So far as we have gone, it will be evident to those
who read a little between the lines, that mixed up
with fact, imagination, and exaggeration, there exists
a very considerable amount of respectable myth.
But to which of the ancient myths we owe many of
the stories told in connexion with our local witches,
is often somewhat difficult to determine; but certain
it is that nearly all of them possessed the power, so
common to those of an earlier date, of changing themselves
into some animal, the hare and cat being the
favourite forms which they assumed when hard
pressed. Very similar stories exhibiting this power
are told of the following well-known local witches,
all of whom flourished during the present century:—Peggy
Flaunders, of Marske-by-the-Sea; Bessy Slack,
of West Burton, Wensleydale; Nanny Pearson, of
Goathland; the Guisborough witch, Ann Grear; Nan
Hardwicke, of Spittal Houses; Au’d Nanny, of Great
Ayton; Nanny Howe, of Kildale; and Nanny Newgill,
of Broughton and Stokesley. Then there was Dolly
Makin and Au’d Mother Stebbins, who seem to have
had no regular place of abode, but tramped the
country with a few small wares.
Of these and others, pretty much the same stories
are told, differing only in slight details. These also
bear a very strong resemblance to others current in
different parts of Europe, but of much earlier times.
Then, too, we have their malicious attacks on the
dairy, either in the form of spoiling or purloining the
produce, or in surreptitiously milking the cows, though
the latter was more prevalent further north, and often
practised by the German witches. But in the exercise
of the evil eye, and in the committal of all manner
of evil acts, our North Riding witches held a position
second to none.
Again, the methods used to overcome their power
and break their spells, as has been said, runs very
much on the same lines throughout Europe.
Peggy Flaunders died in 1835, at the age of eighty-five,
and was buried in the churchyard at Marske-by-the-Sea.
Many old people have a lively remembrance of
Peggy, with her tall hat and red cloak; and the stories
which are told to-day of the pranks she played and
the wonders she worked, make us open our eyes with
amazement, because we are not listening to the marvellous
deeds of some person who lived in mediaeval
times, but of one who lived amongst those now living.
Do you wish to hear of her doings from one who
knew her? then find your way to Boyes Wetherell’s
cottage, and have a chat with the old worthy, and
you will have such an outpouring of ancient
customs, rites, lore, smuggling stories, and the doings
of days gone by, together with touches of his own
eventful life, as will stock your mind with information
such as it is only possible to obtain from an original
source36.
But of Peggy and her doings.
On one occasion Peggy is said to have cast a spell
against one Tom Pearson (who lived on a farm near
Marske), and every head of cattle he possessed died.
Whether this ruined him or not, is not known, but he
left the farm, and his cousin took it. As this cousin
crossed the threshold for the first time, Peggy passed
by. (This cousin, it seems, had once befriended
Peggy.) She called out to him as she passed, ‘Thoo
’ez mah good wishes,’ and with that she turned three
times round, threw her cloak on the ground, jumped
over it, mumbled something, and walked away, and
from that day everything prospered ’awlus wiv him.’
For three weeks in succession, Hannah Rothwell’s
butter didn’t come rightly, churn as long as she might;
and at the same time Mary Parker, her next-door
neighbour, began to get very little milk from her cow.
These two old worthies having talked the matter over,
decided they would pay a visit to Jonathan Westcott
of Upleatham, a wise man of that day37. Jonathan, on
hearing what they had to say, declared it was all
owing to Peggy’s malice. So far as Mrs. Rothwell
was concerned, she was told to return home, scald her
churn out three times, first with boiling water, in
which a handful of salt had been dissolved; secondly,
with boiling water in which a handful of wicken-tree
berries had been thrown; and, thirdly, with a large
amount of plain boiling water. She had also to get
two small wickenwood pegs and drive them into each
end of the churn, and whilst turning the churn with the
last filling of water, she had to repeat, as she pretended
to look if the butter was coming,—
This tahm it’s thahn,
T’ next tahm it’s mahn,
An’ mahn foor ivver mair.
This had to be repeated nine times, giving nine
turns before repeating the lines, when the churn
would be found to be all right. At least it would
be quite clean, and that is needful for the making
of good butter. The milk case was a much more
difficult one to tackle. However, after Jonathan had
consulted his almanack, and seen what direction and
position the heavenly bodies were in—he was great
on the planetary world—he advised the following:
first, a good drench38 must be given the cow, followed
by gentle exercise; secondly, it was not to be milked
to its full yield for nine days, but on the tenth, before
seating herself to milk, Mary had to whisper in the
cow’s ear, ‘Ah’s milking tha foor Peggy Flaunders.’
The cow would then yield its proper quantity. This
pious fraud of deliberately whispering tarradiddles
into the cow’s ear had to be continued indefinitely.
On the other hand, if after having so whispered Mary
drew no more milk than usual, Jonathan declared
Peggy had nothing to do with the case, that she would
be free from all suspicion of milking the cow at home
by magic art, and that it was nothing ’neea warse ’an
that t’ au’d coo war a larl bit oot o’ fettle, an’ wad
mebbins cum roond iv a bit; if nut, sha mud git shut
on’t sumhoo.’
On one occasion some sportsmen, coursing in the
old close field at the top end of Marske, put up
a hare, which was recognized as one the dogs had
often tried unsuccessfully to capture. Peggy’s son
was one of the company. The lad, it seems, had
heard his mother say no hare could escape their
black bitch, but he was to be very careful not to
mention the fact, and never to slip it at one without
her consent. In the excitement the lad disregarded
his mother’s commands, and repeated what she had
said. The black bitch was slipped, and, after an
exciting chase, seized the hare by the haunch just
as it was trying to enter Peggy’s worral hole39. On
Peggy being examined, teeth-marks were found on
a corresponding part of her body.
The Guisborough witch, Jane Grear, was perhaps
more widely known than Peggy. She, like Peggy, was
bitten by a dog, and bore the marks until the day
of her death. She received her injuries when trying
to jump through her own key-hole: it must have been
either a very small hare she had turned herself into,
or she must have owned an abnormally large key-hole;
but this is a matter of detail. Whatever Jane may
have been like in the decline of her life, in her youthful
days she must have been quite a good-looking girl.
