
calm, and again flowed along in peacefulness. What could this mean?
Whence came that low moaning sound? What caused the disturbance of the
river? I asked myself these questions again and again, unable to give
them any rational answer. With a slight indescribable kind of fear I
bent my steps homewards. On turning a corner of the lane that led to my
father’s house, a huge dog, apparently of the Newfoundland breed,
crossed my path, and looked wistfully on me. ‘Poor fellow!’ I exclaimed,
‘hast thou lost thy master? come home with me, and I will use thee well
till we find him.’ The dog followed me; but when I arrived at my place
of abode, I looked for it, but saw no traces of it, and I conjectured it
had found its master.
“On the following morning I again repaired to the cottage of the witch,
and found her, as on the former occasion, seated by the fire. ‘Well,
Bertha,’ I said, ‘I have obeyed you; I was yesterday at midnight on
Arncliffe bridge.’
“‘And of what sight were you a witness?’
“‘I saw nothing except a slight disturbance of the stream.’
“‘I know,’ she said, ‘you saw a disturbance of the water, but did you
behold nothing more?’
“‘Nothing.’
“‘Nothing! your memory fails you.’
“‘I forgot, Bertha; as I was proceeding home, I met a Newfoundland dog,
which I suppose belonged to some traveller.’
“‘That dog,’ answered Bertha, ‘never belonged to mortal; no human being
is his master. The dog you saw was Bargest; you may, perhaps, have heard
of him.’
“‘I have frequently heard tales of Bargest, but I never credited them.
If the legends of my native hills be true, a death may be expected to
follow his appearance.’
“‘You are right, and a death will follow his last night’s appearance.’
“‘Whose death?’
“‘Not yours.’
“As Bertha refused to make any further communication, I left her. In
less than three hours after I quitted her I was informed that my friend
N----, whose figure I had seen enveloped in the mist of the caldron, had
that morning committed suicide, by drowning himself at Arncliffe bridge,
in the very spot where I beheld the disturbance of the stream!”
Such was the story of my companion; the tale amused me, but by no means
increased my belief in witchcraft. I told the narrator so, and we again
entered into a serious discussion, which continued till the inn clock
struck seven, when the stranger left me, saying, that he could not stay
any longer, as he had a distance of ten miles to travel that evening
along a very lonely road.
The belief of witchcraft is still very prevalent in Craven; and there
are now residing in different parts wise men and wise women, whom the
country people consult when any property is stolen or lost, as well as
for the purpose of fortune-telling. These impostors pretend generally to
practise divination by the crystal, as in the tale--a mode of deception
which Moncrieff has very ingeniously ridiculed in his “Tom and Jerry.”
Witches and wizards are not so common as they were a few years ago
amongst us. The spread of education, by means of National and Sunday
Schools, goes a great way to destroy superstition. Few witches were
better known in Craven than Kilnsay Nan, who died a few years ago. This
old hag travelled with a Guinea pig in her breast, which she pretended
solved questions, and used at times to open a witchcraft shop in
Bag’s-alley, Skipton: her stock of spells was not very large, for it
only consisted of her Guinea pig, and about half a pack of dirty cards.
Littondale, the romantic valley which forms the scene of the above tale,
is at the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, where Wharfdale forks off
into two great branches, one whereof retains the name of Wharfdale to
the source of the river; and the other, which is watered by the
Skirfare, (sometimes called the Litton and Litton Bech,) is called
Littondale. The ancient name was Amerdale; and by that designation
Wordsworth alludes to it in his “White Doe,”
“The deep fork of Amerdale.”
The whole of the dale is in the parish of Arncliffe; so called,
according to my great authority in Craven matters, Dr. Whitaker, from
Єaꞃn, an eagle, and clyꝼꝼ, a rock; i. e. the eagle’s rock; “as it
afforded many secure retreats for that bird in its ridges of
perpendicular limestone.” The western side of the valley extends to
Pennigent; on the skirts of which mountain are many ancient places of
interment, called “Giants’ Graves,” thought to be Danish.
