(M235) Sometimes the need-fire was known as the “wild fire,” to

distinguish it no doubt from the tame fire produced by more ordinary

methods. The following is Grimm’s account of the mode of kindling it which

prevailed in some parts of Central Germany, particularly about Hildesheim,

down apparently to the first half of the nineteenth century: “In many

places of Lower Saxony, especially among the mountains, the custom

prevails of preparing the so-called ‘wild fire’ for the purpose of

preventing cattle-plague; and through it first the pigs, then the cows,

and last of all the geese are driven. The proceedings on the occasion are

as follows. The principal farmers and parishioners assemble, and notice is

served to every inhabitant to extinguish entirely all fire in his house,

so that not even a spark remains alight in the whole village. Then young

and old repair to a road in a hollow, usually towards evening, the women

carrying linen, and the men wood and tow. Two oaken poles are driven into

the ground about a foot and a half from each other. Each pole has in the

side facing the other a socket into which a cross-piece as thick as a

man’s arm is fitted. The sockets are stuffed with linen, and the

cross-piece is rammed in as tight as possible, while the poles are bound

together at the top by ropes. A rope is wound about the round, smooth

cross-piece, and the free ends of the rope at both sides are gripped by

several persons, who pull the cross-piece to and fro with the utmost

rapidity, till through the friction the linen in the sockets takes fire.

The sparks of the linen are immediately caught in tow or oakum and waved

about in a circle until they burst into a bright glow, when straw is

applied to it, and the flaming straw used to kindle the brushwood which

has been stacked in piles in the hollow way. When this wood has blazed up

and the fire has nearly died out again, the people hasten to the herds,

which have been waiting in the background, and drive them forcibly, one

after the other, through the glow. As soon as all the beasts are through,

the young folk rush wildly at the ashes and cinders, sprinkling and

blackening each other with them; those who have been most sprinkled and

blackened march in triumph behind the cattle into the village and do not

wash themselves for a long time. If after long rubbing the linen should

not catch fire, they guess that there is still fire somewhere in the

village; then a strict search is made from house to house, any fire that

may be found is put out, and the householder is punished or upbraided. The

‘wild fire’ must be made by prolonged friction; it may not be struck with

flint and steel. Some villages do not prepare it yearly as a preventive of

cattle-plague, but only kindle it when the disease has actually broken

out.”(694) In the Halberstadt district the ends of the rope which was used

to make the cross-piece revolve in the sockets had to be pulled by two

chaste young men.(695)

(M236) In the Mark down to the first half of the nineteenth century the

practice was similar. We read that “in many parts of the Mark there still

prevails on certain occasions the custom of kindling a need-fire, it

happens particularly when a farmer has sick pigs. Two posts of dry wood

are planted in the earth amid solemn silence before the sun rises, and

round these posts hempen ropes are pulled to and fro till the wood

kindles; whereupon the fire is fed with dry leaves and twigs and the sick

beasts are driven through it. In some places the fire is produced by the

friction of an old cart-wheel.”(696)

(M237) In Mecklenburg the need-fire used to be lighted by the friction of

a rope wound about an oaken pole or by rubbing two boards against each

other. Having been thus elicited, the flame was fed with wood of seven

kinds. The practice was forbidden by Gustavus Adolphus, Duke of

Mecklenburg, in 1682; but the prohibition apparently had little effect,

for down to the end of the eighteenth century the custom was so common

that the inhabitants even of large towns made no scruple of resorting to

it. For example, in the month of July 1792 sickness broke out among the

cattle belonging to the town of Sternberg; some of the beasts died

suddenly, and so the people resolved to drive all the survivors through a

need-fire. On the tenth day of July the magistrates issued a proclamation

announcing that next morning before sunrise a need-fire would be kindled

for the behoof of all the cattle of the town, and warning all the

inhabitants against lighting fires in their kitchens that evening. So next

morning very early, about two o’clock, nearly the whole population was

astir, and having assembled outside one of the gates of the town they

helped to drive the timid cattle, not without much ado, through three

separate need-fires; after which they dispersed to their homes in the

unalterable conviction that they had rescued the cattle from destruction.

But to make assurance doubly sure they deemed it advisable to administer

the rest of the ashes as a bolus to the animals. However, some people in

Mecklenburg used to strew the ashes of the need-fire on fields for the

purpose of protecting the crops against vermin. As late as June 1868 a

traveller in Mecklenburg saw a couple of peasants sweating away at a rope,

which they were pulling backwards and forwards so as to make a tarry

roller revolve with great speed in the socket of an upright post. Asked

what they were about, they vouchsafed no reply; but an old woman who

appeared on the scene from a neighbouring cottage was more communicative.

In the fulness of her heart she confided to the stranger that her pigs

were sick, that the two taciturn bumpkins were her sons, who were busy

extracting a need-fire from the roller, and that, when they succeeded, the

flame would be used to ignite a heap of rags and brushwood, through which

the ailing swine would be driven. She further explained that the persons

who kindle a need-fire should always be two brothers or at least bear the

same Christian name.(697)

(M238) In the summer of 1828 there was much sickness among the pigs and

the cows of Eddesse, a village near Meinersen, in the south of Hanover.

When all ordinary measures to arrest the malady failed, the farmers met in

solemn conclave on the village green and determined that next morning

there should be a need-fire. Thereupon the head man of the village sent

word from house to house that on the following day nobody should kindle a

fire before sunrise, and that everybody should stand by ready to drive out

the cattle. The same afternoon all the necessary preparations were made

for giving effect to the decision of the collective wisdom. A narrow

street was enclosed with planks, and the village carpenter set to work at

the machinery for kindling the fire. He took two posts of oak wood, bored

a hole about three inches deep and broad in each, and set the two poles up

facing each other at a distance of about two feet. Then he fitted a roller

of oak wood into the two holes of the posts, so that it formed a

cross-piece between them. About two o’clock next morning every householder

brought a bundle of straw and brushwood and laid it down across the street

in a prescribed order. The sturdiest swains who could be found were chosen

to make the need-fire. For this purpose a long hempen rope was wound twice

round the oaken roller in the oaken posts: the pivots were well smeared

with pitch and tar: a bundle of tow and other tinder was laid close at

hand, and all was ready. The stalwart clodhoppers now seized the two ends

of the rope and went to work with a will. Puffs of smoke soon issued from

the sockets, but to the consternation of the bystanders not a spark of

fire could be elicited. Some people openly declared their suspicion that

some rascal had not put out the fire in his house, when suddenly the

tinder burst into flame. The cloud passed away from all faces; the fire

was applied to the heaps of fuel, and when the flames had somewhat died

down, the herds were forcibly driven through the fire, first the pigs,

next the cows, and last of all the horses. The herdsmen then drove the

beasts to pasture, and persons whose faith in the efficacy of the

need-fire was particularly robust carried home brands.(698)

(M239) Again, at a village near Quedlinburg, in the Harz Mountains, it was

resolved to put a herd of sick swine through the need-fire. Hearing of

this intention the Superintendent of Quedlinburg hurried to the spot and

has described for us what he saw. The beadles went from house to house to

see that there was no fire in any house; for it is well known that should

there be common fire burning in a house the need-fire will not kindle. The

men made their rounds very early in the morning to make quite sure that

all lights were out. At two o’clock a night-light was still burning in the

parsonage, and this was of course a hindrance to the need-fire. The

peasants knocked at the window and earnestly entreated that the

night-light might be extinguished. But the parson’s wife refused to put

the light out; it still glimmered at the window; and in the darkness

outside the angry rustics vowed that the parson’s pigs should get no

benefit of the need-fire. However, as good luck would have it, just as the

morning broke, the night-light went out of itself, and the hopes of the

people revived. From every house bundles of straw, tow, faggots and so

forth were now carried to feed the bonfire. The noise and the cheerful

bustle were such that you might have thought they were all hurrying to

witness a public execution. Outside the village, between two garden walls,

an oaken post had been driven into the ground and a hole bored through it.

In the hole a wooden winch, smeared with tar, was inserted and made to

revolve with such force and rapidity that fire and smoke in time issued

from the socket. The collected fuel was then thrown upon the fire and soon

a great blaze shot up. The pigs were now driven into the upper end of the

street. As soon as they saw the fire, they turned tail, but the peasants

drove them through with shrieks and shouts and lashes of whips. At the

other end of the street there was another crowd waiting, who chased the

swine back through the fire a second time. Then the other crowd repeated

the manœuvre, and the herd of swine was driven for the third time through

the smoke and flames. That was the end of the performance. Many pigs were

scorched so severely that they gave up the ghost. The bonfire was broken

up, and every householder took home with him a brand, which he washed in

the water-barrel and laid for some time, as a treasure of great price, in

the manger from which the cattle were fed. But the parson’s wife had

reason bitterly to repent her folly in refusing to put out that

night-light; for not one of her pigs was driven through the need-fire, so

they died.(699)

(M240) In Brunswick, also, the need-fire is known to have been repeatedly

kindled during the nineteenth century. After driving the pigs through the

fire, which was kindled by the friction of wood, some people took brands

home, dipped them in water, and then gave the water to the pigs to drink,

no doubt for the purpose of inoculating them still more effectually with

the precious virtue of the need-fire. In the villages of the Drömling

district everybody who bore a hand in kindling the “wild fire” must have

the same Christian name; otherwise they laboured in vain. The fire was

produced by the friction of a rope round the beams of a door; and bread,

corn, and old boots contributed their mites to swell the blaze through

which the pigs as usual were driven. In one place, apparently not far from

Wolfenbüttel, the need-fire is said to have been kindled, contrary to

custom, by the smith striking a spark from the cold anvil.(700) At

Gandersheim down to about the beginning of the nineteenth century the

need-fire was lit in the common way by causing a cross-bar to revolve

rapidly on its axis between two upright posts. The rope which produced the

revolution of the bar had to be new, but it was if possible woven from

threads taken from a gallows-rope, with which people had been hanged.