There are two old rhymes still remembered, one of
which tells of her various charms, perhaps a little
too freely. So much into detail does it go, that
only a few lines can possibly be given. The second
recounts a mighty hunt which once took place.
Plump ez a suker
40 war Jinny when young,
Wi’ t’ waast an’ t’ bust[41] ov a queen;
T’ gallants an’ t’ bucks did all on ’em sweear
Sha beeat owt ’at ivver tha’d seen.
Her hair it war black ez an au’d raven wing,
An’ breet war t’ glint ov her een;
Neea kerchief hauf hid sike an
ivory breast41,
Whahl her throat wad ’a’e deean foor a queen;
An’ larl war her feet, an’ trim war her waast,
An’ reead ez a roaze war her lips,
Whahl her cheeks egg’d yan on for ti steeal a sly kiss,
An’ shaply an’ roond war her hips.
An’ when, tripping ti music, sha pulled up her goon,
Tweea feet war nivver mair nim (nimble);
Her ankles an’ buckles fair ’wildered yan’s seet,
An’ seea, mun, did t’ shap ov each limb.
Bud noo ’at Ah’s au’d, Ah finnd ’at sha’s t’ seeam.
Her charms ’ev all swithered awaay;
Sha ’s ugly ez muck, wi’ black blood iv her heart.
Au’d Scrat’s
42 bowt her sowl, seea tha saay.
It would seem that Jane, like Peggy, occasionally
afforded sportsmen a good run; at least, so the following
would lead us to believe. But here, again, much
has had to be suppressed, being unfit for publication.
The lines, however, which are given are valuable, showing
as they do that several old customs were quite
common at the time—about 1820, I should imagine.
Fra t’ Applegarth, ti Slapewath slack,
Wi’oot a rist i’ seet all t’ waay,
Sha (the hare) teeak uz roond byv t’ alum warks
Ti Aisdale gaate, an’ gat awaay.
Wa knocked at Tom’s, bud he warn’t up;
Bud then, it’s t’ seeam wiv all. Besahd,
Yan may loup up ti cauv a coo,
Bud finnd t’ bed pull ti leeave a brahd.
Wa drank ther healths at Jack’s belaw,
Wa wished em weel, an’ soup’d wer beer,
All hoaping when tha did git up
Tha wad tigither loup on t’ fleear
43.
Jack leeaked bit dazed, an’ hauf asleep;
Bud then, he’s a fair Tyke wi’ t’ lasses.
He cuddles, kisses, drinks wiv all;
Neea hot pot ivver by him passes.
T’ race he’d won, an’ t’ brahd he’d kissed,
On t’ thresho’d knelt, her garter gitten,
Fra snowy breasts ther kerchiefs stown,
Then wi’ ther budding charms war smitten.
Again they put up the hare, and the old dog gave
chase.
Fra Scaling dyke ti Wapley end,
Thruff Tommy
44 geese an’ Mary
44 stee,
Alang t’ au’d to’npike, here then theer
That witched hare alang did flee.
Neea cleeaser did wa ivver git,
Neea gerter leead it ivver teeak;
Ten yards i’ front o’ Billy bitch—
Fra t’ fost it seeam’d a narrer squeeak.
At last ’mang heather, brackken, whin,
Lang stanghow bru’, wi’ hosses blawn,
An’ Billy bitch wi’ tongue loll’d oot,
Fair beeaten it war fain ti awn.
Just when, wi’ yah gert loup, t’ bitch thowt
Ti grab t’ hare haunch, t’ poor spent au’d bitch
Fan nowt ti snap at; t’ hare ’ed geean.
An’ then wa kenn’d wa’d hunted t’ witch
45.
I know a very similar set of verses exist, telling
of a wonderful run after a hare in connexion with
Bilsdale and that district. But the language, in fact
the whole tone of the rhyme, is much too loose for
the publication of any part of it.
A word here explaining what is meant by witches
milking cows may not be out of place. It has been
mentioned that Peggy Flaunders was thought to have
drawn the milk from one Mary Parker’s cow. How
or by what means, deponent sayeth not, but one
Ann Allan, of Ugthorpe, who kept pigs, was almost
caught in the act. This was about 1780, and as Ann’s
procedure was run on much the same lines as the
most respectable witches used some hundreds of years
before her time, we may take hers as a typical
example.
Not one, but three or four Ugthorpe cows ceased
to give their usual quantity of milk. Of course the
villagers talked, and at last the priest was visited;
but a hundred years ago many of the clergy, both
of Rome and the Church of England, so far as
learning was concerned, would have been knocked
into a cocked hat by a Primitive Methodist local
brother of these days. So it will be readily conceived
the visit to the priest resulted in very little good. He
declared the devil had got hold of the defaulting cows
by the tail, and this made them hold their milk back;
he further assured them the only way to get the
devil to let go was to say three pater nosters and
Ave Marias over their milk-pails, and to subscribe a
certain sum, which had to be paid to him, to celebrate
a mass to Saint somebody, who would send a holy
angel to frighten the devil away. Now, I know
nothing about doctoring cows, but I am inclined to
the belief that old Jonathan Westcott, of Upleatham,
was much nearer effecting a cure, when he ordered
an aperient draught, to be followed by gentle
exercise, than prayers muttered inside any number
of milk-cans.
I believe the good people of that day would have
fallen in with the prayers, but they drew a hard and
fast line when the collection box obtruded itself.
They returned home dissatisfied. They were losing
their milk—that they could not help; but they could
prevent their pockets being dipped into, and they did.
Another meeting was held, and a watch was set on
Ann, but nothing came of it. At last a neighbour’s
cow dried up altogether. At this the good man was so
exasperated, that he went to Ann’s and boldly accused
her of milking the cows. Words ran high, till in the
end he seized a three-legged stool, intending to hurl
it at Ann’s head, when, lo! a curious thing happened—as
he gripped the leg of the stool, a stream of milk
ran from it. The neighbours, who by this time had
flocked round the door, cried out with one voice:
‘Thoo’s gitten ’t; that’s what sha milks wer coos wi’.’
