Quotations.ch
  Directory : English Folklore Tales
GUIDE SUPPORT US BLOG
  • Project Gutenberg's Folk-lore and legends: English, by Charles John Tibbits
  • This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
  • other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
  • whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
  • the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
  • www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
  • to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
  • Title: Folk-lore and legends: English
  • Author: Charles John Tibbits
  • Release Date: November 20, 2014 [EBook #47408]
  • Language: English
  • Character set encoding: UTF-8
  • *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS: ENGLISH ***
  • Produced by Giovanni Fini and The Online Distributed
  • Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
  • produced from images generously made available by The
  • Internet Archive)
  • FOLK–LORE AND LEGENDS
  • _ENGLISH_
  • FOLK–LORE
  • AND
  • LEGENDS
  • ENGLISH
  • [Illustration: DECORATION]
  • W. W. GIBBINGS
  • 18 BURY ST., LONDON, W.C.
  • 1890
  • INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
  • The old English Folklore Tales are fast dying out. The simplicity of
  • character necessary for the retaining of old memories and beliefs is
  • being lost, more rapidly in England, perhaps, than in any other part of
  • the world. Our folk are giving up the old myths for new ones. Before
  • remorseless “progress,” and the struggle for existence, the poetry
  • of life is being quickly blotted out. In editing this volume I have
  • endeavoured to select some of the best specimens of our Folklore. With
  • regard to the nursery tales, I have taken pains to give them as they
  • are in the earliest editions I could find. I must say, however, that,
  • while I have taken every care to alter only as much as was absolutely
  • necessary in these tales, some excision and slight alteration has at
  • times been required.
  • C. J. T.
  • CONTENTS.
  • PAGE
  • A Dissertation on Fairies, 1
  • Nelly the Knocker, 39
  • The Three Fools, 42
  • Some Merry Tales of the Wise Men of Gotham, 46
  • The Tulip Fairies, 54
  • The History of Jack and the Giants, 57
  • The Fairies’ Cup, 84
  • The White Lady, 86
  • A Pleasant and Delightful History of Thomas
  • Hickathrift, 89
  • The Spectre Coach, 117
  • The Baker’s Daughter, 123
  • The Fairy Children, 126
  • The History of Jack and the Beanstalk, 129
  • Johnny Reed’s Cat, 150
  • Lame Molly, 156
  • The Brown man of the Moors, 159
  • How the Cobbler cheated the Devil, 161
  • The Tavistock Witch, 165
  • The Worm of Lambton, 168
  • The Old Woman and the Crooked Sixpence, 174
  • The Yorkshire Boggart, 177
  • The Duergar, 181
  • The Barn Elves, 185
  • Legends of King Arthur, 187
  • Silky, 192
  • A DISSERTATION ON FAIRIES.
  • BY JOSEPH RITSON, ESQ.
  • The earliest mention of Fairies is made by Homer, if, that is, his
  • English translator has, in this instance, done him justice:—
  • “Where round the bed, whence Achelöus springs,
  • The wat’ry Fairies dance in mazy rings.”
  • (_Iliad_, B. xxiv. 617.)
  • These Nymphs he supposes to frequent or reside in woods, hills, the
  • sea, fountains, grottos etc., whence they are peculiarly called Naiads,
  • Dryads and Nereids:
  • “What sounds are those that gather from the shores,
  • The voice of nymphs that haunt the sylvan bowers,
  • The fair–hair’d dryads of the shady wood,
  • Or azure daughters of the silver flood?”
  • (_Odyss._ B. vi. 122.)
  • The original word, indeed, is _nymphs_, which, it must be confessed,
  • furnishes an accurate idea of the _fays_ (_fées_ or _fates_) of the
  • ancient French and Italian romances; wherein they are represented as
  • females of inexpressible beauty, elegance, and every kind of personal
  • accomplishment, united with magic or supernatural power; such, for
  • instance, as the Calypso of Homer, or the Alcina of Ariosto. Agreeably
  • to this idea it is that Shakespeare makes Antony say in allusion to
  • Cleopatra—
  • “To this great fairy I’ll commend thy acts,”
  • meaning this grand assemblage of power and beauty. Such, also, is the
  • character of the ancient nymphs, spoken of by the Roman poets, as
  • Virgil, for instance:
  • “Fortunatus et ille, deos qui novit agrestes,
  • Panaque, Sylvanumque senem, Nymphasque sorores.”
  • (_Geor._ ii. 493.)
  • They, likewise, occur in other passages as well as in Horace—
  • “——gelidum nemus
  • Nympharumque leves cum Satyris chori.”
  • (_Carmina_, I., O. 1, v. 30.)
  • and, still more frequently, in Ovid.
  • Not far from Rome, as we are told by Chorier, was a place formerly
  • called “Ad Nymphas,” and, at this day, “Santa Ninfa,” which without
  • doubt, he adds, in the language of our ancestors, would have been
  • called “The Place of Fays” (_Recherches des Antiquitez, de Vienne_,
  • Lyon, 1659).
  • The word _faée_, or _fée_, among the French, is derived, according
  • to Du Cange, from the barbarous Latin _fadus_ or _fada_, in Italian
  • _fata_. Gervase of Tilbury, in his _Otia Imperialia_ (D. 3, c. 88),
  • speaks of “some of this kind of _larvæ_, which they named _fadœ_, we
  • have heard to be lovers,” and in his relation of a nocturnal contest
  • between two knights (c. 94) he exclaims, “What shall I say? I know not
  • if it were a true _horse_, or if it were a fairy (_fadus_), as men
  • assert.” From the _Roman de Partenay_, or _de Lezignan_, MS. Du Cange
  • cites—
  • “Le chasteau fut fait d’une fée
  • Si comme il est partout retrait.”
  • Hence, he says, _faërie_ for spectres:
  • “Plusieurs parlant de Guenart,
  • Du Lou, de l’Asne, et de Renart,
  • De faëries, et de songes,
  • De fantosmes, et de mensonges.”
  • The same Gervase explains the Latin _fata_ (_fée_, French) a divining
  • woman, an enchantress, or a witch (D. 3, c. 88).
  • Master Wace, in his _Histoire des Ducs de Normendie_ (confounded by
  • many with the _Roman de Rou_), describing the fountain of Berenton, in
  • Bretagne, says—
  • “En la forest et environ,
  • Mais jo ne sais par quel raison
  • La scut l’en les fées veeir,
  • Se li Breton nos dient veir, etc.”
  • (In the forest and around,
  • I wot not by what reason found,
  • There may a man the fairies spy,
  • If Britons do not tell a lie.)
  • but it may be difficult to conceive an accurate idea, from the mere
  • name, of the popular French _fays_ or _fairies_ of the twelfth century.
  • In Vienne, in Dauphiny, is _Le puit des fées_, or Fairy–well. These
  • _fays_, it must be confessed, have a strong resemblance to the nymphs
  • of the ancients, who inhabited caves and fountains. Upon a little rock
  • which overlooks the Rhone are three round holes which nature alone has
  • formed, although it seem, at first sight, that art has laboured after
  • her. They say that they were formerly frequented by Fays; that they
  • were full of water when it rained; and that they there frequently took
  • the pleasure of the bath; than which they had not one more charming
  • (Chorier, _Recherches_, etc.).
  • Pomponius Mela, an eminent geographer, and, in point of time, far
  • anterior to Pliny, relates, that beyond a mountain in Æthiopia, called
  • by the Greeks the “High Mountain,” burning, he says, with perpetual
  • fire, is a hill spread over a long tract by extended shores, whence
  • they rather go to see wide plains than to behold [the habitations]
  • of Pans and Satyrs. Hence, he adds, this opinion received faith,
  • that, whereas, in these parts is nothing of culture, no seats of
  • inhabitants, no footsteps—a waste solitude in the day, and a mere waste
  • silence—frequent fires shine by night; and camps, as it were, are seen
  • widely spread; cymbals and tympans sound; and sounding pipes are heard
  • more than human (B. 3, c. 9). These invisible essences, however, are
  • both anonymous and nondescript.
  • The _penates_ of the Romans, according to honest Reginald Scot, were
  • “the domesticall gods, or rather divels, that were said to make men
  • live quietlie within doores. But some think that _Lares_ are such as
  • trouble private houses. _Larvæ_ are said to be spirits that walk onelie
  • by night. _Vinculi terrei_ are such as was Robin Goodfellowe, that
  • would supplie the office of servants, speciallie of maides, as to make
  • a fier in the morning, sweepe the house, grind mustard and malt, drawe
  • water, etc. These also rumble in houses, drawe latches, go up and down
  • staiers,” etc. (_Discoverie of Witchcraft_, London, 1584, p. 521). A
  • more modern writer says “The Latins have called the fairies _lares_
  • and _larvæ_, frequenting, as they say, houses, delighting in neatness,
  • pinching the slut, and rewarding the good housewife with money in her
  • shoe” (_Pleasaunt Treatise of Witches_, 1673, p. 53). This, however, is
  • nothing but the character of an English fairy applied to the name of a
  • Roman _lar_ or _larva_. It might have been wished, too, that Scot, a
  • man unquestionably of great learning, had referred, by name and work
  • and book and chapter, to those ancient authors from whom he derived his
  • information upon the Roman _penates_, etc.
  • What idea our Saxon ancestors had of the fairy which they called _œlf_,
  • a word explained by Lye as equivalent to _lamia_, _larva_, _incubus_,
  • _ephialtes_, we are utterly at a loss to conceive.
  • The nymphs, the satyrs, and the fauns, are frequently noticed
  • by the old traditional historians of the north; particularly
  • _Saxo–grammaticus_, who has a curious story of three nymphs of the
  • forest, and Hother, King of Sweden and Denmark, being apparently the
  • originals of the weird, or wizard, sisters of Macbeth (B. 3, p. 39).
  • Others are preserved by Olaus Magnus, who says they had so deeply
  • impressed into the earth, that the place they have been used to, having
  • been (apparently) eaten up in a circular form with flagrant heat, never
  • brings forth fresh grass from the dry turf. This nocturnal sport of
  • monsters, he adds, the natives call The Dance of the Elves (B. 3, c.
  • 10).
  • “In John Milesius any man may reade
  • Of divels in Sarmatia honored,
  • Call’d _Kottri_, or _Kibaldi_; such as wee
  • Pugs and Hob–goblins call. Their dwellings bee
  • In corners of old houses least frequented,
  • Or beneath stacks of wood: and these convented,
  • Make fearfull noise in buttries and in dairies;
  • Robin Goodfellowes some, some call them fairies.
  • In solitarie roomes these uprores keepe,
  • And beat at dores to wake men from their sleepe;
  • Seeming to force locks, be they ne’re so strong,
  • And keeping Christmasse gambols all night long.
  • Pots, glasses, trenchers, dishes, pannes, and kettles,
  • They will make dance about the shelves and settles,
  • As if about the kitchen tost and cast,
  • Yet in the morning nothing found misplac’t.”
  • (Heywood’s _Hierarchie of Angells_, 1635, fo. p. 574.)
  • Milton, a prodigious reader of romance, has, likewise, given an apt
  • idea of the ancient fays—
  • “Fairer than famed of old, or fabled since
  • Of fairy damsels met in forest wide,
  • By knights of Logres, and of Liones,
  • Lancelot or Pelleas, or Pellenore.”
  • These ladies, in fact, are by no means unfrequent in those fabulous, it
  • must be confessed, but, at the same time, ingenious and entertaining
  • histories; as, for instance, _Melusine_, or _Merlusine_, the heroine of
  • a very ancient romance in French verse, and who was occasionally turned
  • into a serpent; _Morgan–la–faée_, the reputed half–sister of King
  • Arthur; and _the Lady of the Lake_, so frequently noticed in Sir Thomas
  • Malory’s old history of that monarch.
  • Le Grand is of opinion that what is called Fairy comes to us from
  • the Orientals, and that it is their _génies_ which have produced our
  • _fairies_; a species of nymphs, of an order superior to those women
  • magicians, to whom they nevertheless gave the same name. In Asia, he
  • says, where the women imprisoned in the harems, prove still, beyond the
  • general servitude, a particular slavery, the romancers have imagined
  • the _Peris_, who, flying in the air, come to soften their captivity,
  • and render them happy (_Fabliaux_, 12mo. i. 112). Whether this be so
  • or not, it is certain that we call the _auroræ boreales_, or active
  • clouds, in the night, _perry–dancers_.
  • After all, Sir William Ouseley finds it impossible to give an accurate
  • idea of what the Persian poets designed by a Perie, this aërial being
  • not resembling our fairies. The strongest resemblance he can find is
  • in the description of Milton in _Comus_. The sublime idea which Milton
  • entertained of a fairy vision corresponds rather with that which the
  • Persian poets have conceived of the Peries.
  • “Their port was more than human as they stood;
  • I took it for a faëry vision
  • Of some gay creatures of the element,
  • That in the colours of the rainbow live
  • And play i’ th’ plighted clouds.”
  • (D’Israeli’s _Romances_, p. 13.)
  • It is by no means credible, however, that Milton had any knowledge of
  • the Oriental Peries, though his enthusiastic or poetical imagination
  • might have easily peopled the air with spirits.
  • There are two sorts of _fays_, according to M. Le Grand. The one
  • a species of nymphs or divinities; the other more properly called
  • sorceresses, or women instructed in magic. From time immemorial, in
  • the abbey of Poissy, founded by St. Lewis, they said every year a mass
  • to preserve the nuns from the power of the _fays_. When the process of
  • the Damsel of Orleans was made, the doctors demanded, for the first
  • question, “If she had any knowledge of those who went to the Sabbath
  • with the _fays_? or if she had not assisted at the assemblies held
  • at the fountain of the _fays_, near Domprein, around which dance
  • malignant spirits?” The Journal of Paris, under Charles VI. and Charles
  • VII. pretends that she confessed that, at the age of twenty–seven
  • years, she frequently went, in spite of her father and mother, to a
  • fair fountain in the county of Lorraine, which she named the “Good
  • Fountain to the Fays Our Lord” (_Ib._ p. 75).
  • Gervase of Tilbury, in his chapter “of Fauns and Satyrs,” says,—“there
  • are likewise others, whom the vulgar call _Follets_, who inhabit the
  • houses of the simple rustics, and can be driven away neither by holy
  • water, nor exorcisms; and because they are not seen, they afflict
  • those, who are entering, with stones, billets, and domestic furniture,
  • whose words for certain are heard in the human manner, and their forms
  • do not appear” (_Otia imperialia_, D. i. c. 18). He is speaking of
  • England.