While the need-fire was being kindled in this fashion, every other fire in

the town had to be put out; search was made through the houses, and any

fire discovered to be burning was extinguished. If in spite of every

precaution no flame could be elicited by the friction of the rope, the

failure was set down to witchcraft; but if the efforts were successful, a

bonfire was lit with the new fire, and when the flames had died down, the

sick swine were driven thrice through the glowing embers.(701) On the

lower Rhine the need-fire is said to have been kindled by the friction of

oak-wood on fir-wood, all fires in the village having been previously

extinguished. The bonfires so kindled were composed of wood of nine

different sorts; there were three such bonfires, and the cattle were

driven round them with great gravity and devotion.(702)

(M241) In Silesia, also, need-fires were often employed for the purpose of

curing a murrain or preventing its spread. While all other lights within

the boundaries were extinguished, the new fire was produced by the

friction of nine kinds of wood, and the flame so obtained was used to

kindle heaps of brushwood or straw to which every inhabitant had

contributed. Through these fires the cattle, both sick and sound, were

driven in the confident expectation that thereby the sick would be healed

and the sound saved from sickness.(703) When plague breaks out among the

herds at Dobischwald, in Austrian Silesia, a splinter of wood is chipped

from the threshold of every house, the cattle are driven to a cross-road,

and there a tree, growing at the boundary, is felled by a pair of twin

brothers. The wood of the tree and the splinters from the thresholds

furnish the fuel of a bonfire, which is kindled by the rubbing of two

pieces of wood together. When the bonfire is ablaze, the horns of the

cattle are pared and the parings thrown into the flames, after which the

animals are driven through the fire. This is believed to guard the herd

against the plague.(704) The Germans of Western Bohemia resort to similar

measures for staying a murrain. You set up a post, bore a hole in it, and

insert in the hole a stick, which you have first of all smeared with pitch

and wrapt in inflammable stuffs. Then you wind a rope round the stick and

give the two ends of the rope to two persons who must either be brothers

or have the same baptismal name. They haul the rope backwards and forwards

so as to make the tarred stick revolve rapidly till the rope first smokes

and then emits sparks. The sparks are used to kindle a bonfire, through

which the cattle are driven in the usual way. And as usual no other fire

may burn in the village while the need-fire is being kindled; for

otherwise the rope could not possibly be ignited.(705) In Upper Austria

sick pigs are reported to have been driven through a need-fire about the

beginning of the nineteenth century.(706)

(M242) The need-fire is still in use in some parts of Switzerland, but it

seems to have degenerated into a children’s game and to be employed rather

for the dispersal of a mist than for the prevention or cure of

cattle-plague. In some cantons it goes by the name of “mist-healing,”

while in others it is called “butter-churning.” On a misty or rainy day a

number of children will shut themselves up in a stable or byre and proceed

to make fire for the purpose of improving the weather. The way in which

they make it is this. A boy places a board against his breast, takes a peg

pointed at both ends, and, setting one end of the peg against the board on

his breast, presses the other end firmly against a second board, the

surface of which has been flaked into a nap. A string is tied round the

peg, and two other boys pull it to and fro, till through the rapid motion

of the point of the peg a hole is burnt in the flaked board, to which tow

or dry moss is then applied as a tinder. In this way fire and smoke are

elicited, and with their appearance the children fancy that the mist will

vanish.(707) We may conjecture that this method of dispersing a mist,

which is now left to children, was formerly practised in all seriousness

by grown men in Switzerland. It is thus that religious or magical rites

dwindle away into the sports of children. In the canton of the Grisons

there is still in common use an imprecation, “Mist, go away, or I’ll heal

you,” which points to an old custom of burning up the fog with fire. A

longer form of the curse lingers in the Vallée des Bagnes of the canton

Valais. It runs thus: “Mist, mist, fly, fly, or St. Martin will come with

a sheaf of straw to burn your guts, a great log of wood to smash your

brow, and an iron chain to drag you to hell.”(708)

(M243) In Sweden the need-fire is called, from the mode of its production,

either _vrid-eld_, “turned fire,” or _gnid-eld_, “rubbed fire.” Down to

near the end of the eighteenth century the need-fire was kindled, as in

Germany, by the violent rubbing of two pieces of wood against each other;

sometimes nine different kinds of wood were used for the purpose. The

smoke of the fire was deemed salutary; fruit-trees and nets were fumigated

with it, in order that the trees might bear fruit and the nets catch fish.

Cattle were also driven through the smoke.(709) In Sundal, a narrow

Norwegian valley, shut in on both sides by precipitous mountains, there

lived down to the second half of the nineteenth century an old man who was

very superstitious. He set salmon-traps in the river Driva, which

traverses the valley, and he caught many fish both in spring and autumn.

When his fishing went wrong, he kindled _naueld_ (“need-fire”) or

_gnideild_ (“rubbed fire,” “friction fire”) to counteract the witchcraft,

which he believed to be the cause of his bad luck. He set up two planks

near each other, bored a hole in each, inserted a pointed rod in the

holes, and twisted a long cord round the rod. Then he pulled the cord so

as to make the rod revolve rapidly. Thus by reason of the friction he at

last drew fire from the wood. That contented him, for “he believed that

the witchery was thus rendered powerless, and that good luck in his

fishing was now ensured.”(710)

(M244) Slavonic peoples hold the need-fire in high esteem. They call it

“living fire,” and attribute to it a healing virtue. The ascription of

medicinal power to fire kindled by the friction of wood is said to be

especially characteristic of the Slavs who inhabit the Carpathian

Mountains and the Balkan peninsula. The mode in which they produce the

need-fire differs somewhat in different places. Thus in the Schar

mountains of Servia the task is entrusted to a boy and girl between eleven

and fourteen years of age. They are led into a perfectly dark room, and

having stripped themselves naked kindle the fire by rubbing two rollers of

lime wood against each other, till the friction produces sparks, which are

caught in tinder. The Serbs of Western Macedonia drive two oaken posts

into the ground, bore a round hole in the upper end of each, insert a

roller of lime wood in the holes, and set it revolving rapidly by means of

a cord, which is looped round the roller and worked by a bow. Elsewhere

the roller is put in motion by two men, who hold each one end of the cord

and pull it backwards and forwards forcibly between them. Bulgarian

shepherds sometimes kindle the need-fire by drawing a prism-shaped piece

of lime wood to and fro across the flat surface of a tree-stump in the

forest.(711) But in the neighbourhood of Küstendil, in Bulgaria, the

need-fire is kindled by the friction of two pieces of oak wood and the

cattle are driven through it.(712)

(M245) In many districts of Russia, also, “living fire” is made by the

friction of wood on St. John’s Day, and the herds are driven through it,

and the people leap over it in the conviction that their health is thereby

assured; when a cattle-plague is raging, the fire is produced by rubbing

two pieces of oak wood against each other, and it is used to kindle the

lamps before the holy pictures and the censers in the churches.(713) Thus

it appears that in Russia the need-fire is kindled for the sake of the

cattle periodically as well as on special emergencies. Similarly in Poland

the peasants are said to kindle fires in the village streets on St.

Rochus’s day and to drive the cattle thrice through them in order to

protect the animals against the murrain. The fire is produced by rubbing a

pole of poplar wood on a plank of poplar or fir wood and catching the

sparks in tow. The embers are carried home to be used as remedies in

sickness.(714) As practised in Slavonia, the custom of the need-fire used

to present some interesting features, which are best described in the

words of an eye-witness:—“In the year 1833 I came for the first time as a

young merchant to Slavonia; it was to Gaj that I went, in the Požega

district. The time was autumn, and it chanced that a cattle-plague was

raging in the neighbourhood, which inflicted much loss on the people. The

peasants believed that the plague was a woman, an evil spirit (_Kuga_),

who was destroying the cattle; so they sought to banish her. I had then

occasion to observe the proceedings in the villages of Gaj, Kukunjevac,

Brezina, and Brekinjska. Towards evening the whole population of the

village was busy laying a ring of brushwood round the boundaries of the

village. All fires were extinguished throughout the village. Then pairs of

men in several places took pieces of wood, which had been specially

prepared for the purpose, and rubbed them together till they emitted

sparks. The sparks were allowed to fall on tinder and fanned into a flame,

with which the dry brushwood was kindled. Thus the fire burned all round

the village. The peasants persuaded themselves that thereupon _Kuga_ must

take her departure.”(715)

(M246) This last account leaves no doubt as to the significance of the

need-fire in the minds of Slavonian peasantry. They regard it simply as a

barrier interposed between their cattle and the evil spirit, which prowls,

like a hungry wolf, round the fold and can, like a wolf, be kept at bay by

fire. The same interpretation of the need-fire comes out, hardly less

clearly, in the account which another writer gives of a ceremony witnessed

by him at the village of Setonje, at the foot of the Homolje mountains in

the great forest of Servia. An epidemic was raging among the children, and

the need-fire was resorted to as a means of staying the plague. It was

produced by an old man and an old woman in the first of the ways described

above; that is, they made it in the dark by rubbing two sticks of lime

wood against each other. Before the healing virtue of the fire was applied

to the inhabitants of the village, two old women performed the following

ceremony. Both bore the name of Stana, from the verb _stati_, “to remain

standing”; for the ceremony could not be successfully performed by persons

of any other name. One of them carried a copper kettle full of water, the

other an old house-lock with the key. Thus equipped they repaired to a

spot outside of the village, and there the old dame with the kettle asked

the old dame with the lock, “Whither away?” and the other answered her, “I

came to shut the village against ill-luck.” With that she locked the lock

and threw it with the key into the kettle of water. Then they marched

thrice round the village, repeating the ceremony of the lock and key at

each round. Meantime all the villagers, arrayed in their best clothes,

were assembled in an open place. All the fires in the houses had been

previously extinguished. Two sturdy yokels now dug a tunnel through a

mound beside an oak tree; the tunnel was just high enough to let a man

creep through it on all fours. Two fires, lit by the need-fire, were now

laid, one at each end of the tunnel; and the old woman with the kettle

took her stand at the entrance of the tunnel, while the one with the lock

posted herself at the exit. Facing the latter stood another woman with a

great pot of milk before her, and on the other side was set a pot full of

melted swine’s fat. All was now ready. The villagers thereupon crawled

through the tunnel on hands and knees, one behind the other. Each, as he

emerged from the tunnel, received a spoonful of milk from the woman and

looked at his face reflected in the pot of melted swine’s fat. Then

another woman made a cross with a piece of charcoal on his back. When all

the inhabitants had thus crept through the tunnel and been doctored at the

other end, each took some glowing embers home with him in a pot wherewith

to rekindle the fire on the domestic hearth. Lastly they put some of the

charcoal in a vessel of water and drank the mixture in order to be thereby

magically protected against the epidemic.(716)

It would be superfluous to point out in detail how admirably these

measures are calculated to arrest the ravages of disease; but for the sake

of those, if there are any, to whom the medicinal effect of crawling

through a hole on hands and knees is not at once apparent, I shall merely

say that the procedure in question is one of the most powerful specifics

which the wit of man has devised for maladies of all sorts. Ample evidence

of its application will be adduced in a later part of this work.(717)

(M247) In Bulgaria the herds suffer much from the raids of certain

blood-sucking vampyres called _Ustrels_. An _Ustrel_ is the spirit of a

Christian child who was born on a Saturday and died unfortunately before

he could be baptized. On the ninth day after burial he grubs his way out

of the grave and attacks the cattle at once, sucking their blood all night

and returning at peep of dawn to the grave to rest from his labours. In

ten days or so the copious draughts of blood which he has swallowed have

so fortified his constitution that he can undertake longer journeys; so

when he falls in with great herds of cattle or flocks of sheep he returns

no more to the grave for rest and refreshment at night, but takes up his

quarters during the day either between the horns of a sturdy calf or ram

or between the hind legs of a milch-cow. Beasts whose blood he has sucked

die the same night. In any herd that he may fasten on he begins with the

fattest animal and works his way down steadily through the leaner kine

till not one single beast is left alive. The carcases of the victims swell

up, and when the hide is stripped off you can always perceive the livid

patch of flesh where the monster sucked the blood of the poor creature. In

a single night he may, by working hard, kill five cows; but he seldom

exceeds that number. He can change his shape and weight very easily; for

example, when he is sitting by day between the horns of a ram, the animal

scarcely feels his weight, but at night he will sometimes throw himself on

an ox or a cow so heavily that the animal cannot stir, and lows so

pitifully that it would make your heart bleed to hear. People who were

born on a Saturday can see these monsters, and they have described them

accurately, so that there can be no doubt whatever about their existence.