And sure enough such was found to be the case. On
the name of any neighbour’s cow being mentioned, and
a leg of the stool handled as in milking, a fine stream
of milk came from it, and the bag of that individual’s
cow was found on examination to have shrunk. No
wonder she had fat pigs, when she could give them
new milk in any quantity and from any one’s cow she
liked to name. Such a stool was not a fit piece of
furniture for any one to possess, so it was publicly
burnt on the moor just beyond the high end of the
village, near to where the windmill stands. Ann was
ordered to walk three times from one end of the
village to the other, clothed in nothing but her sark46,
i.e. chemise. The Godivan rule, which compelled
every one to keep within doors during the time of
penance, seems (so far as Ugthorpe was concerned)
to have been absolutely reversed—they were all there,
even down to the babies in arms. From all accounts,
Ugthorpe has never had quite such a lively time
since. Before judging the people and the ways of
that time as altogether too idiotic, indecent, and
unjust, it is as well to bear in mind that every age
has its curious idiosyncrasies. In 1898 affiliation cases
are heard in open court; a man may nearly kick the
life out of his wife with a pair of clogs at a small
outlay of about seven-and-six; but stealing a turnip
necessitates a low form of diet, and enforced seclusion
for three months. These masterpieces of our time
will bring a smile to faces yet unborn.
Nan Hardwicke’s fame at one time was great, and
her name and deeds still live in many of the Cleveland
dales. I remember once being driven to Westerdale
by an old chap, who gave me the following story. I
think the circumstance occurred to his father, and not
himself—on this point my notes are silent, anyway.
Either his mother or his wife was expecting the advent
of a new baby, and the expectant mother’s sister had
to be sent for, to some place about five miles distant.
That afternoon Nan Hardwicke called as she was
passing (she must have been some miles from home),
and asked for ’a shive o’ breead an’ a pot o’ beer,’
which were given her. Nan let them know she was
aware of all that was about to transpire. Finishing
her food, she opened the door of the room where the
wife was lying, and poking her head inside, said, ‘Ah
wish ya weell; ya’ll ’ev a lad afoor morning, an’ ya’ll
call him Tommy, weean’t ya?’ ‘Whya, wa ’a’e made
up wer mahnds ti call him John,’ replied the wife.
‘Aye, mebbe, bud ya’d best call him Tommy; an’
thanking ya, Ah’ll be saying good-daay ti ya.’ And
with that she closed the door and departed. The
husband, on being made acquainted with the witch’s
request, declared that nothing of the sort should
happen—John they had decided to call the bairn, and
John it should be—he dare not run the risk of changing
its name then. About six o’clock that evening the
husband put his horse in the gig, or whatever he
had, and drove away to bring back the sister-in-law.
About three miles on the journey, he had to cross
a small bridge, but when within twenty or thirty
yards of it, the horse stopped, and could not be persuaded
to move a step further. The good man at last
decided to get out and lead the mare over, but in this
he was wrong. Much to his amazement, he discovered
he could not leave his seat—he was ‘ez fast ez owt.’
Vainly did he strive, but it was of no use. At last he
came to the conclusion that a spell was on them both,
so he called out, ‘Noo, Nan, what’s ti eftther? this is
thi wark.’ Immediately he heard Nan commence to
laugh, and then she shouted, but he did not know
where the voice came from, ‘Thoo’ll call t’ bairn
Tommy, weean’t ta?’ The husband was desperately
bold for those days, for he shouted, ‘Neea, Ah weean’t,
nowther foor thoo na all t’ Nan divils i’ t’ country.’
‘Then thoo’ll bahd wheer thoo is, whahl t’ bairn’s born
an’ t’ muther dees,’ croaked Nan. This, in its way,
was a bit of a clincher, to sit stuck fast in a gig,
neither able to proceed nor get out, at a time too
when all speed was necessary; add to this a sinister
threat of immediate death of the one he most loved,
unless he consented to christen an unborn child
Tommy, when he had decided to name it Johnny,
and with a feeling at the bottom of his heart that
there was a margin for uncertainty, and that after
all it might happen to be a girl. Taking all these
things into consideration, was it to be wondered that
he gave way, and swore the child, if a boy, should
be christened Tom? Having made this promise, he
was allowed to proceed on his way.
But Nan did not always have her own way. She
had a habit of hiding herself amongst the whins and
brackens, which grew in abundance near her humble
roof. The young men used to collect all the hounds
together and put them on the scent of Au’d Nan.
According to legend, they had many a good run, ‘bud
tha nivver catch’d her.’ One other unrecorded story
of Nan47.
Nan had a relation living at Lowna Bridge, to
whom she occasionally paid a visit. This relation,
I believe, only looked forward with pleasure to Nan’s
departure. On this point, however, Nan seems to have
been pretty thick-skinned. It is a mystery how this
journey was accomplished. Some thought she turned
herself into a hare and ran the distance of twenty
miles easily in that form; anyway, the fact remains
that now and again Au’d Nan turned up at Lowna
Bridge. It may, en passant, be mentioned that human
nature was very much the same in the early part of
this century as it is to-day. I mean, poor relations
are never welcome; their presence, or anything which
calls them to mind, makes one feel we ought to do
something which we had very much rather not do—their
presence digs the spur into one’s conscience, you
know! But to return to Nan and her Lowna relations.
I believe the following occurred on her last
visit: she arrived just after the bridal procession of
the daughter of the house had returned from church.
By-and-by the question arose—where could Au’d Nan
sleep? On this particular occasion every bed had more
than one claimant already. The matter was solved by
a kindly bridesmaid offering to take Nan home and
share her bed with her, and then bring her back when
the guests had departed. Unfortunately, the bride,
not knowing that Nan was near, said to her friend,
‘Relation though the old thing is, I would not sleep
with her for anything.’ At this Nan turned round
and, before the whole company, exclaimed, ‘Neea, bud
thoo wad sleep wi’ him,’ pointing to the bridegroom;
and then she added, shaking her stick,—
Ah’ve let tha be wedded,
Bud Ah’ll stop tha being bedded;
and so saying, turned about and left the house.
Good cheer and bonny bridesmaids soon banished
any gloom the old lady’s words for the moment had
cast over the party.