  • This Follet seems to resemble Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, whose pranks
  • were recorded in an old song and who was sometimes useful, and
  • sometimes mischievous. Whether or not he was the fairy–spirit of whom
  • Milton
  • “Tells how the drudging goblin swet,
  • To ern his cream–bowle duly set,
  • When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
  • His shadowy flail hath thresh’d the corn,
  • That ten day–labourers could not end,
  • Then lies him down, the lubbar fend;
  • And stretch’d out all the chimney’s length,
  • Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
  • And crop–full out of dores he flings,
  • Ere the first cock his matin rings.”
  • (_L’Allegro_).
  • is a matter of some difficulty. Perhaps the giant son of the witch,
  • that had the devil’s mark about her (of whom “there is a pretty
  • tale”), that was called _Lob–lye–by–the–fire_, was a very different
  • personage from Robin Goodfellow, whom, however, he in some respects
  • appears to resemble. A near female relation of the compiler, who was
  • born and brought up in a small village in the bishopric of Durham,
  • related to him many years ago, several circumstances which confirmed
  • the exactitude of Milton’s description; she particularly told of his
  • threshing the corn, churning the butter, drinking the milk, etc., and,
  • when all was done, “lying before the fire like a great rough hurgin
  • bear.”
  • In another chapter Gervase says—“As among men, nature produces certain
  • wonderful things, so spirits, in airy bodies, who assume by divine
  • permission the mocks they make. For, behold! England has certain dæmons
  • (dæmons, I call them, though I know not, but I should say secret forms
  • of unknown generation), whom the French call _Neptunes_, the English
  • _Portunes_. With these it is natural that they take advantage of the
  • simplicity of fortunate peasants; and when, by reason of their domestic
  • labours, they perform their nocturnal vigils, of a sudden, the doors
  • being shut, they warm themselves at the fire, and eat little frogs,
  • cast out of their bosoms and put upon the burning coals; with an
  • antiquated countenance; a wrinkled face; diminutive in stature, not
  • having [in length] half a thumb. They are clothed with rags patched
  • together; and if anything should be to be carried on in the house, or
  • any kind of laborious work to be done, they join themselves to the
  • work, and expedite it with more than human facility. It is natural
  • to these, that they may be obsequious, and may not be hurtful. But
  • one little mode, as it were, they have of hurting. For when, among
  • the ambiguous shades of night, the English occasionally ride alone,
  • the _Portune_, sometimes, unseen, couples himself to the rider; and,
  • when he has accompanied him, going on, a very long time, at length,
  • the bridle being seized, he leads him up to the hand in the mud, in
  • which while, infixed, he wallows, the _Portune_, departing, sets up a
  • laugh; and so, in this kind of way, derides human simplicity” (_Otia
  • imperialia_, D. 3, c. 61).
  • This spirit seems to have some resemblance to the _Picktree–brag_, a
  • mischievous barguest that used to haunt that part of the country, in
  • the shape of different animals, particularly of a little galloway; in
  • which shape a farmer, still or lately living thereabout, reported that
  • it had come to him one night as he was going home; that he got upon it,
  • and rode very quietly till it came to a great pond, to which it ran and
  • threw him in, and went laughing away.
  • He further says there is, in England, a certain species of demons,
  • which in their language they call _Grant_, like a one–year old foal,
  • with straight legs, and sparkling eyes. This kind of demon very often
  • appears in the streets, in the very heat of the day, or about sunset;
  • and as often as it makes its appearance, portends that there is about
  • to be a fire in that city or town. When, therefore, in the following
  • day or night the danger is urgent, in the streets, running to and fro,
  • it provokes the dogs to bark, and, while it pretends flight invites
  • them, following, to pursue, in the vain hope of overtaking it. This
  • kind of illusion provokes caution to the watchmen who have the custody
  • of fire, and so the officious race of demons, while they terrify the
  • beholders, are wont to secure the ignorant by their arrival (Gervase,
  • D. 3, c. 62).
  • Gower, in his tale of Narcissus, professedly from Ovid, says—
  • “——As he cast his loke
  • Into the well,——
  • He sawe the like of his visage,
  • And wende there were an ymage
  • Of such a nymphe, as tho was faye.”
  • (_Confessio amantis_, fo. 20, b.)
  • In his _Legend of Constance_ is this passage:—
  • “Thy wife which is of fairie
  • Of suche a childe delivered is,
  • Fro kinde, whiche stante all amis.”
  • (_Ibid._ fo. 32, b.)
  • In another part of his book is a story “Howe the Kynge of Armenis
  • daughter mette on a tyme a companie of the _fairy_.” These “ladies,”
  • ride aside “on fayre [white] ambulende horses,” clad, very
  • magnificently, but all alike, in white and blue, and wore “corownes on
  • their heades;” but they are not called _fays_ in the poem, nor does the
  • word _fay_ or _fairie_ once occur therein.
  • The fairies or elves of the British isles are peculiar to this part
  • of the world, and are not, so far as literary information or oral
  • tradition enables us to judge, to be found in any other country. For
  • this fact the authority of father Chaucer will be decisive, till we
  • acquire evidence of equal antiquity in favour of other nations:—
  • “In olde dayes of the King Artour,
  • Of which the Bretons speken gret honour,
  • All was this lond fulfilled of faerie;
  • The elf–quene, with hire joly compagnie,
  • Danced ful oft in many a grene mede.
  • This was the old opinion as I rede;
  • I speke of many hundred yeres ago;
  • But now can no man see non elves mo,
  • For now the grete charitee and prayers
  • Of limitoures and other holy freres,
  • That serchen every land, and every streme,
  • As thickke as motes in the sunnebeme,
  • Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures,
  • Citees and burghes, castles highe and toures,
  • Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies,
  • This maketh that ther ben no faeries.”
  • (_Wif of Bathes Tale._)
  • The fairy may be defined as a species of being partly material, partly
  • spiritual, with a power to change its appearance, and be, to mankind,
  • visible or invisible, according to its pleasure. In the old song,
  • printed by Peck, Robin Goodfellow, a well–known fairy, professes
  • that he had played his pranks from the time of Merlin, who was the
  • contemporary of Arthur.
  • Chaucer uses the word _faërie_ as well for the _individual_ as for the
  • _country_ or _system_, or what we should now call _fairy–land_, or
  • _faryism_. He knew nothing, it would seem, of _Oberon_, _Titania_, or
  • _Mab_, but speaks of—
  • “Pluto, that is the King of Faerie,
  • And many a ladie in his compagnie,
  • Folwing his wif, the quene Proserpina, etc.”
  • (_The Marchantes Tale_, i. 10101.)
  • From this passage of Chaucer Mr. Tyrwhitt “cannot help thinking that
  • his _Pluto_ and _Proserpina_ were the true progenitors of _Oberon_ and
  • _Titania_.”
  • In the progress of _The Wif of Bathes Tale_, it happed the knight,
  • “——in his way ... to ride
  • In all his care, under a forest side,
  • Whereas he saw upon a dance go
  • Of ladies foure–and–twenty, and yet mo.
  • Toward this ilke dance, he drow ful yerne,
  • In hope that he som wisdom shulde lerne,
  • But, certainly, er he came fully there,
  • Yvanished was this dance, he wiste not wher.”
  • These _ladies_ appear to have been _fairies_, though nothing is
  • insinuated of their size. Milton seems to have been upon the prowl here
  • for his “forest–side.”
  • In _A Midsummer–Night’s Dream_, a fairy addresses Bottom the weaver—
  • “Hail, _mortal_, hail!”
  • which sufficiently shows she was not so herself.
  • Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, in the same play, calls Oberon,
  • “——King of _shadows_,”
  • and in the old song just mentioned,
  • “The King of _ghosts_ and _shadows_,”
  • and this mighty monarch asserts of himself, and his subjects,
  • “But we are _spirits_ of another sort.”
  • The fairies, as we already see, were male and female. Their government
  • was monarchical, and Oberon, the King of Fairyland, must have been
  • a sovereign of very extensive territory. The name of his queen was
  • Titania. Both are mentioned by Shakespeare, being personages of no
  • little importance in the above play, where they, in an ill–humour, thus
  • encounter:
  • Obe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.
  • Tita. What, jealous Oberon? Fairy, skip hence;
  • I have forsworn his bed and company.
  • That the name [Oberon] was not the invention of our great dramatist is
  • sufficiently proved. The allegorical Spenser gives it to King Henry
  • the Eighth. Robert Greene was the author of a play entitled “The
  • Scottishe history of James the Fourthe ... intermixed with a pleasant
  • comedie presented by _Oberon, king of the fairies_.” He is, likewise, a
  • character in the old French romances of _Huon de Bourdeaux_, and _Ogier
  • le Danois_; and there even seems to be one upon his own exploits,
  • _Roman d’ Auberon_. What authority, however, Shakespeare had for the
  • name Titania, it does not appear, nor is she so called by any other
  • writer. He himself, at the same time, as well as many others, gives to
  • the queen of fairies the name of Mab, though no one, except Drayton,
  • mentions her as the wife of Oberon:
  • “O then, I see, queen Mab hath been with you,
  • She is the fairy’s midwife, and she comes
  • In shape no bigger than an agate–stone
  • On the fore–finger of an alderman,
  • Drawn with a team of little atomies
  • Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep;
  • Her waggon–spokes made of long spinner’s legs;
  • The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
  • The traces, of the smallest spider’s web;
  • The collars, of the moonshine’s wat’ry beams:
  • Her whip, of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film:
  • Her waggoner, a small grey–coated gnat,
  • Not half so big as a round little worm
  • Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid:
  • Her chariot is an empty hazel–nut,
  • Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
  • Time out of mind the fairies’ coachmakers.
  • And in this state she gallops night by night
  • Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love!
  • ... This is that very Mab,
  • That plats the manes of horses in the night;
  • And bakes the elf–locks in foul sluttish hairs,
  • Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes.”
  • (_Romeo and Juliet._)
  • Ben Jonson, in his “Entertainment of the Queen and Prince at Althrope,”
  • in 1603, describes to come “tripping up the lawn a bevy of fairies
  • attending on Mab their queen, who, falling into an artificial ring that
  • was there cut in the path, began to dance around.”—(_Works_, v. 201.)
  • In the same masque the queen is thus characterised by a satyr:—
  • “This is Mab, the mistress fairy,
  • That doth nightly rob the dairy,
  • And can hurt or help the churning,
  • (As she please) without discerning.
  • She that pinches country–wenches
  • If they rub not clean their benches,
  • And with sharper nails remembers
  • When they rake not up their embers;
  • But, if so they chance to feast her,
  • In a shoe she drops a tester.
  • This is she that empties cradles,
  • Takes out children, puts in ladles;
  • Trains forth midwives in their slumber,
  • With a sieve the holes to number;
  • And thus leads them from her boroughs,
  • Home through ponds and water–furrows.
  • She can start our franklin’s daughters,
  • In their sleep, with shrieks and laughters,
  • And on sweet St. Agnes’ night
  • Feed them with a promised sight,
  • Some of husbands, some of lovers,
  • Which an empty dream discovers.”
  • Fairies, they tell you, have frequently been heard and seen—nay, that
  • there are some living who were stolen away by them, and confined seven
  • years. According to the description they give who pretend to have
  • seen them, they are in the shape of men, exceeding little. They are
  • always clad in green, and frequent the woods and fields; when they make
  • cakes (which is a work they have been often heard at) they are very
  • noisy; and when they have done, they are full of mirth and pastime.
  • But generally they dance in moonlight when mortals are asleep and not
  • capable of seeing them, as may be observed on the following morn—their
  • dancing–places being very distinguishable. For as they dance hand in
  • hand, and so make a circle in their dance, so next day there will be
  • seen rings and circles on the grass.—(Bourne’s _Antiquitates Vulgares_,
  • Newcastle, 1725, 8vo, p. 82.)
  • These circles are thus described by Browne, the author of _Britannia’s
  • Pastorals_:—
  • “... A pleasant meade,
  • Where fairies often did their measures treade,
  • Which in the meadow made such circles greene,
  • As if with garlands it had crowned beene.
  • Within one of these rounds was to be seene
  • A hillock rise, where oft the fairie queene
  • At twy–light sate, and did command her elves
  • To pinch those maids that had not swept their shelves:
  • And further, if by maidens’ over–sight
  • Within doores water were not brought at night,
  • Or if they spred no table, set no bread,
  • They should have nips from toe unto the head;
  • And for the maid that had perform’d each thing,
  • She in the water–pail bad leave a ring.”
  • The same poet, in his “Shepeards Pipe,” having inserted Hoccleve’s
  • tale of _Jonathas_, and conceiving a strange unnatural affection for
  • that stupid fellow, describes him as a great favourite of the fairies,
  • alleging, that—
  • “Many times he hath been seene
  • With the fairies on the greene,
  • And to them his pipe did sound,
  • While they danced in a round,
  • Mickle solace would they make him,
  • And at midnight often wake him,
  • And convey him from his roome
  • To a field of yellow broome;
  • Or into the medowes, where
  • Mints perfume the gentle aire,
  • And where Flora spends her treasure,
  • There they would begin their measure.
  • If it chanc’d night’s sable shrowds
  • Muffled Cynthia up in clowds,
  • Safely home they then would see him,
  • And from brakes and quagmires free him.”
  • The fairies were exceedingly diminutive, but, it must be confessed, we
  • shall not readily find their real dimensions. They were small enough,
  • however, if we may believe one of queen Titania’s maids of honour, to
  • conceal themselves in acorn shells. Speaking of a difference between
  • the king and queen, she says:—
  • “But they do square; that all the elves for fear
  • Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there.”
  • They uniformly and constantly wore green vests, unless when they had
  • some reason for changing their dress. Of this circumstance we meet with
  • many proofs. Thus in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_—
  • “Like urchins, ouphes, and fairies green.”
  • In fact we meet with them of all colours; as in the same play—
  • “Fairies black, grey, green, and white.”
  • That white, on some occasions, was the dress of a female, we learn from
  • Reginald Scot. He gives a charm “to go invisible by [means of] these
  • three sisters of fairies,” _Milia_, _Achilia_, _Sibylia_: “I charge you
  • that you doo appeare before me visible, in forme and shape of faire
  • women, in white vestures, and to bring with you to me the ring of
  • invisibilitie, by the which I may go invisible at mine owne will and
  • pleasure, and that in all hours and minutes.”
  • It was fatal, if we may believe Shakespeare, to speak to a fairy.
  • Falstaff, in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, is made to say, “They are
  • fairies. He that speaks to them shall die.”
  • They were accustomed to enrich their favourites, as we learn from the
  • clown in _A Winter’s Tale_—
  • “It was told me I should be rich by the fairies.”