It is, therefore, a matter of great importance to the peasant to protect

his flocks and herds against the ravages of such dangerous vampyres. The

way in which he does so is this. On a Saturday morning before sunrise the

village drummer gives the signal to put out every fire in the village;

even smoking is forbidden. Next all the domestic animals, with the

exception of fowls, geese, and ducks, are driven out into the open. In

front of the flocks and herds march two men, whose names during the

ceremony may not be mentioned in the village. They go into the wood, pick

two dry branches, and having stript themselves of their clothes they rub

the two branches together very hard till they catch fire; then with the

fire so obtained they kindle two bonfires, one on each side of a

cross-road which is known to be frequented by wolves. After that the herd

is driven between the two fires. Coals from the bonfires are then taken

back to the village and used to rekindle the fires on the domestic

hearths. For several days no one may go near the charred and blackened

remains of the bonfires at the cross-road. The reason is that the vampyre

is lying there, having dropped from his seat between the cow’s horns when

the animals were driven between the two fires. So if any one were to pass

by the spot during these days, the monster would be sure to call him by

name and to follow him to the village; whereas if he is left alone, a wolf

will come at midnight and strangle him, and in a few days the herdsmen can

see the ground soaked with his slimy blood. So that is the end of the

vampyre.(718) In this Bulgarian custom, as in the Slavonian custom

described above, the conception of the need-fire as a barrier set up

between the cattle and a dangerous spirit is clearly worked out. The

spirit rides the cow till he comes to the narrow pass between the two

fires, but the heat there is too much for him; he drops in a faint from

the saddle, or rather from the horns, and the now riderless animal escapes

safe and sound beyond the smoke and flame, leaving her persecutor

prostrate on the ground on the further side of the blessed barrier.

(M248) In Bosnia and Herzegovina there are some local differences in the

mode of kindling the need-fire, or “living fire,” as it is called. Thus at

Jablanica both the uprights and the roller or cross-piece, which by its

revolution kindles the fire, are made of cornel-tree wood; whereas at

Dolac, near Sarajevo, the uprights and the cross-piece or roller are all

made of lime wood. In Gacko, contrary to the usual custom, the fire is

made by striking a piece of iron on an anvil, till sparks are given out,

which are caught in tinder. The “living fire” thus produced is employed

for purposes of healing. In particular, if any one suffers from wounds or

sores, ashes of the need-fire are sprinkled on the ailing part. In Gacko

it is also believed that if a pregnant woman witnesses a conflagration,

her child will either be born with a red eruption on its skin or will

contract the malady sooner or later afterwards. The only remedy consists

in ashes of the need-fire, which are mixed with water and given to the

child to drink.(719)

(M249) In England the earliest notice of the need-fire seems to be

contained in the Chronicle of Lanercost for the year 1268. The annalist

tells with pious horror how, when an epidemic was raging in that year

among the cattle, “certain beastly men, monks in garb but not in mind,

taught the idiots of their country to make fire by the friction of wood

and to set up an image of Priapus, whereby they thought to succour the

animals.”(720) The use of the need-fire is particularly attested for the

counties of Yorkshire and Northumberland. Thus in Yorkshire down to the

middle of the eighteenth century “the favourite remedy of the country

people, not only in the way of cure, but of prevention, was an odd one; it

was to smoke the cattle almost to suffocation, by kindling straw, litter,

and other combustible matter about them. The effects of this mode of cure

are not stated, but the most singular part of it was that by which it was

reported to have been discovered. An angel (says the legend), descended

into Yorkshire, and there set a large tree on fire; the strange appearance

of which or else the savour of the smoke, incited the cattle around (some

of which were infected) to draw near the miracle, when they all either

received an immediate cure or an absolute prevention of the disorder. It

is not affirmed that the angel staid to speak to anybody, but only that he

left a _written_ direction for the neighbouring people to catch this

supernatural fire, and to communicate it from one to another with all

possible speed throughout the country; and in case it should be

extinguished and utterly lost, that then new fire, of equal virtue, might

be obtained, not by any common method, but by rubbing two pieces of wood

together till they ignited. Upon what foundation this story stood, is not

exactly known, but it put the farmers actually into a hurry of

communicating flame and smoke from one house to another with wonderful

speed, making it run like wildfire over the country.”(721) Again, we read

that “the father of the writer, who died in 1843, in his seventy-ninth

year, had a perfect remembrance of a great number of persons, belonging to

the upper and middle classes of his native parish of Bowes, assembling on

the banks of the river Greta to work for need-fire. A disease among

cattle, called the murrain, then prevailed to a very great extent through

that district of Yorkshire. The cattle were made to pass through the smoke

raised by this miraculous fire, and their cure was looked upon as certain,

and to neglect doing so was looked upon as wicked. This fire was produced

by the violent and continued friction of two dry pieces of wood until such

time as it was thereby obtained. ‘To work as though one was working for

need-fire’ is a common proverb in the North of England.”(722) At Ingleton,

a small town nestling picturesquely at the foot of the high hill of

Ingleborough in western Yorkshire, “within the last thirty years or so it

was a common practice to kindle the so-called ‘Need-fire’ by rubbing two

pieces of wood briskly together, and setting ablaze a large heap of sticks

and brushwood, which were dispersed, and cattle then driven through the

smoking brands. This was thought to act as a charm against the spread or

developement of the various ailments to which cattle are liable, and the

farmers seem to have had great faith in it.”(723) Writing about the middle

of the nineteenth century, Kemble tells us that the will-fire or need-fire

had been used in Devonshire for the purpose of staying a murrain within

the memory of man.(724)

(M250) So in Northumberland, down to the first half of the nineteenth

century, “when a contagious disease enters among cattle, the fires are

extinguished in the adjacent villages. Two pieces of dried wood are then

rubbed together until fire be produced; with this a quantity of straw is

kindled, juniper is thrown into the flame, and the cattle are repeatedly

driven through the smoke. Part of the forced fire is sent to the

neighbours, who again forward it to others, and, as great expedition is

used, the fires may be seen blazing over a great extent of country in a

very short space of time.”(725) “It is strange,” says the antiquary

William Henderson, writing about 1866, “to find the custom of lighting

‘need-fires’ on the occasion of epidemics among cattle still lingering

among us, but so it is. The vicar of Stamfordham writes thus respecting

it: ‘When the murrain broke out among the cattle about eighteen years ago,

this fire was produced by rubbing two pieces of dry wood together, and was

carried from place to place all through this district, as a charm against

cattle taking the disease. Bonfires were kindled with it, and the cattle

driven into the smoke, where they were left for some time. Many farmers

hereabouts, I am informed, had the need-fire.’ ”(726)

(M251) In the earliest systematic account of the western islands of

Scotland we read that “the inhabitants here did also make use of a fire

called _Tin-egin_, _i.e._ a forced fire, or fire of necessity, which they

used as an antidote against the plague or murrain in cattle; and it was

performed thus: all the fires in the parish were extinguished, and then

eighty-one married men, being thought the necessary number for effecting

this design, took two great planks of wood, and nine of them were employed

by turns, who by their repeated efforts rubbed one of the planks against

the other until the heat thereof produced fire; and from this forced fire

each family is supplied with new fire, which is no sooner kindled than a

pot full of water is quickly set on it, and afterwards sprinkled upon the

people infected with the plague, or upon the cattle that have the murrain.

And this they all say they find successful by experience: it was practised

in the main land, opposite to the south of Skie, within these thirty

years.”(727)

(M252) In the island of Mull, one of the largest of the Hebrides, the

need-fire was kindled as late as 1767. “In consequence of a disease among

the black cattle the people agreed to perform an incantation, though they

esteemed it a wicked thing. They carried to the top of Cammoor a wheel and

nine spindles of oakwood. They extinguished every fire in every house

within sight of the hill; the wheel was then turned from east to west over

the nine spindles long enough to produce fire by friction. If the fire

were not produced before noon, the incantation lost its effect. They

failed for several days running. They attributed this failure to the

obstinacy of one householder, who would not let his fires be put out for

what he considered so wrong a purpose. However, by bribing his servants

they contrived to have them extinguished and on that morning raised their

fire. They then sacrificed a heifer, cutting in pieces and burning, while

yet alive, the diseased part. They then lighted their own hearths from the

pile and ended by feasting on the remains. Words of incantation were

repeated by an old man from Morven, who came over as master of the

ceremonies, and who continued speaking all the time the fire was being

raised. This man was living a beggar at Bellochroy. Asked to repeat the

spell, he said, the sin of repeating it once had brought him to beggary,

and that he dared not say those words again. The whole country believed

him accursed.”(728) From this account we see that in Mull the kindling of

the need-fire as a remedy for cattle disease was accompanied by the

sacrifice of one of the diseased animals; and though the two customs are

for the most part mentioned separately by our authorities, we may surmise

that they were often, perhaps usually, practised together for the purpose

of checking the ravages of sickness in the herds.(729)

(M253) In the county of Caithness, forming the extreme north-east corner

of the mainland of Scotland, the practice of the need-fire survived down

at least to about 1788. We read that “in those days, when the stock of any

considerable farmer was seized with the murrain, he would send for one of

the charm-doctors to superintend the raising of a _need-fire_. It was done

by friction, thus; upon any small island, where the stream of a river or

burn ran on each side, a circular booth was erected, of stone and turf, as

it could be had, in which a semicircular or highland couple of birch, or

other hard wood, was set; and, in short, a roof closed on it. A straight

pole was set up in the centre of this building, the upper end fixed by a

wooden pin to the top of the couple, and the lower end in an oblong

_trink_ in the earth or floor; and lastly, another pole was set across

horizontally, having both ends tapered, one end of which was supported in

a hole in the side of the perpendicular pole, and the other in a similar

hole in the couple leg. The horizontal stick was called the auger, having

four short arms or levers fixed in its centre, to work it by; the building

having been thus finished, as many men as could be collected in the

vicinity, (being divested of all kinds of metal in their clothes, etc.),

would set to work with the said auger, two after two, constantly turning

it round by the arms or levers, and others occasionally driving wedges of

wood or stone behind the lower end of the upright pole, so as to press it

the more on the end of the auger: by this constant friction and pressure,

the ends of the auger would take fire, from which a fire would be

instantly kindled, and thus the _need-fire_ would be accomplished. The

fire in the farmer’s house, etc., was immediately quenched with water, a

fire kindled from this need-fire, both in the farm-houses and offices, and

the cattle brought to feel the smoke of this new and sacred fire, which

preserved them from the murrain.”(730)

(M254) The last recorded case of the need-fire in Caithness happened in

1809 or 1810. At Houstry, Dunbeath, a crofter named David Gunn had made

for himself a kail-yard and in doing so had wilfully encroached on one of

those prehistoric ruins called _brochs_, which the people of the

neighbourhood believed to be a fairy habitation. Soon afterwards a murrain

broke out among the cattle of the district and carried off many beasts. So

the wise men put their heads together and resolved to light a

_teine-eigin_ or need-fire as the best way of stopping the plague. They

cut a branch from a tree in a neighbouring wood, stripped it of bark, and

carried it to a small island in the Houstry Burn. Every fire in the

district having been quenched, new fire was made by the friction of wood

in the island, and from this sacred flame all the hearths of the houses

were lit afresh. One of the sticks used in making the fire was preserved

down to about the end of the nineteenth century; apparently the mode of

operation was the one known as the fire-drill: a pointed stick was twirled

in a hole made in another stick till fire was elicited by the

friction.(731)