Late that evening, after the bride had retired to
rest, one of the bridesmaids, sister of the bridegroom,
whispered to him, that it would be useless trying
to join his bride by way of the stairs, as there
was a plot on foot to keep him with the revellers
the night long—not an uncommon thing in those
days—it often needing all the scheming of bride
and bridesmaids, to outwit the well-laid plots of the
bucks of those gay old times. The plan which the
bridesmaids had arranged for the bridegroom’s
escape, was that a game of blindman’s-buff should be
played, and on a given signal a maiden was to call
out, ‘Kiss the girl you love in the dark’; on this
being said, every candle was to be blown out, and
the bridegroom had to seize the opportunity to escape.
A ladder had been placed underneath the bride’s
window, and although it was a little short, the bridesmaids
had tied a long towel to the window-sash, by
which he could pull himself through the window.
Everything worked splendidly until he was just going to
pull himself up by the towel, when some half-intoxicated
idiot discovered he was escaping, and pulled the ladder
from underneath him, bringing him to the ground
with an awful bang. The poor fellow, on being carried
into the house, was found to have broken his leg. The
old lady was right after all. It seems they did have
their little excitements in the good old days of yore—in
these days it is a shower of rice48 and an old
shoe.
Wrightson, the wise man of Stokesley, although he
died about seventy years ago, has left such a record
behind as few men in his position ever build up to
their credit49. He was known as the wise man of
Stokesley. He was the seventh son of a seventh
daughter; and whether such a concatenation of circumstances
lift a man out of the ordinary rut, I am
not in a position to say. But judging Wrightson
from the lips of those who knew him—they are all
about gone now—or from those who have heard of
him from their parents, one cannot but come to the
conclusion, that he was undoubtedly a man endowed
with marvellous psychic power, and with the smallest
amount of charlatanry possible. In fact, all agree in
testifying to the fact that he claimed nothing beyond
the power which belonged to all such as are born
under similar circumstances; and that sort of thing
was fully believed in then, and, I might add, is yet, for
the matter of that.
In dealing with such a celebrity—for such he was,
his fame extending far beyond the boundary of the
North Riding—one cannot be too particular as to
the source from whence information is obtained. Fortunately,
years ago, I knew an old Yorkshireman,
already alluded to—William Scorer, a native of Basedale,
but who for some years kept an inn at Fearby
above Masham. During the time I knew him, he
was the landlord of the Fleece, Bedale. He personally
knew Wrightson.
Take the following as examples of the man’s
marvellous power. A friend of Scorer50 had bought
several head of cattle at Northallerton fair. These
had to be driven to Stokesley; to this end they were
given in charge of an old drover who was driving a
lot to the same place for another buyer. The drover,
arriving late at night, put the two droves into a field
about a quarter of a mile on the other side of
Stokesley, but in the morning two of Scorer’s beasts
were missing; the drover declared they were all there
when he gated them the night before. A suspicion
somehow arose that the old chap had sold them on
the way, and pocketed the money. At that time they
were altogether without any proof that he had done
anything of the kind.
The only way to discover if their surmises were
correct, was to visit Wrightson. But to put the wise
man’s power to the test, they decided to say it was a
horse they had lost; arguing, if he really knew anything
that could help them, he would find out the
trick which was being played upon him. On entering
his cottage, and before they could speak, Wrightson
shouted from the scullery, where he was washing himself,
‘Noo then, if you chaps is sharp eneaaf, an’ ez that
mich off’ (i.e. know that much) ‘’at ya can manish
ti to’n tweea coos intiv a hoss, it’s neea ewse cumin’ ti
me, foor Ah can’t to’n a hoss back inti tweea coos, an’
seea ya’d better mak yersens scarce. Ah’ve nowt ti
saay ti ya.’ And for some time the wise man was past
all persuasion. In the end he shouted, without leaving
the scullery, ‘Tha’re baith i’ t’ beck, an’ tha’ve been theer
sen yester neet.’ And sure enough both their bodies
were found a good mile below the bridge; evidently
they had missed the bridge when being driven over
late the night before, and had both been drowned
in the Leven, which was much swollen by recent
rain. Here, as in many other stories told of the
marvellous man, was an evidence of foreknowledge;
and many of them rest upon what must be admitted to
be very reliable testimony, and vouched for by most
respectable people of that time51. Now for the other
story, which occurred some years afterwards.
One Nathan Agar, for security, hid a stocking-foot
(in which he had wrapped five golden guineas) under
a portion of the thatch. One day, intending to add
another golden one to his store, he found the stocking-foot,
guineas and all, had vanished. Nathan said nothing
to any one, but just went straight to Wrightson.
‘Thoo’ll knaw what Ah’ve cum’d aboot,’ said Nathan.
Wrightson at once twitted the old man, touching
some previous conversation they had held as to the
advisability of Nathan, who was about sixty years
of age, marrying a girl not quite nineteen. But the
combined wisdom and unhappy future which had
been foretold by Wrightson, had not been sufficient
to overcome the old fool’s idiotic passion for the buxom
lass. In the end he was told to go home, and when
no one was in the house, he had to lift up the flag in
front of the doorstep, and place a certain leaf of the
Bible underneath, and carefully watch who stumbled
over the threshold as they entered. This, Nathan
most carefully carried out. The first who entered
was their young lodger, and he stumbled; after awhile
in came the wife, and she stumbled. I don’t know if
the flag tilted, or whether the next person would have
stumbled also, because Nathan didn’t wait to test
the result of a third entry, but hurried off to Wrightson,
to whom he made known the result. Wrightson told
him that his property was hidden in a certain part of
a pig-sty, together with an old watch, which up to
that time Nathan had not missed. Other and more
serious charges were made, which for ever destroyed
Nathan’s hope of future happiness. Wrightson’s advice
was that he should return home, secure his watch,
give them the five guineas, and send them about
their business. This was promptly carried out, and
I believe is the quickest and cheapest divorce proceeding
on record. One other story has just come into
my mind, which, if true, proves to what a wonderful
degree he must have possessed a clairvoyant power.
A lady residing in some part of South Durham
was likely to die from a lump in her throat—possibly
a quinsy. Nothing that was done gave her ease;
at last some one suggested the wise man of Stokesley.