  • They delighted in neatness, could not endure sluts, and even hated
  • fibsters, tell–tales, and divulgers of secrets, whom they would slily
  • and severely bepinch when they little expected it. They were as
  • generous and benevolent, on the contrary, to young women of a different
  • description, procuring them the sweetest sleep, the pleasantest dreams,
  • and, on their departure in the morning, always slipping a tester in
  • their shoe.
  • They are supposed by some to have been malignant, but this, it may be,
  • was mere calumny, as being utterly inconsistent with their general
  • character, which was singularly innocent and amiable.
  • Imogen, in Shakespeare’s _Cymbeline_, prays, on going to sleep—
  • “From fairies, and the tempters of the night,
  • Guard me, beseech you.”
  • It must have been the _Incubus_ she was so afraid of.
  • Hamlet, too, notices this imputed malignity of the fairies:—
  • “... Then no planets strike,
  • No fairy takes, nor witch has power to charm.”
  • Thus, also, in _The Comedy of Errors_:—
  • “A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough.”
  • They were amazingly expeditious in their journeys. Puck, or Robin
  • Goodfellow, answers Oberon, who was about to send him on a secret
  • expedition—
  • “I’ll put a girdle round about the earth
  • In forty minutes.”
  • Again the same goblin addresses him thus:—
  • “Fairy king, attend and mark,
  • I do hear the morning lark.
  • _Obe._ Then, my queen, in silence sad,
  • Trip we after the night’s shade—
  • We the globe can compass soon,
  • Swifter than the wand’ring moon.”
  • In another place Puck says—
  • “My fairy lord this must be done in haste;
  • For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,
  • And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger,
  • At whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there,
  • Troop home to churchyards,” etc.
  • To which Oberon replies—
  • “But we are spirits of another sort:
  • I with the morning’s love have oft made sport;
  • And, like a forester, the groves may tread,
  • Even till the eastern gate, all fiery–red,
  • Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
  • Turns into yellow gold his salt–green streams.”
  • Compare, likewise, what Robin himself says on this subject in the old
  • song of his exploits.
  • They never ate—
  • “But that it eats our victuals, I should think,
  • Here were a fairy,”
  • says Belarius at the first sight of Imogen, as Fidele.
  • They were humanely attentive to the youthful dead. Thus Guiderius at
  • the funeral of the above lady—
  • “With female fairies will his tomb be haunted.”
  • Or, as in the pathetic dirge of Collins on the same occasion:—
  • “No wither’d witch shall here be seen,
  • No goblins lead their nightly crew;
  • The female fays shall haunt the green,
  • And dress the grave with pearly dew.”
  • This amiable quality is, likewise, thus beautifully alluded to by the
  • same poet:—
  • “By fairy hands their knell is rung,
  • By forms unseen their dirge is sung.”
  • Their employment is thus charmingly represented by Shakespeare, in the
  • address of Prospero:—
  • “Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;
  • And ye, that on the sands, with printless foot
  • Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
  • When he comes back; you demi–puppets, that
  • By moonshine do the green–sour ringlets make,
  • Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime
  • Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice
  • To hear the solemn curfew.”
  • In _The Midsummer Night’s Dream_, the queen, Titania, being desirous to
  • take a nap, says to her female attendants—
  • “Come, now a roundel, and a fairy song;
  • Then, for the third part of a minute hence;
  • Some to kill cankers in the musk–rosebuds;
  • Some, war with rear–mice for their leathern wings,
  • To make my small elves coats; and some keep back
  • The clamorous owl that nightly hoots, and wonders
  • At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;
  • Then to your offices, and let me rest.”
  • Milton gives a most beautiful and accurate description of the little
  • green–coats of his native soil, than which nothing can be more happily
  • or justly expressed. He had certainly seen them, in this situation,
  • with “the poet’s eye”:—
  • “... Fairie elves,
  • Whose midnight revels, by a forest side
  • Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
  • Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon,
  • Sits arbitress, and neerer to the earth
  • Wheels her pale course, they, on thir mirth and dance
  • Intent, with jocond music charm his ear;
  • At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.”
  • The impression they made upon his imagination in early life appears
  • from his “Vacation Exercise,” at the age of nineteen:—
  • “Good luck befriend thee, son; for, at thy birth
  • The faiery ladies dannc’t upon the hearth;
  • The drowsie nurse hath sworn she did them spie
  • Come tripping to the room where thou didst lie,
  • And, sweetly singing round about thy bed,
  • Strew all their blessings on thy sleeping head.”
  • L’Abbé Bourdelon, in his _Ridiculous Extravagances of M. Ouflé_,
  • describes “The fairies of which,” he says, “grandmothers and nurses
  • tell so many tales to children. These fairies,” adds he, “I mean, who
  • are affirmed to be blind at home, and very clear–sighted abroad; who
  • dance in the moonshine when they have nothing else to do; who steal
  • shepherds and children, to carry them up to their caves,” etc.—(English
  • translation, p. 190.)
  • The fairies have already called themselves _spirits_, _ghosts_, or
  • _shadows_, and consequently they never died, a position, at the same
  • time, of which there is every kind of proof that a fact can require.
  • The reviser of Johnson and Steevens’s edition of _Shakespeare_, in
  • 1785, makes a ridiculous reference to the allegories of Spenser, and a
  • palpably false one to Tickell’s _Kensington Gardens_, which he affirms
  • “will show that the opinion of fairies dying prevailed in the last
  • century,” whereas, in fact, it is found, on the slightest glance into
  • the poem, to maintain the direct reverse:—
  • “Meanwhile sad Kenna, loath to quit the grove,
  • Hung o’er the body of her breathless love,
  • Try’d every art (vain arts!) to change his doom,
  • And vow’d (vain vows!) to join him in the tomb.
  • What would she do? The Fates alike deny
  • The dead to live, or fairy forms to die.”
  • The fact is so positively proved, that no editor or commentator of
  • Shakespeare, present or future, will ever have the folly or impudence
  • to assert “that in Shakespeare’s time the notion of fairies dying was
  • generally known.”
  • Ariosto informs us (in Harington’s translation, Bk. x. s. 47) that
  • “... (Either ancient folke believ’d a lie,
  • Or this is true) a fayrie cannot die.”
  • And again (Bk. xliii. s. 92),
  • “I am a fayrie, and, to make you know,
  • To be a fayrie what it doth import:
  • We cannot dye, how old so ear we grow.
  • Of paines and harmes of ev’rie other sort
  • We tast, onelie no death we nature ow.”
  • Beaumont and Fletcher, in _The Faithful Shepherdess_, describe—
  • “A virtuous well, about whose flow’ry banks
  • The nimble–footed fairies dance their rounds,
  • By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes
  • Their stolen children, so to make ’em free
  • From dying flesh, and dull mortality.”
  • Puck, _alias_ Robin Goodfellow, is the most active and extraordinary
  • fellow of a fairy that we anywhere meet with, and it is believed we
  • find him nowhere but in our own country, and, peradventure also, only
  • in the South. Spenser, it would seem, is the first that alludes to his
  • name of Puck:—
  • “Ne let the _Pouke_, nor other evill spright,
  • Ne let Hob–goblins, names whose sense we see not,
  • Fray us with things that be not.”
  • “In our childhood,” says Reginald Scot, “our mothers’ maids have so
  • terrified us with an oughe divell having hornes on his head, fier in
  • his mouth, and a taile, eies like a bason, fanges like a dog, clawes
  • like a beare, a skin like a niger, and a voice roaring like a lion,
  • whereby we start and are afraid when we heare one crie Bough! and
  • they have so fraied us with bull–beggers, spirits, witches, urchens,
  • elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, sylens, Kit with the cansticke,
  • tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giants, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes,
  • changling, Incubus, Robin Goodfellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man
  • in the oke, the hell wain, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, Hob
  • gobblin, Tom Tumbler, boneles, and such other bugs, that we are afraid
  • of our owne shadowes.”—(_Discoverie of Witchcraft_, London, 1584, 4to,
  • p. 153.) “And know you this by the waie,” he says, “that heretofore
  • Robin Goodfellow and Hob goblin were as terrible, and also as credible,
  • to the people as hags and witches be now.... And in truth, they that
  • mainteine walking spirits have no reason to denie Robin Goodfellow,
  • upon whom there hath gone as manie and as credible tales as upon
  • witches, saving that it hath not pleased the translators of the Bible
  • to call spirits by the name of Robin Goodfellow.”—(P. 131.)
  • “Your grandams’ maides,” says he, “were woont to set a boll of milke
  • before Incubus and his cousine Robin Goodfellow for grinding of malt
  • or mustard, and sweeping the house at midnight; and you have also
  • heard that he would chafe exceedingly if the maid or good–wife of the
  • house, having compassion of his naked state, laid anie clothes for him,
  • besides his messe of white bread and milke, which was his standing fee.
  • For in that case he saith, What have we here?
  • “Hemton, hamton,
  • Here will I never more tread nor stampen.”
  • (_Discoverie of Witchcraft_, p. 85.)
  • Robin is thus characterised in _The Midsummer Night’s Dream_ by a
  • female fairy:—
  • Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
  • Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
  • Call’d Robin Goodfellow: are you not he
  • That fright the maidens of the villagery;
  • Skim milk; and sometimes labour in the quern,
  • And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
  • And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
  • Mislead night–wanderers, laughing at their harm?
  • Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,
  • You do their work, and they shall have good luck.”
  • To these questions Robin thus replies:—
  • “Thou speak’st aright;
  • I am that merry wanderer of the night.
  • I jest to Oberon, and make him smile,
  • When I a fat and bean–fed horse beguile,
  • Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:
  • And sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,
  • In very likeness of a roasted crab;
  • And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob,
  • And on her wither’d dewlap pour the ale.
  • The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
  • Sometime for three–foot stool mistaketh me;
  • Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
  • And ‘tailor,’ cries, and falls into a cough;
  • And then the whole quire hold their hips, and laugh;
  • And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear,
  • A merrier hour was never wasted there.”
  • His usual exclamation in this play is Ho, ho, ho!
  • “Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com’st thou not?”
  • So in _Grim, the Collier of Croydon_:—
  • “Ho, ho, ho! my masters! No good fellowship!
  • Is Robin Goodfellow a bugbear grown,
  • That he is not worthy to be bid sit down?”
  • In the song printed by Peck, he concludes every stanza with Ho, ho, ho!
  • “If that the bowle of curds and creame were not duly set out for Robin
  • Goodfellow, the frier, and Sisse the dairymaid, why, then, either the
  • pottage was so burnt to next day in the pot, or the cheeses would
  • not curdle, or the butter would not come, or the ale in the fat
  • never would have good head. But if a Peter–penny, or an housle–egge
  • were behind, or a patch of tythe unpaid, then ’ware of bull–beggars,
  • spirits,” etc.
  • This frolicsome spirit thus describes himself in Jonson’s masque of
  • _Love Restored_: “Robin Goodfellow, he that sweeps the hearth and the
  • house clean, riddles for the country maids, and does all their other
  • drudgery, while they are at hot–cockles; one that has conversed with
  • your court spirits ere now.” Having recounted several ineffectual
  • attempts he had made to gain admittance, he adds: “In this despair,
  • when all invention and translation too failed me, I e’en went back and
  • stuck to this shape you see me in of mine own, with my broom and my
  • canles, and came on confidently.” The mention of his broom reminds us
  • of a passage in another play, _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, where he tells
  • the audience—
  • “I am sent with broom before,
  • To sweep the dust behind the door.”
  • He is likewise one of the _dramatis personæ_ in the old play of _Wily
  • Beguiled_, in which he says—
  • “Tush! fear not the dodge. I’ll rather put on my flashing red nose, and
  • my flaming face, and come wrap’d in a calf–skin, and cry _Bo, bo_! I’ll
  • pay the scholar, I warrant thee.”—(Harsnet’s _Declaration_, London,
  • 1604, 4to.) His character, however, in this piece, is so diabolical,
  • and so different from anything one could expect in Robin Good–fellow,
  • that it is unworthy of further quotation.
  • He appears, likewise, in another, entitled _Grim, the Collier of
  • Croydon_, in which he enters “in a suit of leather close to his body;
  • his face and hands coloured russet colour, with a flail.”
  • He is here, too, in most respects, the same strange and diabolical
  • personage that he is represented in _Wily Beguiled_, only there is a
  • single passage which reminds us of his old habits:—
  • “When as I list in this transform’d disguise
  • I’ll fright the country people as I pass;
  • And sometimes turn me to some other form,
  • And so delude them with fantastic shows,
  • But woe betide the silly dairymaids,
  • For I shall fleet their cream–bowls night by night.”
  • In another scene he enters while some of the other characters are at a
  • bowl of cream, upon which he says—
  • “I love a mess of cream as well as they;
  • I think it were best I stept in and made one:
  • Ho, ho, ho! my masters! No good fellowship!
  • Is Robin Goodfellow a bugbear grown
  • That he is not worthy to be bid sit down?”
  • There is, indeed, something characteristic in this passage, but all the
  • rest is totally foreign.
  • Doctor Percy, Bishop of Dromore, has reprinted in his _Reliques of
  • Ancient English Poetry_ a very curious and excellent old ballad
  • originally published by Peck, who attributes it, but with no
  • similitude, to Ben Jonson, in which Robin Good–fellow relates his
  • exploits with singular humour. To one of these copies, he says, “were
  • prefixed two wooden cuts, which seem to represent the dresses in which
  • this whimsical character was formerly exhibited upon the stage.” In
  • this conjecture, however, the learned and ingenious editor was most
  • egregiously mistaken, these cuts being manifestly printed from the
  • identical blocks made use of by Bulwer in his “Artificial Changeling,”
  • printed in 1615, the first being intended for one of the black and
  • white gallants of Seale–bay adorned with the moon, stars, etc., the
  • other a hairy savage.
  • Burton, speaking of fairies, says that “a bigger kind there is of them,
  • called with Hob–goblins, and Robin Goodfellowes, that would in those
  • superstitious times, grinde corne for a messe of milke, cut wood, or
  • do any kind of drudgery worke.” Afterward, of the dæmons that mislead
  • men in the night, he says, “We commonly call them Pucks.”—(_Anatomy of
  • Melancholie._)
  • Cartwright, in _The Ordinary_, introduces _Moth_, repeating this
  • curious charm:—
  • “Saint Frances and Saint Benedight
  • Blesse this house from wicked wight,
  • From the nightmare, and the goblin
  • That is hight Goodfellow Robin;
  • Keep it from all evil spirits,
  • Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets;
  • From curfew time
  • To the next prime.”
  • (Act III. Sc. I.)