(M255) Another account of the use of need-fire in the Highlands of

Scotland runs as follows: “When, by the neglect of the prescribed

safeguards [against witchcraft], the seeds of iniquity have taken root,

and a person’s means are decaying in consequence, the only alternative, in

this case, is to resort to that grand remedy, the _Tein Econuch_, or

‘Forlorn Fire,’ which seldom fails of being productive of the best

effects. The cure for witchcraft, called _Tein Econuch_, is wrought in the

following manner:—A consultation being held by the unhappy sufferer and

his friends as to the most advisable measures of effecting a cure, if this

process is adopted, notice is privately communicated to all those

householders who reside within the nearest of two running streams, to

extinguish their lights and fires on some appointed morning. On its being

ascertained that this notice has been duly observed, a spinning-wheel, or

some other convenient instrument, calculated to produce fire by friction,

is set to work with the most furious earnestness by the unfortunate

sufferer, and all who wish well to his cause. Relieving each other by

turns, they drive on with such persevering diligence, that at length the

spindle of the wheel, ignited by excessive friction, emits ‘forlorn fire’

in abundance, which, by the application of tow, or some other combustible

material, is widely extended over the whole neighbourhood. Communicating

the fire to the tow, the tow communicates it to a candle, the candle to a

fir-torch, the torch to a cartful of peats, which the master of the

ceremonies, with pious ejaculations for the success of the experiment,

distributes to messengers, who will proceed with portions of it to the

different houses within the said two running streams, to kindle the

different fires. By the influence of this operation, the machinations and

spells of witchcraft are rendered null and void.”(732)

(M256) In various parts of the Highlands of Scotland the need-fire was

still kindled during the first half of the nineteenth century, as we learn

from the following account:—

“_Tein-eigin_, neid-fire, need-fire, forced fire, fire produced by the

friction of wood or iron against wood.

“The fire of purification was kindled from the neid-fire, while the

domestic fire on the hearth was re-kindled from the purification fire on

the knoll. Among other names, the purification fire was called _Teine

Bheuil_, fire of Beul, and _Teine mor Bheuil_, great fire of Beul. The

fire of Beul was divided into two fires between which people and cattle

rushed australly for purposes of purification. The ordeal was trying, as

may be inferred from phrases still current. _Is teodha so na teine teodha

Bheuil_, ‘Hotter is this than the hot fire of Beul.’ Replying to his

grandchild, an old man in Lewis said ... ‘Mary! sonnie, it were worse for

me to do that for thee than to go between the two great fires of Beul.’

“The neid-fire was resorted to in imminent or actual calamity upon the

first day of the quarter, and to ensure success in great or important

events.

(M257) “The writer conversed with several persons who saw the neid-fire

made, and who joined in the ceremony. As mentioned elsewhere, a woman in

Arran said that her father, and the other men of the townland, made the

neid-fire on the knoll on _La buidhe Bealltain_—Yellow Day of Beltane.

They fed the fire from _cuaile mor conaidh caoin_—great bundles of sacred

faggots brought to the knoll on Beltane Eve. When the sacred fire became

kindled, the people rushed home and brought their herds and drove them

through and round the fire of purification, to sain them from the _bana

bhuitseach mhor Nic Creafain Mac Creafain_—the great arch witch Mac

Crauford, now Crawford. That was in the second decade of this century.

(M258) “John Macphail, Middlequarter, North Uist, said that the last

occasion on which the neid-fire was made in North Uist was _bliadhna an

t-sneachda bhuidhe_—the year of the yellow snow—1829 (?). The snow lay so

deep and remained so long on the ground, that it became yellow. Some

suggest that the snow was originally yellow, as snow is occasionally red.

This extraordinary continuance of snow caused much want and suffering

throughout the Isles. The people of North Uist extinguished their own

fires and generated a purification fire at Sail Dharaich, Sollas. The fire

was produced from an oak log by rapidly boring with an auger. This was

accomplished by the exertions of _naoi naoinear ciad ginealach mac_—the

nine nines of first-begotten sons. From the neid-fire produced on the

knoll the people of the parish obtained fire for their dwellings. Many

cults and ceremonies were observed on the occasion, cults and ceremonies

in which Pagan and Christian beliefs intermingled. _Sail Dharaich_, Oak

Log, obtained its name from the log of oak for the neid-fire being there.

A fragment of this log riddled with auger holes marks a grave in _Cladh

Sgealoir_, the burying-ground of _Sgealoir_, in the neighbourhood.

(M259) “Mr. Alexander Mackay, Edinburgh, a native of Reay, Sutherland,

says:—‘My father was the skipper of a fishing crew. Before beginning

operations for the season, the crew of the boat met at night in our house

to settle accounts for the past, and to plan operations for the new

season. My mother and the rest of us were sent to bed. I lay in the

kitchen, and was listening and watching, though they thought I was asleep.

After the men had settled their past affairs and future plans, they put

out the fire on the hearth, not a spark being allowed to live. They then

rubbed two pieces of wood one against another so rapidly as to produce

fire, the men joining in one after the other, and working with the utmost

energy and never allowing the friction to relax. From this friction-fire

they rekindled the fire on the hearth, from which all the men present

carried away a kindling to their own homes. Whether their success was due

to their skill, their industry, their perseverance, or to the neid-fire, I

do not know, but I know that they were much the most successful crew in

the place. They met on Saturday, and went to church on Sunday like the

good men and the good Christians they were—a little of their Pagan faith

mingling with their Christian belief. I have reason to believe that other

crews in the place as well as my father’s crew practised the neid-fire.’

“A man at Helmsdale, Sutherland, saw the _tein-eigin_ made in his boyhood.

“The neid-fire was made in North Uist about the year 1829, in Arran about

1820, in Helmsdale about 1818, in Reay about 1830.”(733)

(M260) From the foregoing account we learn that in Arran the annual

Beltane fire was regularly made by the friction of wood, and that it was

used to protect men and cattle against a great witch. When we remember

that Beltane Eve or the Eve of May Day (Walpurgis Night) is the great

witching time of the year throughout Europe, we may surmise that wherever

bonfires have been ceremonially kindled on that day it has been done

simply as a precaution against witchcraft; indeed this motive is expressly

alleged not only in Scotland, but in Wales, the Isle of Man, and many

parts of Central Europe.(734) It deserves, further, to be noticed that in

North Uist the wood used to kindle the need-fire was oak, and that the

nine times nine men by whose exertions the flame was elicited were all

first-born sons. Apparently the first-born son of a family was thought to

be endowed with more magical virtue than his younger brothers. Similarly

in the Punjaub “the supernatural power ascribed to the first born is not

due to his being unlucky, but the idea underlying the belief seems to be

that being the first product of the parents, he inherits the spiritual

powers (or magnetism) in a high degree. The success of such persons in

stopping rain and hail and in stupefying snakes is proverbial. It is

believed that a first child born with feet forward can cure backache by

kicking the patient in the back, on a crossing.”(735)

(M261) In the north-east of Aberdeenshire and the neighbourhood, when the

cattle-disease known as the “quarter-ill” broke out, “the ‘muckle wheel’

was set in motion and turned till fire was produced. From this virgin

flame fires were kindled in the byres. At the same time, if neighbours

requested the favour, live coals were given them to kindle fires for the

purification of their homesteads and turning off the disease. Fumigating

the byres with juniper was a method adopted to ward off disease. Such a

fire was called ‘needfyre.’ The kindling of it came under the censure of

the Presbytery at times.”(736)

(M262) In Perthshire the need-fire was kindled as a remedy for

cattle-disease as late as 1826. “A wealthy old farmer, having lost several

of his cattle by some disease very prevalent at present, and being able to

account for it in no way so rationally as by witchcraft, had recourse to

the following remedy, recommended to him by a weird sister in his

neighbourhood, as an effectual protection from the attacks of the foul

fiend. A few stones were piled together in the barnyard, and woodcoals

having been laid thereon, the fuel was ignited by _will-fire_, that is

fire obtained by friction; the neighbours having been called in to witness

the solemnity, the cattle were made to pass through the flames, in the

order of their dignity and age, commencing with the horses and ending with

the swine. The ceremony having been duly and decorously gone through, a

neighbouring farmer observed to the enlightened owner of the herd, that

he, along with his family, ought to have followed the example of the

cattle, and the sacrifice to Baal would have been complete.”(737)

(M263) In County Leitrim, Ireland, in order to prevent fever from

spreading, “all the fires on the townland, and the two adjoining (one on

each side), would be put out. Then the men of the three townlands would

come to one house, and get two large blocks of wood. One would be set in

the ground, and the other one, fitted with two handles, placed on the top

of it. The men would then draw the upper block backwards and forwards over

the lower until fire was produced by friction, and from this the fires

would be lighted again. This would prevent the fever from spreading.”(738)

(M264) Thus it appears that in many parts of Europe it has been customary

to kindle fire by the friction of wood for the purpose of curing or

preventing the spread of disease, particularly among cattle. The mode of

striking a light by rubbing two dry sticks against each other is the one

to which all over the world savages have most commonly resorted for the

sake of providing themselves with fire;(739) and we can scarcely doubt

that the practice of kindling the need-fire in this primitive fashion is

merely a survival from the time when our savage forefathers lit all their

fires in that way. Nothing is so conservative of old customs as religious

or magical ritual, which invests these relics of the past with an

atmosphere of mysterious virtue and sanctity. To the educated mind it

seems obvious that a fire which a man kindles with the sweat of his brow

by laboriously rubbing one stick against each other can possess neither

more nor less virtue than one which he has struck in a moment by the

friction of a lucifer match; but to the ignorant and superstitious this

truth is far from apparent, and accordingly they take infinite pains to do

in a roundabout way what they might have done directly with the greatest

ease, and what, even when it is done, is of no use whatever for the

purpose in hand. A vast proportion of the labour which mankind has

expended throughout the ages has been no better spent; it has been like

the stone of Sisyphus eternally rolled up hill only to revolve eternally

down again, or like the water poured for ever by the Danaids into broken

pitchers which it could never fill.

(M265) The curious notion that the need-fire cannot kindle if any other

fire remains alight in the neighbourhood seems to imply that fire is

conceived as a unity which is broken up into fractions and consequently

weakened in exact proportion to the number of places where it burns; hence

in order to obtain it at full strength you must light it only at a single

point, for then the flame will burst out with a concentrated energy

derived from the tributary fires which burned on all the extinguished

hearths of the country. So in a modern city if all the gas were turned off

simultaneously at all the burners but one, the flame would no doubt blaze

at that one burner with a fierceness such as no single burner could shew

when all are burning at the same time. The analogy may help us to

understand the process of reasoning which leads the peasantry to insist on

the extinction of all common fires when the need-fire is about to be

kindled. Perhaps, too, it may partly explain that ceremonial extinction of

all old fires on other occasions which is often required by custom as a

preliminary to the lighting of a new and sacred fire.(740) We have seen

that in the Highlands of Scotland all common fires were extinguished on

the Eve of May-day as a preparation for kindling the Beltane bonfire by

friction next morning;(741) and no doubt the reason for the extinction was

the same as in the case of the need-fire. Indeed we may assume with a fair

degree of probability that the need-fire was the parent of the periodic

fire-festivals; at first invoked only at irregular intervals to cure

certain evils as they occurred, the powerful virtue of fire was afterwards

employed at regular intervals to prevent the occurrence of the same evils

as well as to remedy such as had actually arisen.

