_Ipsi sibi somnia fingunt._
VIRG. _Ecl._ viii. ver. 108.
Their own imaginations they deceive.
There are some opinions in which a man should stand neuter[117], without
engaging[118] his assent to one side or the other. Such a hovering faith
as this, which refuses to settle upon any determination[119], is
absolutely necessary in a mind that is careful to avoid errors and
prepossessions. When the arguments press equally on both sides in matters
that are indifferent to us, the safest method is to give up ourselves to
neither.
It is with this temper of mind that I consider the subject of witchcraft.
When I hear the relations that are made from all parts of the world, not
only from Norway and Lapland, from the East and West Indies, but from
every particular nation in Europe, I cannot forbear thinking that there
is such an intercourse and commerce with evil spirits, as that which we
express by the name of witchcraft. But when I consider that the ignorant
and credulous parts of the world abound most in these relations, and that
the persons among us, who are supposed to engage in such an infernal
commerce, are people of a weak understanding and crazed imagination, and
at the same time reflect upon the many impostures and delusions of this
nature that have been detected in all ages, I endeavour to suspend my
belief till I hear more certain accounts than any which have yet come to
my knowledge. In short, when I consider the question whether there are
such persons in the world as those we call witches, my mind is divided
between the two opposite opinions; or rather, (to speak my thoughts
freely) I believe in general that there is, and has been such a thing as
witchcraft; but, at the same time, can give no credit to any particular
instance of it.
I am engaged in this speculation by some occurrences that I met with
yesterday, which I shall give my reader an account of at large. As I was
walking with my friend Sir Roger by the side of one of his woods, an old
woman applied herself to me for my charity. Her dress and figure put me
in mind of the following description in Otway:--
In a close lane as I pursu'd my journey,
I spy'd a wrinkled Hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself.
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seem'd wither'd;
And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapp'd
The tatter'd remnants of an old strip'd hanging,
Which serv'd to keep her carcase from the cold:
So there was nothing of a piece about her.
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd
With diff'rent-colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow,
And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness.
As I was musing on this description, and comparing it with the object
before me, the Knight told me, that this very old woman had the
reputation of a witch all over the country, that her lips were observed
to be always in motion, and that there was not a switch about her house
which her neighbours did not believe had carried her several hundreds of
miles. If she chanced to stumble, they always found sticks or straws that
lay in the figure of a cross before her. If she made any mistake at
church, and cried Amen in a wrong place, they never failed to conclude
that she was saying her prayers backwards. There was not a maid in the
parish that would take a pin of her, though she should offer a bag of
money with it. She goes by the name of Moll White, and has made the
country ring with several imaginary exploits which are palmed upon her.
If the dairy-maid does not make the butter come so soon as she would have
it, Moll White is at the bottom of the churn. If a horse sweats in the
stable, Moll White has been upon his back. If a hare makes an unexpected
escape from the hounds, the huntsman curses Moll White. "Nay," (says Sir
Roger) "I have known the master of the pack, upon such an occasion, send
one of his servants to see if Moll White had been out that morning."
[Illustration: Moll White]
This account raised my curiosity so far, that I begged my friend Sir
Roger to go with me into her hovel, which stood in a solitary corner
under the side of the wood. Upon our first entering Sir Roger winked to
me, and pointed at something that stood behind the door, which, upon
looking that way, I found to be an old broomstaff. At the same time he
whispered me in the ear to take notice of a tabby cat that sat in the
chimney-corner, which, as the old Knight told me, lay under as bad a
report as Moll White herself; for, besides that Moll is said often to
accompany her in the same shape, the cat is reported to have spoken twice
or thrice in her life, and to have played several pranks above the
capacity of an ordinary cat.
I was secretly concerned to see human nature in so much wretchedness and
disgrace, but at the same time could not forbear smiling to hear Sir
Roger, who is a little puzzled about the old woman, advising her as a
justice of peace to avoid all communication with the Devil, and never to
hurt any of her neighbour's cattle. We concluded our visit with a bounty,
which was very acceptable.
In our return home Sir Roger told me, that old Moll had been often
brought before him for making children spit pins, and giving maids the
nightmare; and that the country people would be tossing her into a pond,
and trying experiments with her every day, if it was not for him and his
chaplain.
I have since found, upon inquiry, that Sir Roger was several times
staggered with the reports that had been brought him concerning this old
woman, and would frequently have bound her over to the county sessions,
had not his chaplain with much ado persuaded him to the contrary.
I have been the more particular[120] in this account, because I hear
there is scarce a village in England that has not a Moll White in it.
When an old woman begins to dote, and grow chargeable to a parish, she
is generally turned into a witch, and fills the whole country with
extravagant fancies, imaginary distempers, and terrifying dreams. In the
meantime, the poor wretch that is the innocent occasion of so many evils
begins to be frighted at herself, and sometimes confesses secret
commerce[121] and familiarities that her imagination forms in a delirious
old age. This frequently cuts off charity from the greatest objects of
compassion, and inspires people with a malevolence towards those poor
decrepit parts of our species, in whom human nature is defaced by
infirmity and dotage.