  • This Puck, or Robin Good–fellow, seems, likewise, to be the illusory
  • candle–holder, so fatal to travellers, and who is more usually called
  • _Jack–a–lantern_, or _Will–with–a–wisp_; and, as it would seem from
  • a passage elsewhere cited from Scot, _Kit with the canstick_. Thus a
  • fairy, in a passage of Shakespeare already quoted, asks Robin—
  • “... Are you not he
  • That frights the maidens of the villagery,
  • Misleads night–wanderers laughing at their harm?”
  • Milton alludes to this deceptive gleam in the following lines—
  • “... A wandering fire,
  • Compact of unctuous vapour, which the night
  • Condenses, and the cold environs round,
  • Kindled through agitation to a flame,
  • Which oft, they say, some evil spirit attends,
  • Hovering and blazing with delusive light,
  • Misleads th’ amazed night–wanderer from his way
  • To bogs and mires, and oft through pond and pool.”
  • (_Paradise Lost_, Bk. 9).
  • He elsewhere calls him “the frier’s lantern.”—(_L’ Allegro_).
  • This facetious spirit only misleads the benighted traveller (generally
  • an honest farmer, in his way from the market, in a state of
  • intoxication) for the joke’s sake, as one very seldom, if ever, hears
  • any of his deluded followers (who take it to be the torch of Hero in
  • some hospitable mansion, affording “provision for man and horse”)
  • perishing in these ponds or pools, through which they dance or plunge
  • after him so merrily.
  • “There go as manie tales,” says Reginald Scot, “upon Hudgin, in some
  • parts of Germanie, as there did in England of Robin Good–fellow....
  • Frier Rush was for all the world such another fellow as this Hudgin,
  • and brought up even in the same schoole—to wit, in a kitchen, inasmuch
  • as the selfe–same tale is written of the one as of the other,
  • concerning the skullian, who is said to have beene slaine, etc., for
  • the reading whereof I referre you to frier Rush his storie, or else to
  • John Wierus, _De Præstigiis Dæmonum_.”
  • In the old play of _Gammer Gurton’s Needle_, printed in 1575, Hodge,
  • describing a “great black devil” which had been raised by Diccon, the
  • bedlam, and being asked by Gammer—
  • “But, Hodge, had he no horns to push?”
  • replies—
  • “As long as your two arms. Saw ye never Fryer Rushe,
  • Painted on a cloth, with a side–long cowe’s tayle,
  • And crooked cloven feet, and many a hoked nayle?
  • For al the world (if I schuld judg) chould reckon him his brother;
  • Loke even what face frier Rush had, the devil had such another.”
  • The fairies frequented many parts of the bishopric of Durham. There
  • is a hillock, or tumulus, near Bishopton, and a large hill near
  • Billingham, both which used, in former time, to be “haunted by
  • fairies.” Even Ferry–hill, a well–known stage between Darlington and
  • Durham, is evidently a corruption of Fairy–hill. When seen, by accident
  • or favour, they are described as of the smallest size, and uniformly
  • habited in green. They could, however, occasionally assume a different
  • size and appearance; as a woman, who had been admitted into their
  • society, challenged one of the guests, whom she espied in the market,
  • selling fairy–butter. This freedom was deeply resented, and cost her
  • the eye she first saw him with. Mr. Brand mentions his having met with
  • a man, who said he had seen one who had seen the fairies. Truth, he
  • adds, is to be come at in most cases. None, he believes, ever came
  • nearer to it in this than he has done. However that may be, the present
  • editor cannot pretend to have been more fortunate. His informant
  • related that an acquaintance in Westmoreland, having a great desire,
  • and praying earnestly, to see a fairy, was told by a friend, if not a
  • fairy in disguise, that on the side of such a hill, at such a time of
  • day, he should have a sight of one, and accordingly, at the time and
  • place appointed, “the hobgoblin,” in his own words, “stood before him
  • in the likeness of a green–coat lad,” but in the same instant, the
  • spectator’s eye glancing, vanished into the hill. This, he said, the
  • man told him.
  • “The streets of Newcastle,” says Mr. Brand, “were formerly (so vulgar
  • tradition has it) haunted by a nightly _guest_, which appeared in the
  • shape of a mastiff dog, etc., and terrified such as were afraid of
  • shadows. I have heard,” he adds, “when a boy, many stories concerning
  • it.”
  • The no less famous _barguest_ of Durham, and the Picktree–_brag_, have
  • been already alluded to. The former, beside its many other pranks,
  • would sometimes, at the dead of night, in passing through the different
  • streets, set up the most horrid and continuous shrieks to scare the
  • poor girls who might happen to be out of bed. The compiler of the
  • present sheets remembers, when very young, to have heard a respectable
  • old woman, then a midwife at Stockton, relate that when, in her
  • youthful days, she was a servant at Durham, being up late one Saturday
  • night cleaning the irons in the kitchen, she heard these _skrikes_,
  • first at a great and then at a less distance, till at length the
  • loudest and most horrible that can be conceived, just at the kitchen
  • window, sent her upstairs, she did not know how, where she fell into
  • the arms of a fellow–servant, who could scarcely prevent her fainting
  • away.
  • “Pioneers or diggers for metal,” according to Lavater, “do affirme that
  • in many mines there appeare straunge shapes and spirites, who are
  • apparelled like unto other laborers in the pit. These wander up and
  • down in caves and underminings, and seeme to bestuire themselves in
  • all kinde of labour, as to digge after the veine, to carrie to–gither
  • oare, to put it in baskets, and to turne the winding–whele to draw it
  • up, when, in very deede, they do nothing lesse. They very seldome hurte
  • the labourers (as they say) except they provoke them by laughing and
  • rayling at them, for then they threw gravel stones at them, or hurt
  • them by some other means. These are especially haunting in pittes where
  • mettall moste aboundeth.”—(_Of ghostes_, etc., London, 1572, 4to, p.
  • 73.)
  • This is our great Milton’s
  • “Swart faëry of the mine.”
  • “Simple foolish men imagine, I know not howe, that there be certayne
  • elves or fairies of the earth, and tell many straunge and marvellous
  • tales of them, which they have heard of their grandmothers and mothers,
  • howe they have appeared unto those of the house, have done service,
  • have rocked the cradell, and (which is a signe of good luck) do
  • continually tarry in the house.”—(_Of ghostes_, etc., p. 49.)
  • Mallet, though without citing any authority, says, “after all, the
  • notion is not everywhere exploded that there are in the bowels of the
  • earth, fairies, or a kind of dwarfish and tiny beings of human shape,
  • and remarkable for their riches, their activity, and malevolence. In
  • many countries of the north, the people are still firmly persuaded of
  • their existence. In Ireland, at this day, the good folk show the very
  • rocks and hills in which they maintain that there are swarms of these
  • small subterraneous men, of the most tiny size, but the most delicate
  • figures.”—(_Northern Antiquities_, etc., ii. 47.)
  • There is not a more generally received opinion throughout the
  • principality of Wales than that of the existence of fairies. Amongst
  • the commonalty it is, indeed, universal, and by no means unfrequently
  • credited by the second ranks.
  • Fairies are said, at a distant period, “to have frequented Bussers–hill
  • in St. Mary’s island, but their nightly pranks, aërial gambols, and
  • cockle–shell abodes, are now quite unknown.”—(Heath’s _Account of the
  • Islands of Scilly_, p. 129.)
  • “Evil spirits, called fairies, are frequently seen in several of the
  • isles [of Orkney], dancing and making merry, and sometimes seen in
  • armour.”—(Brand’s _Description of Orkney_, Edin., 1703, p. 61.)
  • NELLY, THE KNOCKER.
  • A farm–steading situated near the borders of Northumberland, a few
  • miles from Haltwhistle, was once occupied by a family of the name of
  • W—— K—— n. In front of the dwelling–house, and at about sixty yards’
  • distance, lay a stone of vast size, as ancient, for so tradition
  • amplifies the date, as the flood. On this stone, at the dead hour
  • of the night, might be discerned a female figure, wrapped in a grey
  • cloak, with one of those low–crowned black bonnets, so familiar to
  • our grandmothers, upon her head. She was incessantly knock, knock,
  • knocking, in a fruitless endeavour to split the impenetrable rock. Duly
  • as night came round, she occupied her lonely station, in the same low
  • crouching attitude, and pursued the dreary obligations of her destiny,
  • till the grey streaks of the dawn gave admonition to depart. From this,
  • the only perceptible action in which she engaged, she obtained the name
  • of Nelly, the Knocker. So perfectly had the inmates of the farmhouse
  • in the lapse of time, which will reconcile sights and events the most
  • disagreeable and alarming, become accustomed to Nelly’s undeviating
  • nightly din, that the work went forward unimpeded and undisturbed
  • by any apprehension accruing from her shadowy presence. Did the
  • servant–man make his punctual resort to the neighbouring cottages, he
  • took the liberty of scrutinising Nelly’s antiquated garb that varied
  • not with the vicissitudes of seasons, or he pried sympathetically
  • into the progress of her monotonous occupation, and though her pale,
  • ghastly, contracted features gave a momentary pang of terror, it was
  • rapidly effaced in the vortex of good fellowship into which he was
  • speedily drawn. Did the loon venture an appointment with his mistress
  • at the rustic style of the stack–garth, Nelly’s unwearied hammer,
  • instead of proving a barrier, only served, by imparting a grateful
  • sense of mutual danger, to render more intense the raptures of the
  • hour of meeting. So apathetic were the feelings cherished towards
  • her, and so little jealousy existed of her power to injure, that the
  • relater of these circumstances states that on several occasions she
  • has passed Nelly at her laborious toil, without evincing the slightest
  • perturbation, beyond a hurried step, as she stole a glance at the
  • inexplicable and mysterious form.
  • An event, in the course of years, disclosed the secrets that marvellous
  • stone shrouded, and drove poor Nelly for ever from the scene so
  • inscrutably linked with her fate.
  • Two of the sons of the farmer were rapidly approaching maturity,
  • when one of them, more reflecting and shrewd than his compeers,
  • suggested the idea of relieving Nelly from her toilsome avocation,
  • and of taking possession of the alluring legacy to which she was
  • evidently and urgently summoning. He proposed, conjointly with his
  • father and brother, to blast the stone, as the most expeditious mode
  • of gaining access to her arcana, and, this in the open daylight, in
  • order that any tutelary protection she might be disposed to extend
  • to her favourite haunt might, as she was a thing of darkness and the
  • night, be effectually countervailed. Nor were their hopes frustrated,
  • for, upon clearing away the earth and fragments that resulted from
  • the explosion, there was revealed to their elated and admiring gaze,
  • a precious booty of closely packed urns copiously enriched with gold.
  • Anxious that no intimation of their good fortune should transpire, they
  • had taken the precaution to despatch the female servant on a needless
  • errand, and ere her return the whole treasure was efficiently and
  • completely secured. So completely did they succeed in keeping their own
  • counsel, and so successfully did their reputation keep pace with the
  • cautious production of their undivulged treasures, that for many years
  • afterwards they were never suspected of gaining any advantage from
  • poor Nelly’s “knocking”; their improved appearance, and the somewhat
  • imposing figure they made in their little district, being solely
  • attributed to their superior judgment, and to the good management of
  • their lucky farm.
  • THE THREE FOOLS.
  • There was once a good–looking girl, the daughter of well–off country
  • folk, who was loved by an honest young fellow named John. He courted
  • her for a long time, and at last got her and her parents to consent to
  • his marrying her, which was to come off in a few weeks’ time.
  • One day as the girl’s father was working in his garden he sat down to
  • rest himself by the well, and, looking in, and seeing how deep it was,
  • he fell a–thinking.
  • “If Jane had a child,” said he to himself, “who knows but that one day
  • it might play about here and fall in and be killed?”
  • The thought of such a thing filled him with sorrow, and he sat crying
  • into the well for some time until his wife came to him.
  • “What is the matter?” asked she. “What are you crying for?”
  • Then the man told her his thoughts—
  • “If Jane marries and has a child,” said he, “who knows but it might
  • play about here and some day fall into the well and be killed?”
  • “Alack!” cried the woman, “I never thought of that before. It is,
  • indeed, possible.”
  • So she sat down and wept with her husband.
  • As neither of them came to the house the daughter shortly came to look
  • for them, and when she found them sitting crying into the well—
  • “What is the matter?” asked she. “Why do you weep?”
  • So her father told her of the thought that had struck him.
  • “Yes,” said she, “it might happen.”
  • So she too sat down with her father and mother, and wept into the well.
  • They had sat there a good while when John comes to them.
  • “What has made you so sad?” asked he.
  • So the father told him what had occurred, and said that he should be
  • afraid to let him have his daughter seeing her child might fall into
  • the well.
  • “You are three fools,” said the young man, when he had heard him to an
  • end, and leaving them, he thought over whether he should try to get
  • Jane for his wife or not. At length he decided that he would marry her
  • if he could find three people more foolish than her and her father and
  • mother. He put on his boots and went out.
  • “I will walk till I wear these boots out,” said he, “and if I find
  • three more foolish people before I am barefoot, I will marry her.”
  • So he went on, and walked very far till he came to a barn, at the
  • door of which stood a man with a shovel in his hands. He seemed to be
  • working very hard, shovelling the air in at the door.
  • “What are you doing?” asked John.
  • “I am shovelling in the sunbeams,” replied the man, “to ripen the corn.”
  • “Why don’t you have the corn out in the sun for it to ripen it?” asked
  • John.
  • “Good,” said the man. “Why, I never thought of that! Good luck to you,
  • for you have saved me many a weary day’s work.”
  • “That’s fool number one,” said John, and went on.
  • He travelled a long way, until one day he came to a cottage, against
  • the wall of it was placed a ladder, and a man was trying to pull a cow
  • up it by means of a rope, one end of which was round the cow’s neck.
  • “What are you about?” asked John.
  • “Why,” replied the man, “I want the cow up on the roof to eat off that
  • fine tuft of grass you see growing there.”
  • “Why don’t you cut the grass and give it to the cow?” asked John.
  • “Why, now, I never thought of that!” answered the man. “So I will, of
  • course, and many thanks, for many a good cow have I killed in trying to
  • get it up there.”
  • “That’s fool number two,” said John to himself.
  • He walked on a long way, thinking there were more fools in the world
  • than he had thought, and wondering what would be the next one he should
  • meet. He had to wait a long time, however, and to walk very far, and
  • his boots were almost worn out before he found another.
  • One day, however, he came to a field, in the middle of which he saw
  • a pair of trousers standing up, being held up by sticks. A man was
  • running about them and jumping over and over them.
  • “Hullo!” cried John. “What are you about?”