(M266) The need-fire of Europe has its parallel in a ceremony which used

to be observed by the Iroquois Indians of North America. “Formerly when an

epidemic prevailed among the Iroquois despite the efforts to stay it, it

was customary for the principal shaman to order the fires in every cabin

to be extinguished and the ashes and cinders to be carefully removed; for

it was believed that the pestilence was sent as a punishment for

neglecting to rekindle ‘new fire’ or because of the manner in which the

fire then in use had been kindled. So, after all the fires were out, two

suitable logs of slippery elm (_Ulmus fulva_) were provided for the new

fire. One of the logs was from six to eight inches in diameter and from

eight to ten feet long; the other was from ten to twelve inches in

diameter and about ten feet long. About midway across the larger log a

cuneiform notch or cut about six inches deep was made, and in the

wedge-shaped notch punk was placed. The other log was drawn rapidly to and

fro in the cut by four strong men chosen for the purpose until the punk

was ignited by the friction thus produced. Before and during the progress

of the work of igniting the fire the shaman votively sprinkled

_tcar-hŭ’-ĕñ-wĕ_, ‘real tobacco,’ three several times into the cuneiform

notch and offered earnest prayers to the Fire-god, beseeching him ‘to aid,

to bless, and to redeem the people from their calamities.’ The ignited

punk was used to light a large bonfire, and then the head of every family

was required to take home ‘new fire’ to rekindle a fire in his or her

fire-place.”(742)

§ 9. The Sacrifice of an Animal to stay a Cattle-Plague.

(M267) Sometimes apparently in England as well as in Scotland the kindling

of a need-fire was accompanied by the sacrifice of a calf. Thus in

Northamptonshire, at some time during the first half of the nineteenth

century, “Miss C—— and her cousin walking saw a fire in a field and a

crowd round it. They said, ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Killing a calf.’ ‘What

for?’ ‘To stop the murrain.’ They went away as quickly as possible. On

speaking to the clergyman he made enquiries. The people did not like to

talk of the affair, but it appeared that when there is a disease among the

cows or the calves are born sickly, they sacrifice (_i.e._ kill and burn)

one ‘for good luck.’ ”(743) It is not here said that the fire was a

need-fire, of which indeed the two horrified ladies had probably never

heard; but the analogy of the parallel custom in Mull(744) renders it

probable that in Northamptonshire also the fire was kindled by the

friction of wood, and that the calf or some part of it was burnt in the

fire. Certainly the practice of burning a single animal alive in order to

save all the others would seem to have been not uncommon in England down

to the nineteenth century. Thus a farmer in Cornwall about the year 1800,

having lost many cattle by disease, and tried many remedies in vain,

consulted with some of his neighbours and laying their heads together

“they recalled to their recollections a tale, which tradition had handed

down from remote antiquity, that the calamity would not cease until he had

actually burned alive the finest calf which he had upon his farm; but

that, when this sacrifice was made, the murrain would afflict his cattle

no more.” Accordingly, on a day appointed they met, lighted a large fire,

placed the best calf in it, and standing round the blazing pile drove the

animal with pitchforks back into the flames whenever it attempted to

escape. Thus the victim was burned alive to save the rest of the

cattle.(745) “There can be no doubt but that a belief prevailed until a

very recent period, amongst the small farmers in the districts remote from

towns in Cornwall, that a living sacrifice appeased the wrath of God. This

sacrifice must be by fire; and I have heard it argued that the Bible gave

them warranty for this belief.... While correcting these sheets I am

informed of two recent instances of this superstition. One of them was the

sacrifice of a calf by a farmer near Portreath, for the purpose of

removing a disease which had long followed his horses and his cows. The

other was the burning of a living lamb, to save, as the farmer said, ‘his

flocks from spells which had been cast on ’em.’ ”(746) In a recent account

of the fire-festivals of Wales we read that “I have also heard my

grandfather and father say that in times gone by the people would throw a

calf in the fire when there was any disease among the herds. The same

would be done with a sheep if there was anything the matter with a flock.

I can remember myself seeing cattle being driven between two fires to

‘stop the disease spreading.’ When in later times it was not considered

humane to drive the cattle between the fires, the herdsmen were accustomed

to force the animals over the wood ashes to protect them against various

ailments.”(747) Writing about 1866, the antiquary W. Henderson says that a

live ox was burned near Haltwhistle in Northumberland “only twenty years

ago” to stop a murrain.(748) “About the year 1850 disease broke out among

the cattle of a small farm in the parish of Resoliss, Black Isle,

Ross-shire. The farmer prevailed on his wife to undertake a journey to a

wise woman of renown in Banffshire to ask a charm against the effects of

the ‘ill ee.’ The long journey of upwards of fifty miles was performed by

the good wife, and the charm was got. One chief thing ordered was to burn

to death a pig, and sprinkle the ashes over the byre and other farm

buildings. This order was carried out, except that the pig was killed

before it was burned. A more terrible sacrifice was made at times. One of

the diseased animals was rubbed over with tar, driven forth, set on fire,

and allowed to run till it fell down and died.”(749) “Living animals have

been burnt alive in sacrifice within memory to avert the loss of other

stock. The burial of three puppies ‘brandise-wise’ in a field is supposed

to rid it of weeds. Throughout the rural districts of Devon witchcraft is

an article of current faith, and the toad is thrown into the flames as an

emissary of the evil one.”(750)

(M268) But why, we may ask, should the burning alive of a calf or a sheep

be supposed to save the rest of the herd or the flock from the murrain?

According to one writer, as we have seen, the burnt sacrifice was thought

to appease the wrath of God.(751) The idea of appeasing the wrath of a

ferocious deity by burning an animal alive is probably no more than a

theological gloss put on an old heathen rite; it would hardly occur to the

simple mind of an English bumpkin, who, though he may be stupid, is not

naturally cruel and does not conceive of a divinity who takes delight in

the contemplation of suffering. To his thinking God has little or nothing

to do with the murrain, but witches, ill-wishers, and fairies have a great

deal to do with it. The English farmer who burned one of his lambs alive

said that he did it “to save his flocks from spells which had been cast on

them”; and the Scotch farmer who was bidden to burn a pig alive for a

similar purpose, but who had the humanity to kill the animal first,

believed that this was a remedy for the “evil eye” which had been cast

upon his beasts. Again, we read that “a farmer, who possessed broad acres,

and who was in many respects a sensible man, was greatly annoyed to find

that his cattle became diseased in the spring. Nothing could satisfy him

but that they were bewitched, and he was resolved to find out the person

who had cast the evil eye on his oxen. According to an

anciently-prescribed rule, the farmer took one of his bullocks and bled it

to death, catching all the blood on bundles of straw. The bloody straw was

then piled into a heap, and set on fire. Burning with a vast quantity of

smoke, the farmer expected to see the witch, either in reality or in

shadow, amidst the smoke.”(752) Such reasons express the real beliefs of

the peasants. “Cattle, like human beings, were exposed to the influences

of the evil eye, of forespeaking, and of the casting of evil. Witches and

warlocks did the work of evil among their neighbours’ cattle if their

anger had been aroused in any way. The fairies often wrought injury

amongst cattle. Every animal that died suddenly was killed by the dart of

the fairies, or, in the language of the people, was ‘shot-a-dead.’ Flint

arrows and spear-heads went by the name of ‘faery dairts.’ ... When an

animal died suddenly the canny woman of the district was sent for to

search for the ‘faery dairt,’ and in due course she found one, to the

great satisfaction of the owner of the dead animal.”(753)

(M269) But how, we must still ask, can burning an animal alive break the

spell that has been cast upon its fellows by a witch or a warlock? Some

light is thrown on the question by the following account of measures which

rustic wiseacres in Suffolk are said to have adopted as a remedy for

witchcraft. “A woman I knew forty-three years had been employed by my

predecessor to take care of his poultry. At the time I came to make her

acquaintance she was a bedridden toothless crone, with chin and nose all

but meeting. She did not discourage in her neighbours the idea that she

knew more than people ought to know, and had more power than others had.

Many years before I knew her it happened one spring that the ducks, which

were a part of her charge, failed to lay eggs.... She at once took it for

granted that the ducks had been bewitched. This misbelief involved very

shocking consequences, for it necessitated the idea that so diabolical an

act could only be combated by diabolical cruelty. And the most diabolical

act of cruelty she could imagine was that of baking alive in a hot oven

one of the ducks. And that was what she did. The sequence of thought in

her mind was that the spell that had been laid on the ducks was that of

preternaturally wicked wilfulness; that this spell could only be broken

through intensity of suffering, in this case death by burning; that the

intensity of suffering would break the spell in the one roasted to death;

and that the spell broken in one would be altogether broken, that is, in

all the ducks.... Shocking, however, as was this method of exorcising the

ducks, there was nothing in it original. Just about a hundred years

before, everyone in the town and neighbourhood of Ipswich had heard, and

many had believed, that a witch had been burnt to death in her own house

at Ipswich by the process of burning alive one of the sheep she had

bewitched. It was curious, but it was as convincing as curious, that the

hands and feet of this witch were the only parts of her that had not been

incinerated. This, however, was satisfactorily explained by the fact that

the four feet of the sheep, by which it had been suspended over the fire,

had not been destroyed in the flames that had consumed its body.”(754)

According to a slightly different account of the same tragic incident, the

last of the “Ipswitch witches,” one Grace Pett, “laid her hand heavily on

a farmer’s sheep, who, in order to punish her, fastened one of the sheep

in the ground and burnt it, except the feet, which were under the earth.

The next morning Grace Pett was found burnt to a cinder, except her feet.

Her fate is recorded in the _Philosophical Transactions_ as a case of

spontaneous combustion.”(755)

(M270) This last anecdote is instructive, if perhaps not strictly

authentic. It shews that in burning alive one of a bewitched flock or herd

what you really do is to burn the witch, who is either actually incarnate

in the animal or perhaps more probably stands in a relation of sympathy

with it so close as almost to amount to identity. Hence if you burn the

creature to ashes, you utterly destroy the witch and thereby save the

whole of the rest of the flock or herd from her abominable machinations;

whereas if you only partially burn the animal, allowing some parts of it

to escape the flames, the witch is only half-baked, and her power for

mischief may be hardly, if at all, impaired by the grilling. We can now

see that in such matters half-measures are useless. To kill the animal

first and burn it afterwards is a weak compromise, dictated no doubt by a

well-meant but utterly mistaken kindness; it is like shutting the

stable-door when the steed is stolen, for obviously by leaving the

animal’s, and therefore the witch’s, body nearly intact at the moment of

death, it allows her soul to escape and return safe and sound to her own

human body, which all the time is probably lying quietly at home in bed.

And the same train of reasoning that justifies the burning alive of

bewitched animals justifies and indeed requires the burning alive of the

witches themselves; it is really the only way of destroying them, body and

soul, and therefore of thoroughly extirpating the whole infernal crew.