A man on horseback was dispatched—I believe the
son of the lady. On approaching Wrightson’s house,
even before he got to the door, the wise man looked
out, saying, as the young man came up, ‘Bait thi
hoss, git summat ti eat, an’ git thisen back agaan;
t’ bleb’s brussen; sha’s all reet now;’ i.e. ‘Bait your
horse, get some refreshment, and return home again;
the lump has burst; she is all right now.’
I have just had the following story given me by
Old Willie Bradley of Great Ayton. His father, who
was a quarryman, had some tools stolen, and, like
every one else in those days, he went to Wrightson.
‘Noo, then,’ said that worthy, on Willie’s father
entering, ’thoo’s cum’d aboot thi teeals, bud Ah can
deea nowt fur tha, ez they’ve been hugg’d accross
watter; bud Ah can let tha see wheear tha’re liggin.’
Wrightson then put him in front of a seeing-glass
(looking-glass) in a darkened room, and told him to
keep looking at the glass, telling him if he took his
eyes off something awful would happen, but my informant
cannot remember what. Anyway, his father
never was so terrified in all his life, and wished he had
never bothered about the lost tools. In a little while,
however, he saw them quite plainly, lying amongst
some bracken in a wood—the place he recognized
quite easily. On telling Wrightson what he had seen,
he was cautioned not to touch them. Wrightson said
he must bring him a live magpie. This he tried to
obtain, but failed; he could not catch one, neither,
for some reason, would any boy who had one part
with his pet; so, after a week, he had to tell the
wise man that the task was impossible. ‘Then,’ said
Wrightson, ‘Ah caan’t wark him onny harm, an’ thoo’ll
‘ ti loss the teeals52.’
Other stories of this man’s foreknowledge could be
given almost ad lib. Many of his methods suggested
and adopted were of the heart-frizzling, pin-sticking,
wickenwood, and bottery-tree order. His rites and
ceremonies, too, occasionally savoured of the time in
which he lived; and, after all, there is not much to
wonder at.
We are most of us very much influenced by the
environments of our own day; and after seeing a few
of my own sex in Town, I can forgive Wrightson
much. Like many another clever man, he played to
suit his audience, and sang the songs of the day.
There was, if all is true, no need that he should have
done so, and possibly he knew it—who knows?
Nanny Pearson was held in great fear by the good
people of Goathland, and that, too, a good way into
the present century. As a witch of the old school,
Nanny’s fame was not confined to that locality. Many
stories are still told of her and her doings, two of
which I will give, as they afford a bit of new
information, i.e. the power which holy water had over
witches. I believe in her younger days she was
a communicant of the Roman Catholic faith; be that
as it may, she was neither better nor worse than her
sister witches of any other faith, or no faith at all.
It seems that a Mrs. Webster had a goose, which, as
was the custom of the time, was sitting on a cletch of
eggs near the fireside. Now, Nanny came daily to
Mrs. Webster’s for milk, bringing an empty jug, which
she left, taking a full one away with her. The goose
was set one morning, and remained dutifully on her
nest until evening; but as Nanny approached the
house, off flew the goose in a great state of agitation,
breaking two eggs, and could not be pacified until
Nanny was well off the premises. The same thing
occurred each time Nanny came for her milk, until
some one, who was going to Scarborough, called upon
the wise man and asked his advice. He told them to
get a little holy water, put it in the jug with Nanny’s
milk, and her power would be broken—I suppose that
meant her power over the goose, for she worked a
vast deal of ill after that. This was done; the jug with
the holy water and milk in due course was handed
to Nanny, and just as she took hold of it, the goose
plucked up courage and flew at her, knocking it
out of her hand. It was broken in the fall, the
contents splashing over her feet and gown; with
a shriek she fled, and from that day the goose was
never disturbed again.
Years ago, the Squire of Goathland had a very
beautiful daughter. Some old chap with any amount
of money, and quite ugly, wished to wed her, and
for some unknown reason the Squire favoured his
suit; but, as is often the case, the damsel had given
her heart to a young farmer in the neighbourhood.
The elder lover got it into his head the couple would
elope, so he sought the aid of Nanny; and the old hag
helped him with a vengeance, inasmuch as she so
sorely afflicted the damsel that she could not rise
from her bed, and her legs began to die—I don’t quite
know what that means; anyway, her limbs became
useless. Her father told her that one of the female
saints was greatly displeased with her obduracy, and
would not restore power to her limbs until she
consented to marry the man of his choice. This she
flatly refused to do, choosing rather to die outright.
The younger lover was distracted; he could not gain
any reliable information, and a personal interview
was impossible. So he did as every one else did
in those days—he paid a visit to the wise man of
Scarborough. The wise man, after a considerable
performance of his own, placed a seeing-glass in front
of the young fellow, desiring him to gaze steadily
thereon, and to tell him if he saw the likeness of
any one appear. Presently the young chap swore
he had seen the face of Nanny Pearson. The wise
man, on hearing this, declared that she was the
origin of all the evil, and told him to return home,
procure by some means a drop of Nanny’s blood,
and steal a few drops of holy water; these had to be
mixed in a cup of milk drawn from a red cow,
and rubbed by him on the soles and calves of his
lady-love, when all would be well. This was a
strongish order, and well-nigh staggered the young
chap. Firstly, how was he to procure a drop of
Nanny’s blood? Stealing the holy water was a
simple affair, as also was the red cow’s milk; but
how to gain admission to his lady-love’s chamber,
and apply the remedies when obtained, was not only
a task of difficulty, but of danger. Bear in mind this
was in the days of dogs and horsewhips, which were
often freely used; but then, as now, love laughs at
difficulties. Once let him become possessed of a drop
of Nanny’s blood, and he would overcome all the
other obstacles. On making his trouble known to
an old dame in the village, one Janet Haswell, she
told him something he already knew in part, i.e.
that in a certain field a hare nightly sat, which
neither dog could catch nor man shoot; this hare,
declared the old lady, was none other than Nanny
herself. She further assured him that if he melted
some silver and made shot of it, he would be able
to hit the hare, and perhaps he might find some
blades of grass stained with blood. Most carefully
the young fellow carried out the old dame’s advice.
He was successful; he hit the hare, and found several
blades of grass spotted with blood, which he carefully
gathered. Next day Nanny was confined to bed,
and for some weeks after. At the time, he alone knew
the cause. Having procured a ladder, he invaded
his love’s room, and applied the remedy, when she recovered
instantly; he then retired. The damsel, rising
and dressing herself, descended the ladder, and was
conveyed to a place of safety, where she remained
until they were wedded. This, by-the-way, I believe
is the first recorded case of massage.