  • “Why,” said the man, “what need is there to ask? Don’t you see I want
  • to get the trousers on?” so saying he took two or three more runs and
  • jumps, but always jumped either to this side or that of the trousers.
  • “Why don’t you take the trousers and draw them on?” asked John.
  • “Good,” said the man. “Why, I never thought of it! Many thanks. I only
  • wish you had come before, for I have lost a great deal of time in
  • trying to jump into them.”
  • “That,” said John, “is fool number three.”
  • So, as his boots were not yet quite worn out, he returned to his home
  • and went again to ask Jane of her father and mother. At last they gave
  • her to him, and they lived very happily together, for John had a rail
  • put round the well and the child did _not_ fall into it.
  • SOME MERRY TALES OF THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.
  • [From a chap–book printed at Hull in the beginning of the present
  • century.]
  • TALE FIRST.
  • There were two men of Gotham, and one of them was going to the market
  • at Nottingham to buy sheep, and the other was coming from the market,
  • and both met together on Nottingham bridge.
  • “Well met,” said the one to the other.
  • “Whither are you a–going?” said he that came from Nottingham.
  • “Marry,” said he that was going thither, “I am going to the market to
  • buy sheep.”
  • “Buy sheep,” said the other; “and which way will you bring them home?”
  • “Marry,” said the other, “I will bring them over this bridge.”
  • “By Robin Hood,” said he that came from Nottingham, “but thou shalt
  • not.”
  • “By maid Marjoram,” said he that was going thither, “but I will.”
  • “Thou shalt not,” said the one.
  • “I will,” said the other.
  • “Tut here,” said the one, and “Tut there,” said the other. Then they
  • beat their staves against the ground one against the other, as if there
  • had been a hundred sheep betwixt them.
  • “Hold them there,” said one.
  • “Beware of the leaping over the bridge of my sheep,” said the other.
  • “I care not.”
  • “They shall all come this way,” said the one.
  • “But they shall not,” said the other.
  • As they were in contention, another wise man that belonged to Gotham
  • came from the market with a sack of meal upon his horse, and seeing and
  • hearing his neighbours at strife about sheep, and none betwixt them,
  • said he—
  • “Ah, fools! will you never learn wit? Then help me,” said he that had
  • the meal, “and lay this sack upon my shoulder.”
  • They did so, and he went to one side of the bridge, and unloosed the
  • mouth of the sack, and shook out the meal into the river. Then said he—
  • “How much meal is there in the sack, neighbours?”
  • “Marry,” answered they, “none.”
  • “Now, by my faith,” replied this wise man, “even so much wit is there
  • in your two heads, to strive concerning that thing which you have not.”
  • Now, which was the wisest of all these three persons I leave you to
  • judge.
  • TALE SECOND.
  • On a time the men of Gotham fain would have pinned in the cuckoo,
  • whereby she should sing all the year; and in the midst of the town they
  • had a hedge made round in compass, and they got the cuckoo, and put her
  • into it, and said—
  • “Sing here, and you shall lack neither meat nor drink all the year.”
  • The cuckoo, when she perceived herself encompassed within the hedge,
  • flew away.
  • “A vengeance on her,” said the wise men, “we made not our hedge high
  • enough.”
  • TALE THIRD.
  • There was a man of Gotham who went to the market of Nottingham to sell
  • cheese, and, as he was going down the hill to Nottingham bridge, one of
  • his cheese fell out of his wallet, and ran down the hill.
  • “What!” said the fellow, “can you run to the market alone? I will now
  • send one after the other.”
  • Then laying down the wallet, and taking out the cheese, he tumbled them
  • down the hill, one after the other, and some ran into one bush and some
  • into another, so at last he said—
  • “I do charge you to meet me in the market–place.”
  • And when the man came into the market to meet the cheese, he stayed
  • until the market was almost done, then went and inquired of his
  • neighbours and other men if they did see his cheese come to market.
  • “Why, who should bring them?” said one of his neighbours.
  • “Marry, themselves!” said the fellow. “They knew the way well enough,”
  • said he. “A vengeance on them, for I was afraid, to see my cheese run
  • so fast, that they would run beyond the market. I am persuaded that
  • they are by this time almost at York.”
  • So he immediately takes a horse, and rides after them to York, but was
  • very much disappointed.
  • But to this day no man has ever heard of the cheese.
  • TALE FOURTH.
  • When that Good Friday was come the men of Gotham did cast their heads
  • together what to do with their white herrings, red herrings, their
  • sprats, and salt fish. Then one counselled with the other, and agreed
  • that all such fish should be cast into the pond or pool, which was in
  • the middle of the town, that the number of them might increase against
  • the next year. Therefore every one that had got any fish left did cast
  • them into the pond. Then one said—
  • “I have as yet gotten left so many red herrings.”
  • “Well,” said the other, “and I have left so many whitings.”
  • Another immediately cried out—
  • “I have as yet gotten so many sprats left.”
  • “And,” said the last, “I have got so many salt fishes. Let them all go
  • together into the great pond without any distinction, and we may be
  • sure to fare like lords the next year.”
  • At the beginning of the next Lent they immediately went about drawing
  • the pond, imagining they should have the fish, but were much surprised
  • to find nothing but a great eel.
  • “Ah!” said they, “a mischief on this eel, for he hath eaten up our
  • fish.”
  • “What must we do with him?” said one to the other.
  • “Kill him!” said one to the other.
  • “Chop him into pieces,” said another.
  • “Nay, not so,” said the other, “but let us drown him.”
  • “Be it accordingly so,” replied they all.
  • So they immediately went to another pond, and did cast the eel into the
  • water.
  • “Lie there,” said these wise men, “and shift for thyself, since you can
  • expect no help from us.”
  • So they left the eel to be drowned.
  • TALE FIFTH.
  • On a certain time there were twelve men of Gotham that went a–fishing;
  • and some did wade in the water, and some did stand upon dry land. And
  • when they went homeward, one said to the other—
  • “We have ventured wonderful hard this day in wading, I pray God that
  • none of us may have come from home to be drowned.”
  • “Nay, marry,” said one to the other, “let us see that, for there did
  • twelve of us come out.”
  • Then they told themselves, and every man told eleven, and the twelfth
  • man did never tell himself.
  • “Alas!” said the one to the other, “there is some one of us drowned.”
  • They went back to the brook where they had been fishing, and did make a
  • great lamentation. A courtier did come riding by, and did ask what it
  • was they sought for, and why they were so sorrowful.
  • “Oh!” said they, “this day we went to fish in the brook, and here did
  • come out twelve of us, and one of us is drowned.”
  • “Why,” said the courtier, “tell how many there be of you,” and the one
  • said eleven, and he did not tell himself.
  • “Well,” said the courtier, “what will you give me, and I will find out
  • twelve men?”
  • “Sir,” said they, “all the money we have got.”
  • “Give me the money,” said the courtier; and began with the first, and
  • gave a recommendibus over the shoulders, which made him groan, saying,
  • “Here is one;” and so he served them all, that they groaned at the
  • matter. When he came to the last, he paid him well, saying—
  • “Here is the twelfth man.”
  • “God’s blessing on thy heart for finding out our dear brother.”
  • TALE SIXTH.
  • A man’s wife of Gotham had a child, and the father bid the gossips,
  • which were children of eight or ten years of age. The eldest child’s
  • name, who was to be godfather, was called Gilbert, the second child’s
  • name was Humphrey, and the godmother’s name was Christabel. The friends
  • of all of them did admonish them, saying, that divers of times they
  • must say after the priest. When they were all come to the church–door,
  • the priest said—
  • “Be you all agreed of the name?”
  • “Be you all,” said Gilbert, “agreed of the name?”
  • The priest then said—
  • “Wherefore do you come hither?”
  • Gilbert said, “Wherefore do you come hither?” Humphrey said, “Wherefore
  • do you come hither?” And Christabel said, “Wherefore do you come
  • hither?”
  • The priest being amazed, he could not tell what to say, but whistled
  • and said “Whew!”
  • Gilbert whistled and said “Whew!” Humphrey whistled and said “Whew!”
  • and so did Christabel. The priest being angry, said—
  • “Go home, fools, go home!”
  • Then said Gilbert and Humphrey and Christabel the same.
  • The priest then himself provided for god–fathers and god–mothers.
  • Here a man may see that children can do nothing without good
  • instruction, and that they are not wise who regard them.
  • THE TULIP FAIRIES.
  • Near a pixy field in the neighbourhood of Dartmoor, there lived, on a
  • time, an old woman who possessed a cottage and a very pretty garden,
  • wherein she cultivated a most beautiful bed of tulips. The pixies, it
  • is traditionally averred, so delighted in this spot that they would
  • carry their elfin babes thither, and sing them to rest. Often, at the
  • dead hour of the night, a sweet lullaby was heard, and strains of the
  • most melodious music would float in the air, that seemed to owe their
  • origin to no other musicians than the beautiful tulips themselves, and
  • whilst these delicate flowers waved their heads to the evening breeze,
  • it sometimes seemed as if they were marking time to their own singing.
  • As soon as the elfin babes were lulled asleep by such melodies, the
  • pixies would return to the neighbouring field, and there commence
  • dancing, making those rings on the green which showed, even to mortal
  • eyes, what sort of gambols had occupied them during the night season.
  • At the first dawn of light the watchful pixies once more sought the
  • tulips, and, though still invisible they could be heard kissing and
  • caressing their babies. The tulips, thus favoured by a race of genii,
  • retained their beauty much longer than any other flowers in the garden,
  • whilst, though contrary to their nature, as the pixies breathed over
  • them, they became as fragrant as roses, and so delighted at all was the
  • old woman who kept the garden that she never suffered a single tulip to
  • be plucked from its stem.
  • At length, however, she died, and the heir who succeeded her destroyed
  • the enchanted flowers, and converted the spot into a parsley–bed, a
  • circumstance which so disappointed and offended the pixies, that they
  • caused all the parsley to wither away, and, indeed, for many years
  • nothing would grow in the beds of the whole garden. These sprites,
  • however, though eager in resenting an injury, were, like most warm
  • spirits, equally capable of returning a benefit, and if they destroyed
  • the product of the good old woman’s garden when it had fallen into
  • unworthy hands, they tended the bed that wrapped her clay with
  • affectionate solicitude. They were heard lamenting and singing sweet
  • dirges around her grave; nor did they neglect to pay this mournful
  • tribute to her memory every night before the moon was at the full,
  • for then their high solemnity of dancing, singing, and rejoicing took
  • place to hail the queen of the night on completing her circle in the
  • heavens. No human hand ever tended the grave of the poor old woman who
  • had nurtured the tulip bed for the delight of these elfin creatures;
  • but no rank weed was ever seen to grow upon it. The sod was ever green,
  • and the prettiest flowers would spring up without sowing or planting,
  • and so they continued to do until it was supposed the mortal body was
  • reduced to its original dust.
  • THE HISTORY OF JACK AND THE GIANTS.
  • I.
  • [From a Chap–book printed and sold in Aldermary Churchyard, London.
  • Probable date, 1780.]
  • In the reign of King Arthur, near to the Land’s End of England, in the
  • County of Cornwall, lived a wealthy farmer, who had a son named Jack.
  • He was brisk and of a ready wit, so that whatever he could not perform
  • by force and strength he completed by wit and policy. Never was any
  • person heard of that could worst him. Nay, the very learned many times
  • he has baffled by his cunning and sharp inventions.
  • In those days the Mount of Cornwall was kept by a large and monstrous
  • giant of eighteen feet high, and about three yards in circumference, of
  • a fierce and grim countenance, the terror of the neighbouring towns and
  • villages.
  • His habitation was in a cave in the midst of the Mount. Never would
  • he suffer any living creature to keep near him. His feeding was on
  • other men’s cattle, which often became his prey, for whenever he
  • wanted food, he would wade over to the mainland, where he would well
  • furnish himself with whatever he could find, for the people at his
  • approach would all forsake their habitations. Then would he seize upon
  • their cows and oxen, of which he would think nothing to carry over
  • upon his back half a dozen at one time; and as for their sheep and
  • boys, he would tie them round his waist like a bunch of candles. This
  • he practised for many years, so that a great part of the county of
  • Cornwall was very much impoverished by him.
  • Jack having undertaken to destroy this voracious monster, he furnished
  • himself with a horn, a shovel, and a pickaxe, and over to the mount
  • he went in the beginning of a dark winter’s evening, where he fell to
  • work, and before morning had dug a pit twenty–two feet deep, and in
  • width nearly the same, and covering it over with sticks and straw, and
  • then strewing a little mould over it, it appeared like plain ground.
  • Then, putting his horn to his mouth, he blew tan–tivy, tan–tivy, which
  • noise awoke the giant, who came roaring towards Jack, crying out—
  • “You incorrigible villain, you shall pay dearly for disturbing me, for
  • I will broil you for my breakfast.”
  • These words were no sooner spoke, but he tumbled headlong into the pit,
  • and the heavy fall made the foundation of the Mount to shake.
  • “O Mr. Giant, where are you now? Oh, faith, you are gotten into Lob’s
  • Pound, where I will surely plague you for your threatening words. What
  • do you think now of broiling me for your breakfast? Will no other diet
  • serve you but poor Jack?”
  • Having thus spoken and made merry with him a while, he struck him such
  • a blow on the crown with his pole–axe that he tumbled down, and with a
  • groan expired. This done, Jack threw the dirt in upon him and so buried
  • him. Then, searching the cave, he found much treasure.
  • Now when the magistrates who employed Jack heard that the job was over,
  • they sent for him, declaring that he should be henceforth called Jack
  • the Giant Killer, and in honour thereof presented him with a sword and
  • an embroidered belt, upon which these words were written in letters of
  • gold—
  • “Here’s the valiant Cornish man,
  • Who slew the giant, Cormoran.”
  • The news of Jack’s victory was soon spread over the western parts, so
  • that another giant, called Old Blunderbore, hearing of it, vowed to be
  • revenged on Jack, if it ever was his fortune to light on him. The giant
  • kept an enchanted castle situated in the midst of a lonesome wood.