(M271) In the Isle of Man the practice of burning cattle alive in order to

stop a murrain seems to have persisted down to a time within living

memory. On this subject I will quote the evidence collected by Sir John

Rhys: “A respectable farmer from Andreas told me that he was driving with

his wife to the neighbouring parish of Jurby some years ago, and that on

the way they beheld the carcase of a cow or an ox burning in a field, with

a woman engaged in stirring the fire. On reaching the village to which

they were going, they found that the burning beast belonged to a farmer

whom they knew. They were further told it was no wonder that the said

farmer had one of his cattle burnt, as several of them had recently died.

Whether this was a case of sacrifice or not I cannot say. But let me give

you another instance: a man whom I have already mentioned, saw at a farm

nearer the centre of the island a live calf being burnt. The owner bears

an English name, but his family has long been settled in Man. The farmer’s

explanation to my informant was that the calf was burnt to secure luck for

the rest of the herd, some of which were threatening to die. My informant

thought there was absolutely nothing the matter with them, except that

they had too little to eat. Be that as it may, the one calf was sacrificed

as a burnt-offering to secure luck for the rest of the cattle. Let me here

also quote Mr. Moore’s note in his _Manx Surnames_, p. 184, on the place

name _Cabbal yn Oural Losht_, or the Chapel of the Burnt Sacrifice. ‘This

name,’ he says, ‘records a circumstance which took place in the nineteenth

century, but which, it is to be hoped, was never customary in the Isle of

Man. A farmer, who had lost a number of his sheep and cattle by murrain,

burned a calf as a propitiatory offering to the Deity on this spot, where

a chapel was afterwards built. Hence the name.’ Particulars, I may say, of

time, place, and person could be easily added to Mr. Moore’s statement,

excepting, perhaps as to the deity in question; on that point I have never

been informed, but Mr. Moore is probably right in the use of the capital

_d_, as the sacrificer is, according to all accounts, a highly devout

Christian. One more instance: an octogenarian woman, born in the parish of

Bride, and now living at Kirk Andreas, saw, when she was a ‘lump of a

girl’ of ten or fifteen years of age, a live sheep being burnt in a field

in the parish of Andreas, on May-day, whereby she meant the first of May

reckoned according to the Old Style. She asserts very decidedly that it

was _son oural_, ‘as a sacrifice,’ as she put it, and ‘for an object to

the public’: those were her words when she expressed herself in English.

Further, she made the statement that it was a custom to burn a sheep on

old May-day for a sacrifice. I was fully alive to the interest of this

evidence, and cross-examined her so far as her age allows of it, and I

find that she adheres to her statement with all firmness.”(756)

(M272) But Manxmen burn beasts when they are dead as well as when they are

alive; and their reasons for burning the dead animals may help us to

understand their reasons for burning the living animals. On this subject I

will again quote Sir John Rhys: “When a beast dies on a farm, of course it

dies, according to the old-fashioned view of things, as I understand it,

from the influence of the evil eye or the interposition of a witch. So if

you want to know to whom you are indebted for the loss of the beast, you

have simply to burn its carcase in the open air and watch who comes first

to the spot or who first passes by; that is the criminal to be charged

with the death of the animal, and he cannot help coming there—such is the

effect of the fire. A Michael woman, who is now about thirty, related to

me how she watched while the carcase of a bewitched colt was burning, how

she saw the witch coming, and how she remembers her shrivelled face, with

nose and chin in close proximity. According to another native of Michael,

a well-informed middle-aged man, the animal in question was oftenest a

calf, and it was wont to be burnt whole, skin and all. The object,

according to him, is invariably to bring the bewitcher on the spot, and he

always comes; but I am not clear what happens to him when he appears. My

informant added, however, that it was believed that, unless the bewitcher

got possession of the heart of the burning beast, he lost all his power of

bewitching.”(757)

(M273) These statements shew that in the Isle of Man the sympathetic

relation between the witch and his or her animal victim is believed to be

so close that by burning the animal you compel the witch to appear. The

original idea may have been that, by virtue of a magic sympathy which

binds the two together, whatever harm you do to the animal is felt by the

witch as if it were done to herself. That notion would fully explain why

Manx people used also to burn bewitched animals alive; in doing so they

probably imagined that they were simultaneously burning the witch who had

cast the spell on their cattle.

(M274) This explanation of the reason for burning a bewitched animal, dead

or alive, is confirmed by the parallel belief concerning were-wolves. It

is commonly supposed that certain men and women can transform themselves

by magic art into wolves or other animals, but that any wound inflicted on

such a transformed beast (a were-wolf or other were-animal) is

simultaneously inflicted on the human body of the witch or warlock who had

transformed herself or himself into the creature. This belief is widely

diffused; it meets us in Europe, Asia, and Africa. For example, Olaus

Magnus tells us that in Livonia, not many years before he wrote, a noble

lady had a dispute with her slave on the subject of were-wolves, she

doubting whether there were any such things, and he maintaining that there

were. To convince her he retired to a room, from which he soon appeared in

the form of a wolf. Being chased by the dogs into the forest and brought

to bay, the wolf defended himself fiercely, but lost an eye in the

struggle. Next day the slave returned to his mistress in human form but

with only one eye.(758) Again, it happened in the year 1588 that a

gentleman in a village among the mountains of Auvergne, looking out of the

window one evening, saw a friend of his going out to hunt. He begged him

to bring him back some of his bag, and his friend said that he would.

Well, he had not gone very far before he met a huge wolf. He fired and

missed it, and the animal attacked him furiously, but he stood on his

guard and with an adroit stroke of his hunting knife he cut off the right

fore-paw of the brute, which thereupon fled away and he saw it no more. He

returned to his friend, and drawing from his pouch the severed paw of the

wolf he found to his horror that it was turned into a woman’s hand with a

golden ring on one of the fingers. His friend recognized the ring as that

of his own wife and went to find her. She was sitting by the fire with her

right arm under her apron. As she refused to draw it out, her husband

confronted her with the hand and the ring on it. She at once confessed the

truth, that it was she in the form of a were-wolf whom the hunter had

wounded. Her confession was confirmed by applying the severed hand to the

stump of her arm, for the two fitted exactly. The angry husband delivered

up his wicked wife to justice; she was tried and burnt as a witch.(759) It

is said that a were-wolf, scouring the streets of Padua, was caught, and

when they cut off his four paws he at once turned into a man, but with

both his hands and feet amputated.(760) Again, in a farm of the French

district of Beauce, there was once a herdsman who never slept at home.

These nocturnal absences naturally attracted attention and set people

talking. At the same time, by a curious coincidence, a wolf used to prowl

round the farm every night and to excite the dogs in the farmyard to fury

by thrusting his snout derisively through the cat’s hole in the great

gate. The farmer had his suspicions and he determined to watch. One night,

when the herdsman went out as usual, his master followed him quietly till

he came to a hut, where with his own eyes he saw the man put on a broad

belt and at once turn into a wolf, which scoured away over the fields. The

farmer smiled a sickly sort of smile and went back to the farm. There he

took a stout stick and sat down at the cat’s hole to wait. He had not long

to wait. The dogs barked like mad, a wolf’s snout shewed through the hole,

down came the stick, out gushed the blood, and a voice was heard to say

without the gate, “A good job too. I had still three years to run.” Next

day the herdsman appeared as usual, but he had a scar on his brow, and he

never went out again at night.(761)

(M275) In China also the faith in similar transformations is reflected in

the following tale. A certain man in Sungyang went into the mountains to

gather fuel. Night fell and he was pursued by two tigers, but scrambled up

a tree out of their reach. Then said the one tiger to the other tiger, “If

we can find Chu-Tu-shi, we are sure to catch this man up the tree.” So off

went one of them to find Chu-Tu-shi, while the other kept watch at the

foot of the tree. Soon after that another tiger, leaner and longer than

the other two, appeared on the scene and made a grab at the man’s coat.

But fortunately the moon was shining, the man saw the paw, and with a

stroke of his axe cut off one of its claws. The tigers roared and fled,

one after the other, so the man climbed down the tree and went home. When

he told his tale in the village, suspicion naturally fell on the said

Chu-Tu-shi; and next day some men went to see him in his house. They were

told that they could not see him; for he had been out the night before and

had hurt his hand, and he was now ill in bed. So they put two and two

together and reported him to the police. The police arrived, surrounded

the house, and set fire to it; but Chu-Tu-shi rose from his bed, turned

into a tiger, charged right through the police, and escaped, and to this

day nobody ever knew where he went to.(762)

(M276) The Toradjas of Central Celebes stand in very great fear of

were-wolves, that is of men and women, who have the power of transforming

their spirits into animals such as cats, crocodiles, wild pigs, apes,

deer, and buffaloes, which roam about battening on human flesh, and

especially on human livers, while the men and women in their own proper

human form are sleeping quietly in their beds at home. Among them a man is

either born a were-wolf or becomes one by infection; for mere contact with

a were-wolf, or even with anything that has been touched by his spittle,

is quite enough to turn the most innocent person into a were-wolf; nay

even to lean your head against anything against which a were-wolf has

leaned his head suffices to do it. The penalty for being a were-wolf is

death; but the sentence is never passed until the accused has had a fair

trial and his guilt has been clearly demonstrated by an ordeal, which

consists in dipping the middle finger into boiling resin. If the finger is

not burnt, the man is no were-wolf; but if it is burnt, a were-wolf he

most assuredly is, so they take him away to a quiet spot and hack him to

bits. In cutting him up the executioners are naturally very careful not to

be bespattered with his blood, for if that were to happen they would of

course be turned into were-wolves themselves. Further, they place his

severed head beside his hinder-quarters to prevent his soul from coming to

life again and pursuing his depredations. So great is the horror of

were-wolves among the Toradjas, and so great is their fear of contracting

the deadly taint by infection, that many persons have assured a missionary

that they would not spare their own child if they knew him to be a

were-wolf.(763) Now these people, whose faith in were-wolves is not a mere

dying or dead superstition but a living, dreadful conviction, tell stories

of were-wolves which conform to the type which we are examining. They say

that once upon a time a were-wolf came in human shape under the house of a

neighbour, while his real body lay asleep as usual at home, and calling

out softly to the man’s wife made an assignation with her to meet him in

the tobacco-field next day. But the husband was lying awake and he heard

it all, but he said nothing to anybody. Next day chanced to be a busy one

in the village, for a roof had to be put on a new house and all the men

were lending a hand with the work, and among them to be sure was the

were-wolf himself, I mean to say his own human self; there he was up on

the roof working away as hard as anybody. But the woman went out to the

tobacco-field, and behind went unseen her husband, slinking through the

underwood. When they were come to the field, he saw the were-wolf make up

to his wife, so out he rushed and struck at him with a stick. Quick as

thought, the were-wolf turned himself into a leaf, but the man was as

nimble, for he caught up the leaf, thrust it into the joint of bamboo, in

which he kept his tobacco, and bunged it up tight. Then he walked back

with his wife to the village, carrying the bamboo with the were-wolf in

it. When they came to the village, the human body of the were-wolf was

still on the roof, working away with the rest. The man put the bamboo in a

fire. At that the human were-wolf looked down from the roof and said,

“Don’t do that.” The man drew the bamboo from the fire, but a moment

afterwards he put it in the fire again, and again the human were-wolf on

the roof looked down and cried, “Don’t do that.” But this time the man

kept the bamboo in the fire, and when it blazed up, down fell the human

were-wolf from the roof as dead as a stone.(764) Again, the following

story went round among the Toradjas not so very many years ago. The thing

happened at Soemara, on the Gulf of Tomori. It was evening and some men

sat chatting with a certain Hadji Mohammad. When it had grown dark, one of

the men went out of the house for something or other. A little while

afterwards one of the company thought he saw a stag’s antlers standing out

sharp and clear against the bright evening sky. So Hadji Mohammad raised

his gun and fired. A minute or two afterwards back comes the man who had

gone out, and says he to Hadji Mohammad, “You shot at me and hit me. You

must pay me a fine.” They searched him but found no wound on him anywhere.