A curious belief still clings to Gribdale Gate.
Any one who dares to stand near the said gate on
New Year’s Eve, will see an old man open it, pass
through, and then vanish. This takes place just as
the new year is born. There is one man still living
in Great Ayton who has seen the old chap thus
herald in the new year. Again, old people of Great
Ayton still aver that on a certain night a once noted
witch, Nanny Howe, may be seen riding astride on
a broomstick over Howe Wood just at midnight.
This witch, so mounted, is said once to have chased
the devil for miles—on this occasion the two must
have fallen out; perhaps at that time honest folk got
their due. Howe Wood is near Kildale.
Ailer Wood, her real name being Alice, was a
witch of considerable note throughout the Bilsdale
district fifty years ago. In the form of a cat or hare,
she seems to have cared little either what kind or
colour the hounds were which chased her. She never
was caught, but then she had a little way of making
herself invisible when too hard pressed; but in this
she was not alone, a case in point having already
being mentioned. Innumerable times was she fired
at, ‘bud nivver nobody could hit her.’ On one occasion
a damsel named Annie Wilson felt sure the old
thing had bewitched her sweetheart. The reason for
such a supposition lay in the fact that the young
fellow had transferred his affections to some other
fair charmer. My idea is that the other girl had
bewitched him; that, however, was not Annie’s notion.
She, like many another maiden of her time, went
with the sorrow of her aching heart to the wise
man of those parts, one Henry Wilson, who, after
carefully listening to Annie’s woeful story, told her
how she could discover if it was the witch who had
cast a spell on her lover. She was to return home,
turn the cricket53 wrong side uppermost, pushing
pretty close together and very securely into the
wood nine pins, saying, as she pushed in the last
one, ‘There’s nine for him and her and the witch’;
in another place she had to push in another nine,
repeating at the ninth, ‘There’s nine for the witch and
her and him’; and lastly, in another place, another
nine, concluding at the ninth by saying, ‘And there
is nine more for all three of them, wi’ her in t’ middle.’
By this arrangement, the vile creature who had stolen
her lover, was always mentioned so that she occupied
a place nearest the witch. All this having been accomplished,
the stool had to be set on its feet, and, under
some pretext or other, Ailer was to be induced to
seat herself thereon. On doing so, she would be
unable to get up again until she truly answered any
questions Annie asked her. Everything was carried
out as ordered by Wilson: Ailer was called in, and
offered a cup of tea, the stool having been pushed
toward her; she was invited to seat herself, and
have her bite and sup comfortably. Now, was ever
a maiden nearer finding out just why her lover had
deserted her? The stool was even put in front of the
fire, and Ailer again invited to seat herself; but no,
the witch quietly replied, it would not be possible for
her to enjoy the good things they had given her, seated
on the back of a ‘pricky-back otch’n54.’ Ailer by some
means had found out what had been done, and so
escaped the charm which had been prepared for her.
No doubt exists in the minds of many people now,
that hedgehogs milk the cows55. It seems they creep
up to them whilst they are resting, and draw their
milk from them. My old friend told me they always
killed a hedgehog whenever they saw one, for that
reason.
One Nancy Newgill, a Broughton witch, used to
set hedgehogs to milk the cows of those she had
a spite against, and it was commonly believed that
at times she used to turn herself into one, and then
‘neeabody’s coos had onny chance’; anyway, there was
one hedgehog which could run as fast as a hare, and
never was catched, ‘ner killed ner nowt.’ This Nancy
Newgill cast a spell on a certain Martha Brittain,
from which she could obtain no ease, no matter what
she took; so off to the wise man56 Martha went. She
was told to go to Stokesley, and buy a new fire-shovel,
upon which she had to chalk Nancy’s name57; then to
make a cake—the ingredients need not be given—and,
after closing her doors and window, the cake was
to be baked upon the shovel resting on the fire.
This was done at four o’clock in the afternoon58. Now,
at the time this cake was being baked, Nancy Newgill
was ’luking’ weeds in a field a mile away, and standing
quite close to her was my informant, Mrs. Peary.
Suddenly Nancy clapped her hand on her stomach,
crying out, ‘Ah mun gan yam! Ah mun gan yam!’
She left the field, and was ill for days after; but
Martha Brittain began to mend straight away, and
was as right as ever she could be.
This, however, is a small affair, compared with the
case of a man who lived at Broughton, and had
a spell cast on him, by whom he did not know; at
least, he was divided in his doubts. He suspected
first Nancy, and also a man with an evil eye at
Nunthorpe, but he could not really say which of
them had cast the spell; so he went to the wise
man, but in this he got little comfort. The wise man
told him, before he could do anything he must be
quite certain who had cast the spell, because if he
worked a counter-charm on any one, and they were
innocent, what he did would fall upon the complainant,
in addition to what he was already suffering. He
advised him to ‘plump59’ both Nancy and the
Nunthorpe man with it. On accusing Nancy, she
was so indignant, and looked him so straight in the
face, and swore such a fearful oath, that he felt certain
she for once was innocent; in such contrast was the
behaviour of the evil-eyed one of Nunthorpe, that he
was equally satisfied that he was the man. So sure was
he, that he told the wise man he would chance it; so
they set to work. A fire of wickenwood having been
lighted close on midnight, a ball of clay was beaten flat
with the back of an old Bible; on this a rude figure
was scooped out in the shape of a man. Into this
rough mould was poured a mixture of pitch, beeswax,
hog’s lard, bullock’s blood, and a small portion of
the fat from a bullock’s heart. The whole having
been melted and well stirred on the wickenwood
fire, what remained of the mixture after filling the
mould was divided; one-half was thrown into water,
worked into a ball, and thrown away; the remaining
portion was poured on to the fire, causing a most
tremendous blaze; when this died out, the ashes were
buried in the churchyard. The figure having been
removed from its mould, and two small holes made
to represent the eyes, a pin was thrust into one of
these eyes, an incantation pronounced, and the spell
was concluded. The pain left the man as he was
returning home, and that very night the evil-eyed
Nunthorpian was seized with a fearful pain, and
before morning was blind of an eye—the eye corresponding
to the one through which the pin had been
thrust in the wax figure. I had the above from
one who well knew the trio. My informant is still
living.