  • About four months after as Jack was walking by the borders of this
  • wood, on his journey towards Wales, he grew weary, and therefore sat
  • himself down by the side of a pleasant fountain, when a deep sleep
  • suddenly seized him. At this time the giant, coming there for water,
  • found him, and by the lines upon his belt immediately knew him to be
  • Jack, who had killed his brother giant. So, without any words, he took
  • him upon his shoulder to carry him to his enchanted castle. As he
  • passed through a thicket, the jostling of the boughs awoke Jack, who,
  • finding himself in the clutches of the giant was very much surprised,
  • though it was but the beginning of his terrors, for, entering the walls
  • of the castle, he found the floor strewn and the walls covered with the
  • skulls and bones of dead men, when the giant told him his bones should
  • enlarge the number of what he saw. He also told him that the next day
  • he would eat him with pepper and vinegar, and he did not question but
  • that he would find him a curious breakfast. This said, he locks up poor
  • Jack in an upper room, leaving him there while he went out to fetch
  • another giant who lived in the same wood, that he also might partake of
  • the pleasure they should have in the destruction of honest Jack. While
  • he was gone dreadful shrieks and cries affrighted Jack, especially a
  • voice which continually cried—
  • “Do what you can to get away,
  • Or you’ll become the giant’s prey;
  • He’s gone to fetch his brother who
  • Will likewise kill and torture you.”
  • This dreadful noise so affrighted poor Jack, that he was ready to run
  • distracted. Then, going to a window he opened the casement, and beheld
  • afar off the two giants coming.
  • “So now,” quoth Jack to himself, “my death or deliverance is at hand.”
  • There were two strong cords in the room by him, at the end of which
  • he made a noose, and as the giants were unlocking the iron gates, he
  • threw the ropes over the giants’ heads, and then threw the other end
  • across a beam, when he pulled with all his might till he had throttled
  • them. Then, fastening the ropes to a beam, he returned to the window,
  • where he beheld the two giants black in the face, and so sliding down
  • the ropes, he came upon the heads of the helpless giants, who could
  • not defend themselves, and, drawing his own sword, he slew them both,
  • and so delivered himself from their intended cruelty. Then, taking
  • the bunch of keys, he entered the castle, where, upon strict search,
  • he found three ladies tied up by the hair of their heads, and almost
  • starved to death.
  • “Sweet ladies,” said Jack, “I have destroyed the monster and his
  • brutish brother, by which means I have obtained your liberties.”
  • This said, he presented them with the keys of the castle, and proceeded
  • on his journey to Wales.
  • Jack having got but little money, thought it prudent to make the best
  • of his way by travelling hard, and at length, losing his road, he was
  • benighted, and could not get a place of entertainment, till, coming to
  • a valley between two hills, he found a large house in a lonesome place,
  • and by reason of his present necessity he took courage to knock at
  • the gate. To his amazement there came forth a monstrous giant, having
  • two heads, yet he did not seem so fiery as the other two, for he was
  • a Welsh giant, and all he did was by private and secret malice, under
  • the false show of friendship. Jack, telling his condition, he bid him
  • welcome, showing him into a room with a bed, where he might take his
  • night’s repose. Upon this Jack undressed himself, but as the giant
  • was walking to another apartment Jack heard him mutter these words to
  • himself—
  • “Tho’ here you lodge with me this night,
  • You shall not see the morning light,
  • My club shall dash your brains out quite.”
  • “Say you so?” says Jack. “Is this one of your Welsh tricks? I hope to
  • be as cunning as you.”
  • Then, getting out of bed, and feeling about the room in the dark, he
  • found a thick billet of wood, and laid it in the bed in his stead, then
  • he hid himself in a dark corner of the room. In the dead time of the
  • night came the giant with his club, and he struck several blows on the
  • bed where Jack had artfully laid the billet. Then the giant returned
  • back to his own room, supposing he had broken all his bones. Early in
  • the morning Jack came to thank him for his lodging.
  • “Oh,” said the giant, “how have you rested? Did you see anything in the
  • night?”
  • “No,” said Jack, “but a rat gave me three or four slaps with his tail.”
  • Soon after the giant went to breakfast on a great bowl of hasty
  • pudding, giving Jack but a small quantity. Jack, being loath to let
  • him know he could not eat with him, got a leather bag, and, putting
  • it artfully under his coat, put the pudding into it. Then he told the
  • giant he would show him a trick, and taking up a knife he ripped open
  • the bag and out fell the pudding. The giant thought he had cut open his
  • stomach and taken the pudding out.
  • “Odds splutters,” says he, “hur can do that hurself,” and, taking the
  • knife up, he cut himself so badly that he fell down and died.
  • Thus Jack outwitted the Welsh giant and proceeded on his journey.
  • King Arthur’s only son desired his father to furnish him with a certain
  • sum of money, that he might go and seek his fortune in the principality
  • of Wales, where a beautiful lady lived, whom he had heard was possessed
  • with seven evil spirits.
  • The king, his father, counselled him against it, yet he could not
  • be persuaded, so the favour was granted, which was one horse loaded
  • with money, and another to ride on. Thus he went forth without
  • any attendants, and after several days’ travel he came to a large
  • market–town in Wales, where he beheld a vast crowd of people gathered
  • together. The king’s son demanded the reason of it, and was told that
  • they had arrested a corpse for many large sums of money, which the
  • deceased owed before he died. The king’s son replied—
  • “It is a pity that creditors should be so cruel. Go, bury the dead,
  • and let the creditors come to my lodgings, and their debts shall be
  • discharged.”
  • Accordingly they came, and in such great numbers that before night he
  • had almost left himself penniless. Now Jack the Giant Killer being
  • there, and seeing the generosity of the king’s son, desired to be his
  • servant. It being agreed on, the next morning they set forward. As they
  • were riding out of the town’s end, an old woman cried out—
  • “He has owed me twopence seven years, pray, sir, pay me as well as the
  • rest.”
  • The king’s son put his hand in his pocket and gave it her, it being the
  • last money he had, then, turning to Jack, he said—
  • “Take no thought nor heed. Let me alone, and I warrant you we will
  • never want.”
  • Now Jack had a small spell in his pocket, the which served for a
  • refreshment, after which they had but one penny left between them. They
  • spent the forenoon in travel and familiar discourse, until the sun grew
  • low, when the king’s son said—
  • “Jack, since we have got no money where can we lodge to–night?”
  • Jack replied—
  • “Master, we will do well enough, for I have an uncle who lives within
  • two miles of this place. He is a huge and monstrous giant, having three
  • heads. He will beat five hundred men in armour, and make them fly
  • before him.”
  • “Alas!” said the king’s son, “what shall we do there? He will eat us up
  • at a mouthful—nay, we are scarce sufficient to fill one hollow tooth.”
  • “It is no matter for that,” says Jack. “I myself will go before and
  • prepare the way for you. Tarry here, and wait my return.”
  • He waited, and Jack rode full speed. Coming to the castle gate, he
  • immediately began to knock with such force that all the neighbouring
  • hills resounded. The giant, roaring with a voice like thunder, called—
  • “Who is there?”
  • “None, but your poor cousin Jack.”
  • “And what news,” said he, “with my cousin Jack?”
  • He replied—
  • “Dear uncle, heavy news.”
  • “God wot! Prithee! what heavy news can come to me? I am a giant with
  • three heads, and besides, thou knowest, I fight five hundred men in
  • armour, and make them all fly like chaff before the wind.”
  • “Oh,” said Jack, “but here is a king’s son coming with a thousand men
  • in armour to kill you, and to destroy all you have.”
  • “O my cousin Jack, this is heavy news indeed, but I have a large vault
  • underground where I will run and hide myself, and you shall lock, bolt,
  • and bar me in, and keep the keys till the king’s son is gone.”
  • Jack, having now secured the giant, returned and fetched his master,
  • and both made merry with the best dainties the house afforded. In the
  • morning Jack furnished his master with fresh supplies of gold and
  • silver, and having set him three miles on the road out of the giant’s
  • smell, he returned and let his uncle out of the hole, who asked Jack
  • what he should give him for his care of him, seeing his castle was
  • demolished.
  • “Why,” said Jack, “I desire nothing but your old rusty sword, the coat
  • in the closet, and the cap and the shoes at your bed’s head.”
  • “Ay,” said the giant, “thou shalt have them, and be sure keep you
  • them, for my sake. They are things of excellent use. The coat will
  • keep you invisible, the cap will furnish you with knowledge, the sword
  • cuts asunder whatever you strike, and the shoes are of extraordinary
  • swiftness. They may be serviceable to you, so take them with all my
  • heart.”
  • Jack took them, and immediately followed his master. Having overtaken
  • him, they soon arrived at the lady’s dwelling, who, finding the king’s
  • son to be a suitor, prepared a banquet for him, which being ended,
  • she wiped her mouth with a handkerchief, saying—“You must show me this
  • to–morrow morning, or lose your head,” and then she put it in her bosom.
  • The king’s son went to bed right sorrowful, but Jack’s cap of knowledge
  • instructed him how to obtain the handkerchief. In the midst of the
  • night the lady called upon her familiar to carry her to Lucifer. Jack
  • whipped on his coat of darkness, with his shoes of swiftness, and was
  • there before her, but could not be seen by reason of his coat, which
  • rendered him perfectly invisible to Lucifer himself. When the lady came
  • she gave him the handkerchief, from whom Jack took it, and brought it
  • to his master, who, showing it the next morning to the lady, saved his
  • life. This much surprised the lady, but he had yet a harder trial to
  • undergo. The next night the lady salutes the king’s son, telling him he
  • must show her the next day the lips she kissed last or lose his head.
  • “So I will,” replied he, “if you kiss none but mine.”
  • “It is neither here nor there for that,” says she. “If you do not,
  • death is your portion.”
  • At midnight she went again and chid Lucifer for letting the
  • handkerchief go.
  • “But now,” said she, “I shall be too hard for the king’s son, for I
  • will kiss thee, and he is to show me the lips I kissed last, and he
  • can never show me thy lips.”
  • Jack, standing up with his sword of sharpness, cut off the evil
  • spirit’s head, and brought it under his invisible coat to his master,
  • who laid it at the end of his bolster, and in the morning, when the
  • lady came up, he pulled it out and showed her the lips which she kissed
  • last. Thus, she having been answered twice, the enchantment broke, and
  • the evil spirit left her, to their mutual joy and satisfaction. Then
  • she appeared her former self, both beauteous and virtuous. They were
  • married the next morning, and soon after returned with joy to the court
  • of King Arthur, where Jack, for his good services, was made one of the
  • knights of the Round Table.
  • II.
  • [From a Chap–book, printed and sold at Newcastle, by J. WHITE, 1711.]
  • Jack, having been successful in all his undertakings, and resolved not
  • to be idle for the future, but to perform what service he could for
  • the honour of his king and country, humbly requested of the king, his
  • royal master, to fit him with a horse and money, to travel in search
  • of strange and new adventures. “For,” said he, “there are many giants
  • yet living in the remote parts of the kingdom, and in the dominions
  • of Wales, to the unspeakable damage of your majesty’s liege subjects,
  • wherefore, may it please your majesty to give me encouragement, and I
  • doubt not but in a short time to cut them all off, root and branch,
  • and so rid the realm of those cruel giants and devouring monsters in
  • nature.”
  • Now, when the king had heard these noble propositions, and had duly
  • considered the mischievous practices of those bloodthirsty giants,
  • he immediately granted what honest Jack requested. And on the first
  • day of March, being thoroughly furnished with all necessaries for his
  • progress, he took his leave, not only of King Arthur, but likewise of
  • all the trusty and hardy knights belonging to the Round Table, who,
  • after much salutation and friendly greeting, parted, the king and
  • nobles to their courtly palaces, and Jack the Giant Killer to the eager
  • pursuit of Fortune’s favours, taking with him the cap of knowledge,
  • sword of sharpness, shoes of swiftness, and likewise the invisible
  • coat, the latter to perfect and complete the dangerous enterprises that
  • lay before him.
  • He travelled over vast hills and wonderful mountains till, at the end
  • of three days, he came to a large and spacious wood, through which
  • he must needs pass, where, on a sudden, to his great amazement, he
  • heard dreadful shrieks and cries. Casting his eyes around to observe
  • what it might be, he beheld with wonder a giant rushing along with a
  • worthy knight and his fair lady, whom he held by the hair of their
  • heads in his hands, with as much ease as if they had been but a pair of
  • gloves, the sight of which melted honest Jack into tears of pity and
  • compassion. Alighting off his horse, which he left tied to an oak–tree,
  • and then putting on his invisible coat, under which he carried his
  • sword of sharpness, he came up to the giant, and, though he made
  • several passes at him, yet, nevertheless, he could not reach the trunk
  • of his body by reason of his height, though he wounded his thighs in
  • several places. At length, giving him a swinging stroke, he cut off
  • both his legs, just below the knees, so that the trunk of his body
  • made not only the ground to shake, but likewise the trees to tremble
  • with the force of its fall, at which, by mere fortune, the knight and
  • his lady escaped his rage. Then had Jack time to talk with him, and,
  • setting his foot upon his neck, he said—
  • “Thou savage and barbarous wretch, I am come to execute upon you the
  • just reward of your villainy,” and with that, running him through and
  • through, the monster sent forth a hideous groan, and yielded up his
  • life into the hands of the valiant conqueror, Jack the Giant Killer,
  • while the noble knight and virtuous lady were both joyful spectators of
  • his sudden downfall and their deliverance.
  • This being done, the courteous knight and his fair lady not only
  • returned Jack hearty thanks for their deliverance, but also invited
  • him home, there to refresh himself after the dreadful encounter, as
  • likewise to receive some ample reward, by way of gratuity, for his good
  • service.
  • “No,” quoth Jack; “I cannot be at ease till I find out the den which
  • was this monster’s habitation.”
  • The knight, hearing this, waxed right sorrowful and replied—
  • “Noble stranger, it is too much to run a second risk, for note, this
  • monster lived in a den under yon mountain with a brother of his, more
  • fierce and fiery than himself. Therefore, if you should go thither and
  • perish in that attempt it would be the heartbreaking of both me and my
  • lady. Therefore let me persuade you to go with us, and desist from any
  • further pursuit.”
  • “Nay,” quoth Jack, “if there be another—nay, were there twenty, I would
  • shed the last drop of blood in my body before one of them should escape
  • my fury. When I have finished this task I will come and pay my respects
  • to you.”
  • So, having taken the directions to their habitation, he mounted his
  • horse, leaving them to return home, while he went in pursuit of the
  • deceased giant’s brother. He had not ridden past a mile and a half
  • before he came in sight of the cave’s mouth, near to the entrance of
  • which he beheld the other giant sitting upon a huge block of timber
  • with a knotted iron club lying by his side, waiting, as Jack supposed,
  • for his brother’s return. His goggle eyes appeared like terrible flames
  • of fire. His countenance was grim and ugly, his cheeks being like a
  • couple of large fat flitches of bacon. Moreover, the bristles of his
  • beard seemed to resemble rods of iron wire. His locks hung down upon
  • his broad shoulders, like curled snakes or hissing adders.