Then they knew that he was a were-wolf who had turned himself into a stag

and had healed the bullet-wound by licking it. However, the bullet had

found its billet, for two days afterwards he was a dead man.(765)

(M277) In Sennar, a province of the Egyptian Sudan, the Hammeg and Fungi

enjoy the reputation of being powerful magicians who can turn themselves

into hyaenas and in that guise scour the country at night, howling and

gorging themselves. But by day they are men again. It is very dangerous to

shoot at such human hyaenas by night. On the Jebel Bela mountain a soldier

once shot at a hyaena and hit it, but it dragged itself off, bleeding, in

the darkness and escaped. Next morning he followed up the trail of blood

and it led him straight to the hut of a man who was everywhere known for a

wizard. Nothing of the hyaena was to be seen, but the man himself was laid

up in the house with a fresh wound and died soon afterwards. And the

soldier did not long survive him.(766)

(M278) But the classical example of these stories is an old Roman tale

told by Petronius. It is put in the mouth of one Niceros. Late at night he

left the town to visit a friend of his, a widow, who lived at a farm five

miles down the road. He was accompanied by a soldier, who lodged in the

same house, a man of Herculean build. When they set out it was near dawn,

but the moon shone as bright as day. Passing through the outskirts of the

town, they came amongst the tombs, which lined the highroad for some

distance. There the soldier made an excuse for retiring behind a monument,

and Niceros sat down to wait for him, humming a tune and counting the

tombstones to pass the time. In a little he looked round for his

companion, and saw a sight which froze him with horror. The soldier had

stripped off his clothes to the last rag and laid them at the side of the

highway. Then he performed a certain ceremony over them, and immediately

was changed into a wolf, and ran howling into the forest. When Niceros had

recovered himself a little, he went to pick up the clothes, but found that

they were turned to stone. More dead than alive, he drew his sword, and,

striking at every shadow cast by the tombstones on the moonlit road, he

tottered to his friend’s house. He entered it like a ghost, to the

surprise of the widow, who wondered to see him abroad so late. “If you had

only been here a little ago,” said she, “you might have been of some use.

For a wolf came tearing into the yard, scaring the cattle and bleeding

them like a butcher. But he did not get off so easily, for the servant

speared him in the neck.” After hearing these words, Niceros felt that he

could not close an eye, so he hurried away home again. It was now broad

daylight, but when he came to the place where the clothes had been turned

to stone, he found only a pool of blood. He reached home, and there lay

the soldier in bed like an ox in the shambles, and the doctor was

bandaging his neck. “Then I knew,” said Niceros, “that the man was a

were-wolf, and never again could I break bread with him, no, not if you

had killed me for it.”(767)

(M279) These stories may help us to understand the custom of burning a

bewitched animal, which has been observed in our own country down to

recent times, if indeed it is even now extinct. For a close parallel may

be traced in some respects between witches and were-wolves. Like

were-wolves, witches are commonly supposed to be able to transform

themselves temporarily into animals for the purpose of playing their

mischievous pranks;(768) and like were-wolves they can in their animal

disguise be compelled to unmask themselves to any one who succeeds in

drawing their blood. In either case the animal-skin is conceived as a

cloak thrown round the wicked enchanter; and if you can only pierce the

skin, whether by the stab of a knife or the shot of a gun, you so rend the

disguise that the man or woman inside of it stands revealed in his or her

true colours. Strictly speaking, the stab should be given on the brow or

between the eyes in the case both of a witch and of a were-wolf;(769) and

it is vain to shoot at a were-wolf unless you have had the bullet blessed

in a chapel of St. Hubert or happen to be carrying about you, without

knowing it, a four-leaved clover; otherwise the bullet will merely rebound

from the were-wolf like water from a duck’s back.(770) However, in Armenia

they say that the were-wolf, who in that country is usually a woman, can

be killed neither by shot nor by steel; the only way of delivering the

unhappy woman from her bondage is to get hold of her wolf’s skin and burn

it; for that naturally prevents her from turning into a wolf again. But it

is not easy to find the skin, for she is cunning enough to hide it by

day.(771) So with witches, it is not only useless but even dangerous to

shoot at one of them when she has turned herself into a hare; if you do,

the gun may burst in your hand or the shot come back and kill you. The

only way to make quite sure of hitting a witch-animal is to put a silver

sixpence or a silver button in your gun.(772) For example, it happened one

evening that a native of the island of Tiree was going home with a new

gun, when he saw a black sheep running towards him across the plain of

Reef. Something about the creature excited his suspicion, so he put a

silver sixpence in his gun and fired at it. Instantly the black sheep

became a woman with a drugget coat wrapt round her head. The man knew her

quite well, for she was a witch who had often persecuted him before in the

shape of a cat.(773)

(M280) Again, the wounds inflicted on a witch-hare or a witch-cat are to

be seen on the witch herself, just as the wounds inflicted on a were-wolf

are to be seen on the man himself when he has doffed the wolf’s skin. To

take a few instances out of a multitude, a young man in the island of

Lismore was out shooting. When he was near Balnagown loch, he started a

hare and fired at it. The animal gave an unearthly scream, and then for

the first time it occurred to him that there were no real hares in

Lismore. He threw away his gun in terror and fled home; and next day he

heard that a notorious witch was laid up with a broken leg. A man need be

no conjuror to guess how she came by that broken leg.(774) Again, at

Thurso certain witches used to turn themselves into cats and in that shape

to torment an honest man. One night he lost patience, whipped out his

broadsword, and put them to flight. As they were scurrying away he struck

at them and cut off a leg of one of the cats. To his astonishment it was a

woman’s leg, and next morning he found one of the witches short of the

corresponding limb.(775) Glanvil tells a story of “an old woman in

Cambridge-shire, whose astral spirit, coming into a man’s house (as he was

sitting alone at the fire) in the shape of an huge cat, and setting her

self before the fire, not far from him, he stole a stroke at the back of

it with a fire-fork, and seemed to break the back of it, but it scambled

from him, and vanisht he knew not how. But such an old woman, a reputed

witch, was found dead in her bed that very night, with her back broken, as

I have heard some years ago credibly reported.”(776) In Yorkshire during

the latter half of the nineteenth century a parish clergyman was told a

circumstantial story of an old witch named Nanny, who was hunted in the

form of a hare for several miles over the Westerdale moors and kept well

away from the dogs, till a black one joined the pack and succeeded in

taking a bit out of one of the hare’s legs. That was the end of the chase,

and immediately afterwards the sportsmen found old Nanny laid up in bed

with a sore leg. On examining the wounded limb they discovered that the

hurt was precisely in that part of it which in the hare had been bitten by

the black dog and, what was still more significant, the wound had all the

appearance of having been inflicted by a dog’s teeth. So they put two and

two together.(777) The same sort of thing is often reported in

Lincolnshire. “One night,” said a servant from Kirton Lindsey, “my father

and brother saw a cat in front of them. Father knew it was a witch, and

took a stone and hammered it. Next day the witch had her face all tied up,

and shortly afterwards died.” Again, a Bardney bumpkin told how a witch in

his neighbourhood could take all sorts of shapes. One night a man shot a

hare, and when he went to the witch’s house he found her plastering a

wound just where he had shot the hare.(778) So in County Leitrim, in

Ireland, they say that a hare pursued by dogs fled to a house near at

hand, but just as it was bolting in at the door one of the dogs came up

with it and nipped a piece out of its leg. The hunters entered the house

and found no hare there but only an old woman, and her side was bleeding;

so they knew what to think of her.(779)

(M281) Again, in the Vosges Mountains a great big hare used to come out

every evening to take the air at the foot of the Mont des Fourches. All

the sportsmen of the neighbourhood tried their hands on that hare for a

month, but not one of them could hit it. At last one marksman, more

knowing than the rest, loaded his gun with some pellets of a consecrated

wafer in addition to the usual pellets of lead. That did the trick. If

puss was not killed outright, she was badly hurt, and limped away uttering

shrieks and curses in a human voice. Later it transpired that she was no

other than the witch of a neighbouring village who had the power of

putting on the shape of any animal she pleased.(780) Again, a hunter of

Travexin, in the Vosges, fired at a hare and almost shot away one of its

hind legs. Nevertheless the creature contrived to escape into a cottage

through the open door. Immediately a child’s cries were heard to proceed

from the cottage, and the hunter could distinguish these words, “Daddy,

daddy, come quick! Poor mammy has her leg broken.”(781)

(M282) In Swabia the witches are liable to accidents of the same sort when

they go about their business in the form of animals. For example, there

was a soldier who was betrothed to a young woman and used to visit her

every evening when he was off duty. But one evening the girl told him that

he must not come to the house on Friday nights, because it was never

convenient to her to see him then. This roused his suspicion, and the very

next Friday night he set out to go to his sweetheart’s house. On the way a

white cat ran up to him in the street and dogged his steps, and when the

animal would not make off he drew his sword and slashed off one of its

paws. On that the cat bolted. The soldier walked on, but when he came to

his sweetheart’s house he found her in bed, and when he asked her what was

the matter, she gave a very confused reply. Noticing stains of blood on

the bed, he drew down the coverlet and saw that the girl was weltering in

her gore, for one of her feet was lopped off. “So that’s what’s the matter

with you, you witch!” said he, and turned on his heel and left her, and

within three days she was dead.(782) Again, a farmer in the neighbourhood

of Wiesensteig frequently found in his stable a horse over and above the

four horses he actually owned. He did not know what to make of it and

mentioned the matter to the smith. The smith said quietly, “The next time

you see a fifth horse in the stable, just you send for me.” Well, it was

not long before the strange horse was there again, and the farmer at once

sent for the smith. He came bringing four horse-shoes with him, and said,

“I’m sure the nag has no shoes; I’ll shoe her for you.” No sooner said

than done. However, the smith overreached himself; for next day when his

friend the farmer paid him a visit he found the smith’s own wife prancing

about with horse-shoes nailed on her hands and feet. But it was the last

time she ever appeared in the shape of a horse.(783)