Matthew Appleton, of Busby, for many years
ruled the planets—it seems he ruled them so well
that he found a pot of gold. This was ruling
the planets to some purpose, and it is a great pity
astronomers don’t work this seemingly dead science
up a bit.
In connexion with the witch-lore of the riding,
it strikes one as singular, that whilst many of the
stories told of local witches closely resemble those
of other countries, yet other stories, equally common,
both abroad and a little further north, so far as I
have investigated, are with us conspicuous by their
absence. Of witches turning their victims into horses
by throwing a bridle over their heads and riding
them the night through, or of a witch having
been outwitted and treated in like manner, even in
some instances casting a shoe, and of being reshod
during the night, the shoe remaining nailed to the
hand on regaining their natural form—of such
stories, I repeat, not a vestige remains amongst us.
Thorpe’s Mythology and the Wilkie MS. give many
instances; and though some of the stories are dated
almost in recent times, doubtless their radicals are to
be found in the myth of times remote.
Again, whilst we retain the belief in the efficacy
of the dead hand in the curing of certain diseases, one
never hears mention of the ‘hand of glory60.’ There
are old people to-day who tell you of its marvellous
power, but their knowledge is that gained from hearsay.
I have never met a single person who knew of an
instance of its having been used in the North Riding;
and if ever such was the case, it must have been long
ago, for many of the old folk know absolutely nothing
about it.
Silver shot was a deadly charge, because, in some
way not explained, it was charmed. Jane Wood, who
was accounted a witch about seventy years ago in the
Basedale district, gave little heed either to dogs or
guns; when she assumed the form of a hare, she
escaped from the former quite easily, and the latter
never could hit her. At last one sportsman, acting
on the advice of a wise man, melted some silver
coins in an iron ladle smeared with the blood of
a hare. This was done at the blacksmith’s forge, the
same being plentifully supplied with wickenwood.
The melted silver was poured into a basin of water,
which divided it into fine particles; suitable pieces
were collected, the gun charged, and next evening
the venturesome hare was fired at. Though it escaped,
it was evidently badly hit. Suspicion had for some
time rested on Jane. Her cottage was visited; she
declared she was too ill to rise and open the door,
having, as she said, accidentally turned a beehive
over and got severely stung. This statement did
not satisfy those outside. The door was burst open,
and Jane pulled out of bed; over one part of her
body she was found to be covered with small sores,
which there was no doubt had been caused by the
silver shot. Anyway, that venturesome hare was
never seen again, so no further proof was required.
There is one point which requires a few words of
explanation, at least so far as it can be explained.
We have heard of witches who allowed themselves
to be chased as hares, some of which, if not caught,
were bitten just as they were entering their own
homes; on examination, teeth-marks were found on
a corresponding part of their body. The same may
be said of the injuries inflicted by the silver shot.
The telling of these stories leaves no doubt in one’s
mind that the witches in the cases mentioned are
supposed to have turned themselves into hares. This,
however, was not always the case, as the following
story will show. There was a woman on whom
grave suspicion rested; for some reason or other
she was never openly charged with being a witch,
but old heads were ominously shaken when her
name was mentioned. In the district in which she
lived, there was a notorious hare, which simply jeered
at dogs and guns alike. At length some one suggested
silver shot; this was duly made, and the hare shot
dead. Afterwards, on comparing the times, it was found
that Mrs.—— had thrown up her arms the very
moment when the hare was shot, ejaculating, ‘They
have killed my familiar spirit’; uttering these words,
she fell dead on her kitchen floor. Now Mrs.—— had
not been out that day—there were plenty of witnesses
to testify that—so it would seem it was not always
a case of transformation, but a familiar spirit which
was chased, whilst the individual herself was at home
attending to her household duties. Of course all
such were subject to the ills which might befall
their familiars.
There seems to be a very close connexion between
a hare being shot and corresponding wounds being
found on the person of those who had so transformed
themselves, and the stories told of the witch mares
being shod and the shoes remaining fixed to their
hands when their original form was resumed.
Hobmen.
At one time the family of Oughtred, who lived
on a farm near Hob Hill, Upleatham, were greatly
assisted in their various occupations by the hobman,
who lived in the Hob Hill. These hobmen are heard
of now and again in the North Riding. The hobman61
with us seems to hold the same place as the
brownies of the north, and the pixies of Devonshire.
Anyway, the hobman still did his work as recently
as 1820; for the Oughtreds had their hay turned,
their cattle brought home and driven back again,
their corn and other grain winnowed, their turnips
topped and tailed, and I do not know what all. What
they did to offend the hobman, is not known. But
it is thought that a man hung his coat on the winnowing
machine, and forgot to remove it when his
day’s work was done. The hobman possibly thought,
when he entered late at night, that it had been left
for him; and no offence, it seems, could be greater
than to offer a hobman clothes of any kind, so he
went away, and has never been heard of since. It
seems at the very time they unfortunately displeased
their friend the hobman, they also incurred the ill-will
of Peggy Flaunders; for about this time, late one
evening, a fearful knocking came at the back door.
The maid, on opening it, saw a fearful thing like
a blazing pig standing on the step; with one wild
shriek she fled, crying out to her master and mistress
that the devil had come, and was standing on the back
doorstep. They at once asked, had she closed the
back door? On being told that she was too frightened
to do anything else but flee from such a monster,
they both sank back in dismay, well knowing the
evil spirit had been given a chance to enter, which
they rightly feared it would not fail to avail itself of.
They rushed to the back door, but nothing was there;
still they had their misgivings—they were terribly
apprehensive. And sure enough it turned out not
without cause—crockery was smashed, machinery was
broken, cattle died; in fact things got into such a parlous
state, that they decided to leave. On the day
when they were preparing to flit, a friend looked in,
and asked Oughtred if he really meant shifting. As
he asked the question, a queer little head popped out
over the top of the press, and a voice squeaked out,
‘Aye, we’re gahin ti flit ti morn’; on hearing which,
Oughtred said, ‘Whya, if thoo’s gahin wiv uz, it’s teea
neea ewse gahin; wa mud ez weel stop62.’ The wise
man was eventually consulted. Legend sayeth not
where he lived; but under his directions a live black
cock bird was pierced with pins, and roasted alive
at dead of night, with every door, window, and cranny
and crevice stuffed up. By these means Peggy’s power
and the imp were overcome.