During the last summer I took a ride up Littondale, principally with a
view of inspecting Arncliffe church, on the venerable tower of which I
had frequently gazed at a distance. Alas! it is the only venerable thing
about the church, all the rest of which has been rebuilt in a most
paltry and insignificant style--not an ornament about it, inside or
outside: as Dr. Whitaker truly says, “it has been rebuilt with all the
attention to economy, and all the neglect, both of modern elegance and
ancient form, which characterises the religious edifices of the present
day.” It is indeed, as the same historian observes, “a perfect specimen”
of a “plain, oblong, ill-constructed building, without aisles, choir,
column, battlements, or buttresses; the roof and wainscotting of deal,
the covering of slate; the walls running down with wet, and the whole
resembling a modern conventicle, which this year may serve as a chapel,
and the next as a cockpit.” The remarks that Arncliffe church leads the
doctor to make ought to be _thundered_ in the ears of every “beautifier”
from Cornwall to Berwick upon Tweed:--
“Awakened by the remonstrances of their ecclesiastical superior, a
parish discovers that, by long neglect, the roof of their church is half
rotten, the lead full of cracks, the pews falling down, the windows
broken, the mullions decayed, the walls damp and mouldy. Here it is well
if the next discovery be not the _value_ of the lead. No matter whether
this covering have or have not given an air of dignity and venerable
peculiarity to the church for centuries. It will save a parish
assessment; and blue slate will harmonize very prettily with the
adjoining cotton-mill! The work of renovation proceeds--the stone
tracery of the windows, which had long shed their dim religious light,
is displaced, and with it all the armorial achievements of antiquity,
the written memorials of benefactors, the rich tints and glowing drapery
of saints and angels--but to console our eyes for the losses, the smart
luminous modern sash is introduced; and if this be only pointed at top,
all is well; for all is--still _Gothic_![510] Next are condemned the
massy oaken stalls, many of them capable of repairs, many of them
wanting none: these are replaced by narrow slender deal pews, admirably
contrived to cramp the tall, and break down under the bulky. Next the
fluted wood work of the roof, with all its carved enrichments, is
plastered over. It looked dull and nourished cobwebs! Lastly, the
screens and lattices, which, from a period antecedent to the
Reformation, had spread their light and perforated surfaces from arch to
arch, are sawn away; and, in the true spirit of modern equality, one
undistinguishing blank is substituted for separations which are yet
_canonical_, and to distinctions which _ought to be revered_.”
In Littondale is the celebrated cave Doukerbottom Hole: the road leading
to it is steep and difficult to travel for one unused to hilly
countries; but the tourist will receive an ample recompense for the
badness of the road, by the splendid views obtained from all parts of it
of Whernside and the neighbouring hills. It is some years since I saw
Doukerbottom Cave; and at this distance of time I fear to attempt a
description of its wonders; but I remember that the entrance is steep
and rather dangerous; the first chamber very spacious and lofty, and the
roof starred with beautiful stalactites formed by the dripping of the
limestone; that then the cavern becomes narrower and lower, so much so,
that you have to stoop, and that at the end the ear is stunned by a
waterfall, which discharges itself into some still lower cave. I
remember, too, that I visited it in company with an amiable dissenting
minister, and that we were highly amused at the jokes and tales of our
one-eyed guide, Mr. Proctor, of Kilnsay. I have just been inquiring
after that worthy and eccentric old fellow, and find that he is dead. I
am sorry for it; and if my reverend friend should see this article, I
doubt not but he will lament with me, that poor old Proctor is gone. For
many years he had been guide to Doukerbottom Cave and Whernside.
In Littondale is a ridge of rock, called Tenant’s Ride, from one of the
Tenant family having galloped along it while hunting. A dangerous feat
truly, but not so daring as is generally supposed; for I am given to
understand the ridge is seven yards wide, and perfectly level. There are
fine waterfalls in the valley. I trust that a time will come when
Littondale will be more frequented than at present.