(M283) Once more, in Silesia they tell of a miller’s apprentice, a sturdy

and industrious young fellow, who set out on his travels. One day he came

to a mill, and the miller told him that he wanted an apprentice but did

not care to engage one, because hitherto all his apprentices had run away

in the night, and when he came down in the morning the mill was at a

stand. However, he liked the looks of the young chap and took him into his

pay. But what the new apprentice heard about the mill and his predecessors

was not encouraging; so the first night when it was his duty to watch in

the mill he took care to provide himself with an axe and a prayer-book,

and while he kept one eye on the whirring, humming wheels he kept the

other on the good book, which he read by the flickering light of a candle

set on a table. So the hours at first passed quietly with nothing to

disturb him but the monotonous drone and click of the machinery. But on

the stroke of twelve, as he was still reading with the axe lying on the

table within reach, the door opened and in came two grey cats mewing, an

old one and a young one. They sat down opposite him, but it was easy to

see that they did not like his wakefulness and the prayer-book and the

axe. Suddenly the old cat reached out a paw and made a grab at the axe,

but the young chap was too quick for her and held it fast. Then the young

cat tried to do the same for the prayer-book, but the apprentice gripped

it tight. Thus balked, the two cats set up such a squalling that the young

fellow could hardly say his prayers. Just before one o’clock the younger

cat sprang on the table and fetched a blow with her right paw at the

candle to put it out. But the apprentice struck at her with his axe and

sliced the paw off, whereupon the two cats vanished with a frightful

screech. The apprentice wrapped the paw up in paper to shew it to his

master. Very glad the miller was next morning when he came down and found

the mill going and the young chap at his post. The apprentice told him

what had happened in the night and gave him the parcel containing the

cat’s paw. But when the miller opened it, what was the astonishment of the

two to find in it no cat’s paw but a woman’s hand! At breakfast the

miller’s young wife did not as usual take her place at the table. She was

ill in bed, and the doctor had to be called in to bind up her right arm,

because in hewing wood, so they said, she had made a slip and cut off her

own right hand. But the apprentice packed up his traps and turned his back

on that mill before the sun had set.(784)

(M284) It would no doubt be easy to multiply instances, all equally well

attested and authentic, of the transformation of witches into animals and

of the damage which the women themselves have sustained through injuries

inflicted on the animals.(785) But the foregoing evidence may suffice to

establish the complete parallelism between witches and were-wolves in

these respects. The analogy appears to confirm the view that the reason

for burning a bewitched animal alive is a belief that the witch herself is

in the animal, and that by burning it you either destroy the witch

completely or at least unmask her and compel her to reassume her proper

human shape, in which she is naturally far less potent for mischief than

when she is careering about the country in the likeness of a cat, a hare,

a horse, or what not. This principle is still indeed clearly recognized by

people in Oldenburg, though, as might be expected, they do not now carry

out the principle to its logical conclusion by burning the bewitched

animal or person alive; instead they resort to a feeble and, it must be

added, perfectly futile subterfuge dictated by a mistaken humanity or a

fear of the police. “When anything living is bewitched in a house, for

example, children or animals, they burn or boil the nobler inwards of

animals, especially the hearts, but also the lungs or the liver. If

animals have died, they take the inwards of one of them or of an animal of

the same kind slaughtered for the purpose; but if that is not possible

they take the inwards of a cock, by preference a black one. The heart,

lung, or liver is stuck all over with needles, or marked with a cross cut,

or placed on the fire in a tightly closed vessel, strict silence being

observed and doors and windows well shut. When the heart boils or is

reduced to ashes, the witch must appear, for during the boiling she feels

the burning pain. She either begs to be released or seeks to borrow

something, for example, salt or a coal of fire, or she takes the lid off

the pot, or tries to induce the person whose spell is on her to speak.

They say, too, that a woman comes with a spinning-wheel. If it is a sheep

that has died, you proceed in the same way with a tripe from its stomach

and prick it with needles while it is on the boil. Instead of boiling it,

some people nail the heart to the highest rafter of the house, or lay it

on the edge of the hearth, in order that it may dry up, no doubt because

the same thing happens to the witch. We may conjecture that other

sympathetic means of destruction are employed against witchcraft. The

following is expressly reported: the heart of a calf that has died is

stuck all over with needles, enclosed in a bag, and thrown into flowing

water before sunset.”(786)

(M285) And the same thing holds good also of inanimate objects on which a

witch has cast her spell. In Wales they say that “if a thing is bewitched,

burn it, and immediately afterwards the witch will come to borrow

something of you. If you give what she asks, she will go free; if you

refuse it, she will burn, and a mark will be on her body the next

day.”(787) So, too, in Oldenburg, “the burning of things that are

bewitched or that have been received from witches is another way of

breaking the spell. It is often said that the burning should take place at

a cross-road, and in several places cross-roads are shewn where the

burning used to be performed.... As a rule, while the things are burning,

the guilty witches appear, though not always in their own shape. At the

burning of bewitched butter they often appear as cockchafers and can be

killed with impunity. Victuals received from witches may be safely

consumed if only you first burn a portion of them.”(788) For example, a

young man in Oldenburg was wooing a girl, and she gave him two fine apples

as a gift. Not feeling any appetite at the time, he put the apples in his

pocket, and when he came home he laid them by in a chest. Two or three

days afterwards he remembered the apples and went to the chest to fetch

them. But when he would have put his hand on them, what was his horror to

find in their stead two fat ugly toads in the chest! He hastened to a wise

man and asked him what he should do with the toads. The man told him to

boil the toads alive, but while he was doing so he must be sure on no

account to lend anything out of the house. Well, just as he had the toads

in a pot on the fire and the water began to grow nicely warm, who should

come to the door but the girl who had given him the apples, and she wished

to borrow something; but he refused to give her anything, rated her as a

witch, and drove her out of the house. A little afterwards in came the

girl’s mother and begged with tears in her eyes for something or other;

but he turned her out also. The last word she said to him was that he

should at least spare her daughter’s life; but he paid no heed to her and

let the toads boil till they fell to bits. Next day word came that the

girl was dead.(789) Can any reasonable man doubt that the witch herself

was boiled alive in the person of the toads?

(M286) Moreover, just as a witch can assume the form of an animal, so she

can assume the form of some other human being, and the likeness is

sometimes so good that it is difficult to detect the fraud. However, by

burning alive the person whose shape the witch has put on, you force the

witch to disclose herself, just as by burning alive the bewitched animal

you in like manner oblige the witch to appear. This principle may perhaps

be unknown to science, falsely so called, but it is well understood in

Ireland and has been acted on within recent years. In March 1895 a peasant

named Michael Cleary, residing at Ballyvadlea, a remote and lonely

district in the county of Tipperary, burned his wife Bridget Cleary alive

over a slow fire on the kitchen hearth in the presence of and with the

active assistance of some neighbours, including the woman’s own father and

several of her cousins. They thought that she was not Bridget Cleary at

all, but a witch, and that when they held her down on the fire she would

vanish up the chimney; so they cried, while she was burning, “Away she

goes! Away she goes!” Even when she lay quite dead on the kitchen floor

(for contrary to the general expectation she did not disappear up the

chimney), her husband still believed that the woman lying there was a

witch, and that his own dear wife had gone with the fairies to the old

_rath_ or fort on the hill of Kylenagranagh, where he would see her at

night riding a grey horse and roped to the saddle, and that he would cut

the ropes, and that she would stay with him ever afterwards. So he went

with some friends to the fort night after night, taking a big table-knife

with him to cut the ropes. But he never saw his wife again. He and the men

who had held the woman on the fire were arrested and tried at Clonmel for

wilful murder in July 1895; they were all found guilty of manslaughter and

sentenced to various terms of penal servitude and imprisonment; the

sentence passed on Michael Cleary was twenty years’ penal servitude.(790)

(M287) However, our British peasants, it must be confessed, have not

always acted up to the strict logical theory which seems to call for death

by fire as the proper treatment both of bewitched animals and of witches.

Sometimes, perhaps in moments of weakness, they have merely buried the

bewitched animals alive instead of burning them. For example, in the year

1643, “many cattle having died, John Brughe and Neane Nikclerith, also one

of the initiated, conjoined their mutual skill for the safety of the herd.

The surviving animals were drove past a tub of water containing two

enchanted stones: and each was sprinkled from the liquid contents in its

course. One, however, being unable to walk, ‘was by force drawin out at

the byre dure; and the said Johnne with Nikclerith smelling the nois

thereof said it wald not leive, caused ane hoill to be maid in Maw Greane,

quhilk was put quick in the hole and maid all the rest of the cattell

theireftir to go over that place: and in that devillische maner, be

charmeing,’ they were cured.”(791) Again, during the prevalence of a

murrain about the year 1629, certain persons proposed to stay the plague

with the help of a celebrated “cureing stane” of which the laird of Lee

was the fortunate owner. But from this they were dissuaded by one who “had

sene bestiall curet be taking ane quik seik ox, and making ane deip pitt,

and bureing him therin, and be calling the oxin and bestiall over that

place.” Indeed Issobell Young, the mother of these persons, had herself

endeavoured to check the progress of the distemper by taking “ane quik ox

with ane catt, and ane grit quantitie of salt,” and proceeding “to burie

the ox and catt quik with the salt, in ane deip hoill in the grund, as ane

sacrifice to the devill, that the rest of the guidis might be fred of the

seiknes or diseases.”(792) Writing towards the end of the eighteenth

century, John Ramsay of Ochtertyre tells us that “the violent death even

of a brute is in some cases held to be of great avail. There is a disease

called the _black spauld_, which sometimes rages like a pestilence among

black cattle, the symptoms of which are a mortification in the legs and a

corruption of the mass of blood. Among the other engines of superstition

that are directed against this fatal malady, the first cow seized with it

is commonly buried alive, and the other cattle are forced to pass

backwards and forwards over the pit. At other times the heart is taken out

of the beast alive, and then the carcass is buried. It is remarkable that

the leg affected is cut off, and hung up in some part of the house or

byre, where it remains suspended, notwithstanding the seeming danger of

infection. There is hardly a house in Mull where these may not be seen.

This practice seems to have taken its rise antecedent to Christianity, as

it reminds us of the pagan custom of hanging up offerings in their

temples. In Breadalbane, when a cow is observed to have symptoms of

madness, there is recourse had to a peculiar process. They tie the legs of

the mad creature, and throw her into a pit dug at the door of the fold.

After covering the hole with earth, a large fire is kindled upon it; and

the rest of the cattle are driven out, and forced to pass through the fire

one by one.”(793) In this latter custom we may suspect that the fire

kindled on the grave of the buried cow was originally made by the friction

of wood, in other words, that it was a need-fire. Again, writing in the

year 1862, Sir Arthur Mitchell tells us that “for the cure of the murrain

in cattle, one of the herd is still sacrificed for the good of the whole.

This is done by burying it alive. I am assured that within the last ten

years such a barbarism occurred in the county of Moray.”(794)

(M288) Sometimes, however, the animal has not even been buried alive, it

has been merely killed and then buried. In this emasculated form the

sacrifice, we may say with confidence, is absolutely useless for the

purpose of stopping a murrain. Nevertheless, it has been tried. Thus in

Lincolnshire, “when the cattle plague was so prevalent in 1866, there was,

I believe, not a single cowshed in Marshland but had its wicken cross over

the door; and other charms more powerful than this were in some cases

resorted to. I never heard of the use of the needfire in the Marsh, though

it was, I believe, used on the wolds not many miles off. But I knew of at

least one case in which a calf was killed and solemnly buried feet

pointing upwards at the threshold of the cowshed. When our garthman told

me of this, I pointed out to him that the charm had failed, for the

disease had not spared that shed. But he promptly replied, ‘Yis, but owd

Edwards were a soight too cliver; he were that mean he slew nobbutt a

wankling cauf as were bound to deny anny road; if he had nobbutt tekken

his best cauf it wud hev worked reight enuff; ’tain’t in reason that owd

skrat ’ud be hanselled wi’ wankling draffle.’ ”(795)