Years ago, when the old church at Marske-by-the-Sea
was condemned, and a new one about to be built,
it was decided to pull down the old structure and use
the stone for building the new. This bit of vandalism
was duly commenced; part of the old building was
razed, and the stone carted to the new site63—so
far, so good. The old people murmured, for they
objected greatly to the demolition of the edifice in
which they and their fore-elders had worshipped;
but they were powerless—they could only stand by
and watch with aching hearts stone after stone
being carted away. And so the first day’s work came
to an end, which to them was work of desecration,
and they returned home sad at heart. But if they
were powerless, they had a champion, and one whom
they had never dreamt of taking up their cause.
Next morning, when the men returned to their work,
what was their surprise, and the amazement of every
one else, to find the old church whole again, without
a stone displaced or a mark of the previous day’s work
to be found anywhere. Every stone had been brought
back again and replaced in situ, and the mortar which
had been used to reset the displaced stones was as
hard and set as that of hundreds of years before.
This marvellous occurrence was duly reported at
head-quarters. What the officials thought or imagined,
is not recorded; they ordered the work to proceed,
and even set on more men to pull the old place down,
so that on the second day a considerable portion was
carted away and stacked on the new site; but next
morning the old church was found to have been fully
repaired during the night, every stone having once
again been brought back and placed in its original
position. Things were now looking a bit serious. On
the third day, however, work was resumed, a portion
again pulled down and carted away, but this time
men were set to watch the stones and find out who
came for them. Now, whether these watchers fell
asleep—they declared they did not—or whether in
the darkness the stones were all stolen away so quietly
that they never heard or saw anything of what was
transpiring, cannot be stated; one thing is only known—when
daylight appeared, every stone had vanished,
and again the old church was found to have been
restored, so perfectly that no one could tell that ever
a stone had been removed. Those in authority were
bound to admit that it was useless to contend further
against such a powerful and invisible opponent. For
long it was not generally known by what means the
work of replacement had been wrought; but there
were those who knew, and in time every one did.
It was the hobman, assisted by others of his friends.
In those days it was simply the essence of folly for
architects and bricklayers to pit themselves against
a hobman, just the same it would be to-day,
if the hobmen took it into their heads to undertake
a job—but they don’t now.
There was a hobman once had his home in a hill
near to Hob Garth, and no doubt in his day performed
many acts which are now forgotten; however, I had
one related to me years ago by an old chap who at
that time was working on the Mulgrave estate. His
grandfather, Thomas Stonehouse, lived at Hob Garth
for many years. I think he had a small holding; anyway,
he kept sheep. It seems that some misunderstanding
arose between him and one Matthew Bland, of Great
Fryup. Bland was of a vindictive nature—at least, if
the supposition was true that he broke Tommy’s
hedge down late one night, drove the sheep out, and
left them to wander whither they liked. And wander
they did to some purpose, for at the close of the
day following, Stonehouse had only managed to find
five out of forty. Next morning, what was his surprise
not only to find his sheep back in the field, but
the hedge repaired with new posts and rails. The
neighbours knew that he could not have done the
repairing, for he had caught a severe cold, having been
wet to the skin searching for the lost sheep the day
previous. Next night, however, every head of cattle
belonging to Bland was turned loose. ‘And great deed
there was lating on ’em; it war ower a fo’tnit afoor they
war all gitten tigither again.’ That Stonehouse was
quite innocent of this bit of retaliation was clear even
to Bland, as it was well known he was too ill to stir
out of doors. But when Bland had recovered all his
lost cattle, Stonehouse’s were set loose again, and
the damage done was even greater this time; and
as the poor fellow was still too ill to turn out to find
them, the neighbours did what they could. This
time, however, even fewer were found, but again on
the following morning all but four were safely back in
the field, and all damage repaired; subsequently the
four were found dead, having fallen into a disused
quarry. People talked, as naturally they would, and
the bringing back of the lost sheep and repairing of
the rails was put down to the hobman. When this
conclusion was come to, heads were shaken in an
ominous manner, for evidently if Tommy was befriended
by the hobman, Matthew would have to mind
what he did. As soon as Tommy could, he set off to
see his sheep. It happened to be rather late when
he paid the first visit after his illness, owing to
the fact that a neighbour was driving past where the
sheep were, and as he was returning presently, he
offered to put Stonehouse down and pick him up again
as he returned. Tommy counted his sheep, and after
cutting some hay for them—it was wintertime—he sat
by the gate waiting for the return of his neighbour.
Presently an old man accosted him, and begged him not
to fret about the lost sheep, as they would be more
than compensated for when lambing time came. The
old chap told him that Bland had on both occasions
been guilty, but that he had not to mind. Just
then his friend drove up. Tommy bade his new
acquaintance good-night, thanked him, and got
into the cart. No sooner was he seated, than
the good neighbour asked him what he meant by
saying good-night and thanking nobody at all. It
transpired that the owner of the cart had not noticed
any one speaking to Tommy. In the end he thought
the old chap ’war a bit waak an rafflin.’ Anyway,
when lambing time came, though the weather was very
severe, and every one else, and more particularly Bland,
lost many lambs, Stonehouse never lost one. Ewes,
during Tommy’s absence, were found safely delivered
of their lambs, and mostly had two, and never a black
one amongst them. ‘An’ noo that war a larl bit sing’lar,
warn’t it? Bud then, ya knaw, i’ them daays when
t’ hobman did tak ti yan, ya war yal reet i’ t’ lang-run;
an’ ivvery wo’d ’at Ah’ve tell’d ya’s trew, ’coz
Ah’ve heeard mah gran’father tell t’ taal ower an’
up agaan; bud it’s a gay bit sen noo,’ wound up
my informant. The hobman was described as a little
old fellow, with very long hair, large feet, eyes,
mouth, and hands, stooping much as he walked, and
carrying a long holly stick. The date of the story
would be about 1760.
