About the commencement of the present century the inhabitants of the
quiet village of Black Heddon, near Stamfordham, and of its vicinity,
who lived, as most other villagers do, with all possible harmony
amongst themselves, and relishing no more external disturbance than was
consistent with their gentle and sequestered mode of existence, were
dreadfully annoyed by the pranks of a preternatural being called Silky.
This name it had obtained from its manifesting a marked predilection
to make itself visible in the semblance of a female dressed in silk.
Many a time, when one of the more timorous of the community had a night
journey to perform, have they unawares and invisibly been dogged and
watched by this spectral tormentor, who, at the dreariest part of the
road—the most suitable for thrilling surprises—would suddenly break
forth in dazzling splendour. If the person happened to be on horseback,
a sort of exercise for which she evinced a strong partiality, she would
unexpectedly seat herself behind, “rattling in her silks.” There,
after enjoying a comfortable ride, with instantaneous abruptness she
would, like a thing destitute of continuity, dissolve away and become
incorporate with the nocturnal shades, leaving the bewildered horseman
in blank amazement.
At Belsay, some two or three miles from Black Heddon, she had a
favourite resort. This was a romantic crag finely studded with trees,
under the gloomy umbrage of which, “like one forlorn,” she loved to
wander all the live–long night. Here often has the belated peasant,
with awe–stricken vision, beheld her dimly through the sombre twilight
as if engaged in splitting great stones, or hewing with many a repeated
stroke some stately “monarch of the grove.” While he thus stood and
gazed, and listened to intimations, impossible to be misapprehended, of
the dread reality of that mysterious being, concerning whom so various
conjectures were awake, all at once, excited by that wondrous agency,
he would hear the howling of a resistless tempest rushing through the
woodland—the branches creaking in violent concussion, or rent into
pieces by the impetuous fury of the blast—while, to the eye, not a leaf
was seen to quiver, or a pensile spray to bend. The bottom of this crag
is washed by a picturesque lake or fish–pond, at whose outlet is a
waterfall, over which a venerable tree, sweeping its leafy arms, adds
impressiveness to the scene. Amid the complicated and contorted limbs
of this tree, Silky possessed a rude chair, where she was wont, in her
moody moments, to sit—wind–rocked—enjoying the rustling of the storm in
the dark woods, or the gush of the cascade. The tree, so consecrated
in the sympathies and terrors of the people of the vicinity, has been
preserved. Though now (1842) no longer tenanted by its aerial visitant,
it yet spreads majestically its time–hallowed canopy over the spot,
awakening in the love–versed rustic, when the winter’s wind waves
gusty and sonorous through its leafless boughs, the soul–harrowing
recollection of the exploits of the ancient fay,—but in the springtime,
beautiful with the full–flushed verdure of that exuberant season,
recipient of the kindling emotions of reverence and affection. It still
bears the name of “Silky’s seat,” in memory of its once wonderful
occupant.
Silky exercised a marvellous influence over the brute creation. Horses,
which indisputably possess a discernment of spirits superior to that of
man, and are more sharp–sighted in the dark, were in an extraordinary
degree sensitive of her presence and control. Having once perceived
the effects of her power she seems to have had a perverse pleasure
in meddling with and arresting those poor defenceless animals, while
engaged in the most exemplary performance of their labours. When this
misfortune occurred there was no remedy that brute–force could devise.
Expostulation, soothing, whipping, and kicking, were all exerted
in vain to make the restive beast resume the proper and intended
direction. The ultimate resource, unless it might be the whim of Silky
to revoke the spell, was the magic dispelling witchwood, which, it is
satisfactory to learn, was of unfailing efficacy. One poor wight, a
farm–servant, was once the selected victim of her mischievous frolics.
He had to go to a colliery at some distance for coals, and it was
late in the evening before he could return. Silky, with spirit–like
prescience, having intimation of the circumstance, waylaid him at a
bridge—a “ghastly, ghost–alluring edifice,” since called “Silky’s
Brig,” lying a little to the south of Black Heddon, on the road between
that place and Stamfordham. Just as he had arrived at “the height
of that bad eminence,” the keystone, horses and cart became fixed
and immovable as fate. In that melancholy plight might both man and
horses have continued—quaking, and sweating, and paralysed—till the
morning light had thrown around them its mantle of protection—had not
a neighbour’s servant come to the rescue, who opportunely carried some
of the potent witchwood (mountain–ash) about his person. On the arrival
of this seasonable aid, the perplexed driver rallied his scattered
senses, and the helpless animals, being duly seasoned after the fashion
prescribed on such occasions, he had the heart–felt satisfaction of
seeing them apply themselves, with the customary alacrity, to the
draught. The charm was effectually overcome, and in a short time
both the man and the coals reached home in safety. Ever afterwards,
however, as long as he lived, he took the precaution of rendering
himself spell–proof, by being furnished with a sufficient quantity of
witchwood, being by no means disposed that Silky should a second time
amuse herself at his expense and that of his team.
She was wayward and capricious. Sometimes she installed herself in
the office of that old familiar Lar—Brownie, but, with characteristic
misdirection, in a manner exactly the reverse of that useful species
of hobgoblin. Here it may be remarked that, throughout her disembodied
career, she can scarcely be said to have performed one benevolent
action for the sake of its moral qualities. She had, from first
to last, a perpetual latent hankering for mischief, and gloried
in withering surprises and unforeseen movements. As is customary
with that “sturdy fairy,” as she is designated by the great English
Lexicographer, her works were performed at night, or between the
hours of sunset and day–dawn. If the good old dames had thoroughly
cleaned their houses, which country people make a practice of doing,
especially on Saturdays, so that they may have a comfortable and decent
appearance on the Sabbath–day, after they had retired to rest, Silky
would silently turn everything topsy–turvy, and the morning presented
a scene of indescribable confusion. On the contrary, if the house had
been left in a disorderly state, a plan which the folk generally found
it best to adopt, everything would have been arranged with the greatest
nicety.
At length a term had arrived to her erratic course, and both she and
the peaceably disposed inhabitants whom she disquieted obtained the
repose so long mutually desired. She abruptly disappeared. It had long
been surmised, by those who paid attention to those dark matters,
that she was the troubled phantom of some person, who had died very
miserable, in consequence of having great treasure, which, before
being taken by her mortal agony, had not been disclosed, and on that
account Silky could not rest in her grave. About the period referred to
a domestic female servant being alone in one of the rooms of a house
in Black Heddon, was frightfully alarmed by the ceiling above suddenly
giving way, and from it there dropped, with a prodigious clash,
something quite black, shapeless, and uncouth. The servant did not
stop to scrutinise an object so hideous and startling, but fled to her
mistress, screaming at the pitch of her voice—
“The deevil’s in the house! The deevil’s in the house! He’s come
through the ceiling!”
With this terrible announcement the whole family were speedily
convoked, and great was the consternation at the idea of the foe
of mankind being amongst them in visible form. In this appalling
extremity, a considerable time elapsed before any one could brace up
courage to face the enemy, or be prevailed on to go and inspect the
cause of their alarm. At last the mistress, who chanced to be the most
stout–hearted, ventured into the room when, instead of the personage,
on account of whom such awful apprehensions were entertained, a great
dog or calf–skin lay on the floor, sufficiently black and uncomely, but
filled with gold.
After this Silky was never more heard or seen. Her destiny was
accomplished, her spirit laid, and she now sleeps with her ancestors.
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty,
_at the Edinburgh University Press_.