  • Jack alighted from his horse and put him into a thicket, then, with his
  • coat of darkness, he came somewhat nearer to behold this figure, and
  • said softly—
  • “Oh! are you there? It will be not long e’er I shall take you by the
  • beard.”
  • The giant all this time could not see him by reason of his invisible
  • coat. So, coming up close to him, valiant Jack, fetching a blow at his
  • head with his sword of sharpness, and missing something of his arm,
  • cut off the giant’s nose. The pain was terrible, and so he put up his
  • hands to feel for his nose, and when he could not find it, he raved
  • and roared louder than claps of thunder. Though he turned up his large
  • eyes, he could not see from whence the blow came which had done him
  • that great disaster, yet, nevertheless, he took up his iron–knotted
  • club, and began to lay about him like one that was stark staring mad.
  • “Nay,” quoth Jack, “if you are for that sport, then I will despatch you
  • quickly, for I fear an accidental blow should fall on me.”
  • Then, as the giant rose from his block, Jack makes no more to do but
  • runs the sword up to the hilt in his body, where he left it sticking
  • for a while, and stood himself laughing, with his hands akimbo, to see
  • the giant caper and dance, crying out.
  • The giant continued raving for an hour or more, and at length fell down
  • dead, whose dreadful fall had like to have crushed poor Jack had he not
  • been nimble to avoid the same.
  • This being done, Jack cut off both the giants’ heads and sent them to
  • King Arthur by a wagoner whom he hired for the purpose, together with
  • an account of his prosperous success in all his undertakings.
  • Jack, having thus despatched these monsters, resolved with himself to
  • enter the cave in search of these giants’ treasure. He passed along
  • through many turnings and windings, which led him at length to a
  • room paved with free–stone, at the upper end of which was a boiling
  • cauldron. On the right hand stood a large table where, as he supposed,
  • the giants used to dine. He came to an iron gate where was a window
  • secured with bars of iron, through which he looked, and there beheld a
  • vast many miserable captives, who, seeing Jack at a distance, cried out
  • with a loud voice—
  • “Alas! young man, art thou come to be one amongst us in this miserable
  • den?”
  • “Ay,” quoth Jack, “I hope I shall not tarry long here; but pray tell
  • me what is the meaning of your captivity?”
  • “Why,” said one young man, “I’ll tell you. We are persons that have
  • been taken by the giants that keep this cave, and here we are kept
  • till such time as they have occasion for a particular feast, and then
  • the fattest amongst us is slaughtered and prepared for their devouring
  • jaws. It is not long since they took three for the same purpose.”
  • “Say you so,” quoth Jack; “well, I have given them, both such a dinner
  • that it will be long enough e’er they’ll have occasion for any more.”
  • The miserable captives were amazed at his words.
  • “You may believe me,” quoth Jack, “for I have slain them with the point
  • of my sword, and as for their monstrous heads, I sent them in a wagon
  • to the court of King Arthur as trophies of my unparalleled victory.”
  • For a testimony of the truth he had said, he unlocked the iron gate,
  • setting the miserable captives at liberty, who all rejoiced like
  • condemned malefactors at the sight of a reprieve. Then, leading them
  • all together to the aforesaid room, he placed them round the table, and
  • set before them two quarters of beef, as also bread and wine, so that
  • he feasted them very plentifully. Supper being ended, they searched the
  • giants’ coffers, where, finding a vast store of gold and silver, Jack
  • equally divided it among them. They all returned him hearty thanks
  • for their treasure and miraculous deliverance. That night they went to
  • their rest, and in the morning they arose and departed—the captives to
  • their respective towns and places of abode, and Jack to the house of
  • the knight whom he had formerly delivered from the hand of the giant.
  • It was about sun–rising when Jack mounted his horse to proceed
  • on his journey, and by the help of his directions he came to the
  • knight’s house some time before noon, where he was received with all
  • demonstrations of joy imaginable by the knight and his lady, who, in
  • honourable respect to Jack, prepared a feast, which lasted for many
  • days, inviting all the gentry in the adjacent parts, to whom the worthy
  • knight was pleased to relate the manner of his former danger and the
  • happy deliverance by the undaunted courage of Jack the Giant Killer.
  • By way of gratitude he presented Jack with a ring of gold, on which
  • was engraved, by curious art, the picture of the giant dragging a
  • distressed knight and his fair lady by the hair of the head, with this
  • motto—
  • “We are in sad distress, you see,
  • Under a giant’s fierce command;
  • But gained our lives and liberty
  • By valiant Jack’s victorious hand.”
  • Now, among the vast assembly there present were five aged gentlemen
  • who were fathers to some of those miserable captives which Jack had
  • lately set at liberty, who, understanding that he was the person
  • that performed those great wonders, immediately paid their venerable
  • respects. After this their mirth increased, and the smiling bowls went
  • freely round to the prosperous success of the victorious conqueror,
  • but, in the midst of all this mirth, a dark cloud appeared which
  • daunted all the hearts of the honourable assembly.
  • Thus it was. A messenger brought the dismal tidings of the approach
  • of one Thunderdel, a huge giant with two heads, who, having heard of
  • the death of his kinsmen, the above–named giants, was come from the
  • northern dales in search of Jack to be revenged of him for their most
  • miserable downfall. He was now within a mile of the knight’s seat, the
  • country people flying before him from their houses and habitations,
  • like chaff before the wind. When they had related this, Jack, not a
  • whit daunted, said—
  • “Let him come. I am prepared with a tool to pick his teeth. And you,
  • gentlemen and ladies, walk but forth into the garden, and you shall be
  • the joyful spectators of this monstrous giant’s death and destruction.”
  • To which they consented, every one wishing him good fortune in that
  • great and dangerous enterprise.
  • The situation of this knight’s house take as follows: It was placed
  • in the midst of a small island, encompassed round with a vast moat,
  • thirty feet deep and twenty feet wide, over which lay a drawbridge.
  • Jack employed two men to cut this last on both sides, almost to the
  • middle, and then, dressing himself in his coat of darkness, likewise
  • putting on his shoes of swiftness, he marches forth against the giant,
  • with his sword of sharpness ready drawn. When he came up to him, yet
  • the giant could not see Jack, by reason of his invisible coat which he
  • had on. Yet, nevertheless, he was sensible of some approaching danger,
  • which made him cry out in these following words—
  • “Fe, fi, fo, fum!
  • I smell the blood of an Englishman;
  • Be he alive or be he dead
  • I’ll grind his bones to make me bread.”
  • “Sayest thou so?” quoth Jack, “then thou art a monstrous miller indeed.
  • But what if I serve thee as I did the two giants of late? On my
  • conscience, I should spoil your practice for the future.”
  • At which time the giant spoke, in a voice as loud as thunder—
  • “Art thou that villain which destroyed my kinsmen? Then will I tear
  • thee with my teeth, and, what is more, I will grind thy bones to
  • powder.”
  • “You will catch me first, sir,” quoth Jack, and with that he threw
  • off his coat of darkness that the giant might see him clearly, and
  • then ran from him, as if through fear. The giant, with foaming mouth
  • and glaring eyes, followed after, like a walking castle, making the
  • foundation of the earth, as it were, to shake at every step. Jack
  • led him a dance three or four times round the moat belonging to the
  • knight’s house, that the gentlemen and ladies might take a full view
  • of this huge monster of nature, who followed Jack with all his might,
  • but could not overtake him by reason of his shoes of swiftness, which
  • carried him faster than the giant could follow. At last Jack, to finish
  • the work, took over the bridge, the giant with full speed pursuing
  • after him, with his iron club upon his shoulder, but, coming to the
  • middle of the drawbridge, what with the weight of his body and the most
  • dreadful steps that he took, it broke down, and he tumbled full into
  • the water, where he rolled and wallowed like a whale. Jack, standing at
  • the side of the moat, laughed at the giant and said—
  • “You told me you would grind my bones to powder. Here you have water
  • enough. Pray, where is your mill?”
  • The giant fretted and foamed to hear him scoff at that rate, and though
  • he plunged from place to place in the moat, yet he could not get out to
  • be avenged on his adversary. Jack at length got a cast rope and cast
  • it over the giant’s two heads with a slip–knot, and, by the help of a
  • train of horses, dragged him out again, with which the giant was near
  • strangled, and before Jack would let him loose he cut off both his
  • heads with his sword of sharpness, in the full view of all the worthy
  • assembly of knights, gentlemen, and ladies, who gave a joyful shout
  • when they saw the giant fairly despatched. Then, before he would either
  • eat or drink, Jack sent the heads also, after the others, to the court
  • of King Arthur, which being done, he, with the knights and ladies,
  • returned to their mirth and pastime, which lasted for many days.
  • After some time spent in triumphant mirth and pastime, Jack grew weary
  • of riotous living, wherefore, taking leave of the noble knights and
  • ladies, he set forward in search of new adventures. Through many woods
  • and groves he passed, meeting with nothing remarkable, till at length,
  • coming near the foot of a high mountain, late at night, he knocked at
  • the door of a lonesome house, at which time an ancient man, with a head
  • as white as snow, arose and let him in.
  • “Father,” said Jack, “have you any entertainment for a benighted
  • traveller that has lost his way?”
  • “Yes,” said the old man, “if you will accept of such accommodation as
  • my poor cottage will afford, thou shalt be right welcome.”
  • Jack returned him many thanks for his great civility, wherefore down
  • they sat together, and the old man began to discourse him as follows—
  • “Son,” said he, “I am sensible thou art the great conqueror of giants,
  • and it is in thy power to free this part of the country from an
  • intolerable burden which we groan under. For, behold! my son, on the
  • top of this high mountain there is an enchanted castle kept by a huge
  • monstrous giant named Galligantus, who, by the help of an old conjuror,
  • betrays many knights and ladies into this strong castle, where, by
  • magic art, they are transformed into sundry shapes and forms. But,
  • above all, I lament the fate of a duke’s daughter, whom they snatched
  • from her father’s garden by magic art, carrying her through the air in
  • a mourning chariot drawn, as it were, by two fiery dragons, and, being
  • secured within the walls of the castle, she was immediately transformed
  • into the real shape of a white hind, where she miserably moans her
  • misfortune. Though many worthy knights have endeavoured to break the
  • enchantment and work her deliverance, yet none of them could accomplish
  • this great work, by reason of two dreadful griffins who were fixed by
  • magic art at the entrance of the castle gate, which destroy any as
  • soon as they see them. You, my son, being furnished with an invisible
  • coat, may pass by them undiscovered, and on the brazen gates of the
  • castle you will find engraved in large characters by what means the
  • enchantment may be broken.”
  • The old man having ended his discourse, Jack gave him his hand, with
  • a faithful promise that in the morning he would venture his life to
  • break the enchantment and free the lady, together with the rest that
  • were miserable partners in her calamity.
  • Having refreshed themselves with a small morsel of meat, they laid them
  • down to rest, and in the morning Jack arose and put on his invisible
  • coat, cap of knowledge, and shoes of swiftness, and so prepares himself
  • for the dangerous enterprises.
  • Now, when he had ascended to the top of the mountain, he soon
  • discovered the two fiery griffins. He passed on between them without
  • fear, for they could not see him by reason of his invisible coat. Now,
  • when he was got beyond them, he cast his eyes around him, where he
  • found upon the gates a golden trumpet, hung in a chain of fine silver,
  • under which these lines were engraved—
  • “Whosoever shall this trumpet blow
  • Shall soon the giant overthrow,
  • And break the black enchantment straight,
  • So all shall be in happy state.”
  • Jack had no sooner read this inscription but he blew the trumpet,
  • at which time the vast foundation of the castle tumbled, and the
  • giant, together with the conjuror, was in horrid confusion, biting
  • their thumbs and tearing their hair, knowing their wicked reign was
  • at an end. At that time Jack, standing at the giant’s elbow, as he
  • was stooping to take up his club, at one blow, with his sword of
  • sharpness, cut off his head. The conjuror, seeing this, immediately
  • mounted into the air and was carried away in a whirlwind. Thus was the
  • whole enchantment broken, and every knight and lady, that had been
  • for a long time transformed into birds and beasts, returned to their
  • proper shapes and likeness again. As for the castle, though it seemed
  • at first to be of vast strength and bigness, it vanished in a cloud of
  • smoke, whereupon an universal joy appeared among the released knights
  • and ladies. This being done, the head of Galligantus was likewise,
  • according to the accustomed manner, conveyed to the court of King
  • Arthur, as a present made to his majesty. The very next day, after
  • having refreshed the knights and ladies at the old man’s habitation
  • (who lived at the foot of the mountain), Jack set forward for the court
  • of King Arthur, with those knights and ladies he had so honourably
  • delivered.
  • Coming to his majesty, and having related all the passages of his
  • fierce encounters, his fame rang through the whole court, and, as a
  • reward for his good services, the king prevailed with the aforesaid
  • duke to bestow his daughter in marriage to honest Jack, protesting that
  • there was no man so worthy of her as he, to all which the duke very
  • honourably consented. So married they were, and not only the court, but
  • likewise the kingdom were filled with joy and triumph at the wedding.
  • After which the king, as a reward for all his good services done for
  • the nation, bestowed upon him a noble habitation with a plentiful
  • estate thereto belonging, where he and his lady lived the residue of
  • their days in great joy and happiness.
  • THE FAIRIES’ CUP.
  • “In the province of the Deiri (Yorkshire), not far from my birthplace,”
  • says William of Newbury, “a wonderful thing occurred, which I have
  • known from my boyhood. There is a town a few miles distant from the
  • Eastern Sea, near which are those celebrated waters commonly called
  • Gipse.... A peasant of this town went once to see a friend who lived
  • in the next town, and it was late at night when he was coming back,
  • not very sober, when, lo! from the adjoining barrow, which I have
  • often seen, and which is not much over a quarter of a mile from the
  • town, he heard the voices of people singing, and, as it were, joyfully
  • feasting. He wondered who they could be that were breaking in that
  • place, by their merriment, the silence of the dead night, and he wished
  • to examine into the matter more closely. Seeing a door open in the
  • side of the barrow he went up to it and looked in, and there he beheld
  • a large and luminous house, full of people, women as well as men, who
  • were reclining as at a solemn banquet. One of the attendants, seeing
  • him standing at the door, offered him a cup. He took it, but would not
  • drink, and pouring out the contents, kept the vessel. A great tumult
  • arose at the banquet on account of his taking away the cup, and all the
  • guests pursued him, but he escaped by the fleetness of the beast he
  • rode, and got into the town with his booty.
  • “Finally this vessel of unknown material, of unusual colour, and of
  • extraordinary form, was presented to Henry the Elder, King of the
  • English, as a valuable gift; was then given to the Queen’s brother,
  • David, King of the Scots, and was kept for several years in the
  • treasury of Scotland. A few years ago, as I have heard from good
  • authority, it was given by William, King of the Scots, to Henry the
  • Second, who wished to see it.”
  • THE WHITE LADY
  • There was once on a time an old woman who lived near Heathfield, in
  • Devonshire. She made a slight mistake, I do not know how, and got up at
  • midnight, thinking it to be morning. This good woman mounted her horse,
  • and set off, panniers, cloak, and all, on her way to market. Anon she
  • heard a cry of hounds, and soon perceived a hare making rapidly towards
  • her. The hare, however, took a turn and a leap and got on the top of
  • the hedge, as if it would say to the old woman “Come, catch me.” She
  • liked such hunting as this very well, put forth her hand, secured the
  • game, popped it into one of the panniers, covered it over, and rode
  • forward. She had not gone far, when great was her alarm at perceiving
  • on the dismal and solitary waste of Heathfield, advancing at full pace,
  • a headless horse, bearing a black and grim rider, with horns sprouting
  • from under a little jockey–cap, and having a cloven foot thrust into
  • one stirrup. He was surrounded by a pack of hounds which had tails that
  • whisked about and shone like fire, while the air itself had a strong
  • sulphurous scent. These were signs not to be mistaken, and the poor
  • old woman knew in a moment that huntsman and hounds were taking a ride
  • from the regions below. It soon, however, appeared that however clever
  • the rider might be, he was no conjuror, for he very civilly asked the
  • old woman if she could set him right, and point out which way the hare
  • was flown. The old woman probably thought it was no harm to pay the
  • father of lies in his own coin, so she boldly gave him a negative, and
  • he rode on, not suspecting the cheat. When he was out of sight the old
  • woman perceived the hare in the pannier began to move, and at length,
  • to her great amazement, it changed into a beautiful young lady, all in
  • white, who thus addressed her preserver—
  • “Good dame, I admire your courage, and I thank you for the kindness
  • with which you have saved me from a state of suffering that must not
  • be told to human ears. Do not start when I tell you that I am not an
  • inhabitant of the earth. For a great crime committed during the time
  • I dwelt upon it, I was doomed, as a punishment in the other world, to
  • be constantly pursued either above or below ground by evil spirits,
  • until I could get behind their tails whilst they passed on in search of
  • me. This difficult object, by your means, I have now happily effected,
  • and, as a reward for your kindness, I promise that all your hens shall
  • lay two eggs instead of one, and that your cows shall yield the most
  • plentiful store of milk all the year round, that you shall talk twice
  • as much as you ever did before, and your husband stand no chance in
  • any matter between you to be settled by the tongue. But beware of the
  • devil, and don’t grumble about tithes, for my enemy and yours may do
  • you an ill–turn when he finds out you were clever enough to cheat even
  • him, since, like all great impostors, he does not like to be cheated
  • himself. He can assume all shapes, except those of the lamb and dove.”
  • The lady in white then vanished. The old woman found the best possible
  • luck that morning in her traffic. And to this day the story goes in
  • the town, that from the Saviour of the world having hallowed the form
  • of the lamb, and the Holy Ghost that of the dove, they can never be
  • assumed by the mortal enemy of the human race under any circumstances.
  • A PLEASANT AND DELIGHTFUL HISTORY OF THOMAS HICKATHRIFT.
  • I.
  • [From a Chap–book, printed at Whitehaven by Ann Dunn, Market Place.
  • Probable date 1780.]
  • In the reign before William the Conqueror, I have read in an ancient
  • history that there dwelt a man in the parish of the Isle of Ely, in the
  • county of Cambridge, whose name was Thomas Hickathrift—a poor man and
  • a day–labourer, yet he was a very stout man, and able to perform two
  • days’ work instead of one. He having one son and no more children in
  • the world, he called him by his own name, Thomas Hickathrift. This old
  • man put his son to good learning, but he would take none, for he was,
  • as we call them in this age, none of the wisest sort, but something
  • less, and had no docility at all in him.
  • His father being soon called out of the world, his mother was tender
  • of him, and maintained him by her hand labour as well as she could, he
  • being slothful and not willing to work to get a penny for his living,
  • but all his delight was to be in the chimney–corner, and he would eat
  • as much at one time as would serve four or five men. He was in height,
  • when he was but ten years of age, about eight feet; and in thickness,
  • five feet; and his hand was like unto a shoulder of mutton; and in all
  • his parts, from top to toe, he was like unto a monster, and yet his
  • great strength was not known.
  • The first time that his strength was known was by his mother’s going to
  • a rich farmer’s house (she being but a poor woman) to desire a bottle
  • of straw for herself and her son Thomas. The farmer, being a very
  • honest, charitable man, bid her take what she would. She going home to
  • her son Tom, said—
  • “I pray, go to such a place and fetch me a bottle of straw; I have
  • asked him leave.”
  • He swore he would not go.
  • “Nay, prithee, Tom, go,” said his mother.
  • He swore again he would not go unless she would borrow him a cart–rope.
  • She, being willing to please him, because she would have some straw,
  • went and borrowed him a cart–rope to his desire.
  • He, taking it, went his way. Coming to the farmer’s house, the master
  • was in the barn, and two men a–thrashing. Said Tom—
  • “I am come for a bottle of straw.”
  • “Tom,” said the master, “take as much as thou canst carry.”
  • He laid down the cart–rope and began to make his bottle. Said they—
  • “Tom, thy rope is too short,” and jeered poor Tom, but he fitted the
  • man well for it, for he made his bottle, and when he had finished it,
  • there was supposed to be a load of straw in it of two thousand pounds
  • weight. Said they—
  • “What a great fool art thou. Thou canst not carry the tenth of it.”
  • Tom took the bottle, and flung it over his shoulder, and made no more
  • of it than we would do of a hundredweight, to the great admiration of
  • master and man.
  • Tom Hickathrift’s strength being then known in the town they would no
  • longer let him lie baking by the fire in the chimney–corner. Every one
  • would be hiring him for work. They seeing him to have so much strength
  • told him that it was a shame for him to live such a lazy course of
  • life, and to be idle day after day, as he did.
  • Tom seeing them bate him in such a manner as they did, went first to
  • one work and then to another, but at length came to a man who would
  • hire him to go to the wood, for he had a tree to bring home, and he
  • would content him. Tom went with him, and took with him four men
  • besides; but when they came to the wood they set the cart to the tree,
  • and began to draw it up with pulleys. Tom seeing them not able to stir
  • it, said—
  • “Stand away, ye fools!” then takes it up and sets it on one end and
  • lays it in the cart.
  • “Now,” says he, “see what a man can do!”
  • “Marry, it is true,” said they.
  • When they had done, as they came through the wood, they met the
  • woodman. Tom asked him for a stick to make his mother a fire with.
  • “Ay,” says the woodman. “Take one that thou canst carry.”
  • Tom espied a tree bigger than that one that was in the cart, and lays
  • it on his shoulder, and goes home with it as fast as the cart and the
  • six horses could draw it. This was the second time that Tom’s strength
  • was known.
  • When Tom began to know that he had more strength than twenty men, he
  • then began to be merry and very tractable, and would run or jump; took
  • great delight to be amongst company, and to go to fairs and meetings,
  • to see sports and pastimes.
  • Going to a feast, the young men were all met, some to cudgels, some to
  • wrestling, some throwing the hammer, and the like. Tom stood a little
  • to see the sport, and at last goes to them that were throwing the
  • hammer. Standing a little to see their manlike sport, at last he takes
  • the hammer in his hand, to feel the weight of it, and bid them stand
  • out of the way, for he would throw it as far as he could.
  • “Ay,” said the smith, and jeered poor Tom. “You’ll throw it a great
  • way, I’ll warrant you.”
  • Tom took the hammer in his hand and flung it. And there was a river
  • about five or six furlongs off, and he flung it into that. When he had
  • done, he bid the smith fetch the hammer, and laughed the smith to scorn.
  • When Tom had done this exploit he would go to wrestling, though he had
  • no more skill of it than an ass but what he did by strength, yet he
  • flung all that came to oppose him, for if he once laid hold of them
  • they were gone. Some he would throw over his head, some he would lay
  • down slyly and how he pleased. He would not like to strike at their
  • heels, but flung them two or three yards from him, ready to break their
  • necks asunder. So that none at last durst go into the ring to wrestle
  • with him, for they took him to be some devil that was come among them.
  • So Tom’s fame spread more and more in the country.
  • Tom’s fame being spread abroad both far and near, there was not a man
  • durst give him an angry word, for he was something fool–hardy, and
  • did not care what he did unto them, so that all they that knew him
  • would not in the least displease him. At length there was a brewer at
  • Lynn that wanted a good lusty man to carry his beer to the Marsh and
  • to Wisbeach, hearing of Tom, went to hire him, but Tom seemed coy,
  • and would not be his man until his mother and friends persuaded him,
  • and his master entreated him. He likewise promised him that he should
  • have a new suit of clothes and everything answerable from top to toe,
  • besides he should eat of the best. Tom at last yielded to be his man,
  • and his master told him how far he must go, for you must understand
  • there was a monstrous giant kept some part of the Marsh, and none durst
  • go that way, for if they did he would keep them or kill them, or else
  • he would make bond slaves of them.
  • But to come to Tom and his master. He did more work in one day than
  • all his men could do in three, so that his master, seeing him very
  • tractable, and to look well after his business, made him his head man
  • to go into the Marsh to carry beer by himself, for he needed no man
  • with him. Tom went every day in the week to Wisbeach, which was a very
  • good journey, and it was twenty miles the roadway.
  • Tom—going so long that wearisome journey, and finding that way the
  • giant kept was nearer by half, and Tom having now got much more
  • strength than before by being so well kept and drinking so much strong
  • ale as he did—one day as he was going to Wisbeach, and not saying
  • anything to his master or to any of his fellow–servants, he was
  • resolved to make the nearest way to the wood or lose his life, to win
  • the horse or lose the saddle, to kill or be killed, if he met with the
  • giant. And with this resolution he goes the nearest way with his cart
  • and horses to go to Wisbeach; but the giant, perceiving him, and seeing
  • him to be bold, thought to prevent him, and came, intending to take his
  • cart for a prize, but he cared not a bit for him.
  • The giant met Tom like a lion, as though he would have swallowed him up
  • at a mouthful.
  • “Sirrah,” said he, “who gave you authority to come this way? Do you not
  • know I make all stand in fear of my sight, and you, like an impudent
  • rogue, must come and fling my gates open at your pleasure? How dare
  • you presume to do this? Are you so careless of your life? I will make
  • thee an example for all rogues under the sun. Dost thou not care what
  • thou dost? Do you see how many heads hang upon yonder tree that have
  • offended my law? Thy head shall hang higher than all the rest for an
  • example!”
  • Tom made him answer—
  • “A fig for your news, for you shall not find me like one of them.”
  • “No?” said the giant. “Why? Thou art but a fool if thou comest to fight
  • with such a one as I am, and bring no weapon to defend thyself withal.”
  • Said Tom—
  • “I have a weapon here will make you understand you are a traitorly
  • rogue.”
  • “Ay, sirrah,” said the giant; and took that word in high disdain that
  • Tom should call him a traitorly rogue, and with that he ran into his
  • cave to fetch out his club, intending to dash out Tom’s brains at the
  • first blow.
  • Tom knew not what to do for a weapon, for he knew his whip would do
  • but little good against such a monstrous beast as he was, for he was
  • in height about twelve feet, and six about the waist. While the giant
  • went for his club, Tom bethought himself of two very good weapons, for
  • he makes no more ado but takes his cart and turns it upside down, takes
  • out the axle–tree, and a wheel for his shield and buckler, and very
  • good weapons they were, especially in time of need. The giant, coming
  • out again, began to stare at Tom, to see him take the wheel in one
  • hand, and the axle–tree in the other, to defend him with.
  • “Oh,” said the giant, “you are like to do great service with these
  • weapons. I have here a twig that will beat thee and thy wheel and
  • axle–tree to the ground.”
  • That which the giant called a twig was as thick as some mill–posts
  • are, but Tom was not daunted for his big and threatening speech, for
  • he perfectly saw there was no way except one, which was to kill or be
  • killed. So the giant made at Tom with such a vehement force that he
  • made Tom’s wheel crack again, and Tom lent the giant as good, for he
  • took him such a weighty blow on the side of his head, that he made the
  • giant reel again.
  • “What,” said Tom, “are you drunk with my strong beer already?”
  • The giant, recovering, laid on Tom, but still as they came, Tom kept
  • them off with his wheel, so that he had no hurt at all. In short, Tom
  • plied his work so well, and laid such huge blows on the giant that
  • sweat and blood together ran down his face, and, being fat and foggy
  • with fighting so long, he was almost tired out, and he asked Tom to let
  • him drink a little water, and then he would fight him again.
  • “No,” said Tom, “my mother did not teach me that wit. Who would be the
  • fool then?”
  • Tom, seeing the giant began to grow weary, and that he failed in his
  • blows, thought it was best to make hay while the sun did shine, for he
  • laid on so fast as though he had been mad, till he brought the giant
  • down to the ground.
  • The giant seeing himself down, and Tom laying so hard on him, made him
  • roar in a most lamentable manner, and prayed him not to take away his
  • life and he would do anything for him, and yield himself to him to be
  • his servant.
  • But Tom, having no more mercy on him than a dog or a bear, laid still
  • on the giant till he laid him for dead. When he had done, he cut off
  • his head, and went into his cave, where he found great store of gold
  • and silver, which made his heart leap.
  • Now, having done this action in killing the giant, he put his cart
  • together again, loaded it, and drove it to Wisbeach and delivered his
  • beer, and, coming home to his master, he told it to him. His master
  • was so overjoyed at the news that he would not believe him till he had
  • seen; and, getting up the next day, he and his master went to see if he
  • spoke the truth or not, together with most of the town of Lynn. When
  • they came to the place and found the giant dead, he then showed the
  • place where the head was, and what silver and gold there was in the
  • cave. All of them leaped for joy, for this monster was a great enemy to
  • all the country.
  • This news was spread all up and down the country, how Tom Hickathrift
  • had killed the giant, and well was he that could run or go to see the
  • giant and his cave. Then all the folks made bonfires for joy, and Tom
  • was a better respected man than before.
  • Tom took possession of the giant’s cave by consent of the whole
  • country, and every one said he deserved twice as much more. Tom pulled
  • down the cave and built him a fine house where the cave stood, and in
  • the ground that the giant kept by force and strength, some of which he
  • gave to the poor for their common, the rest he made pastures of, and
  • divided the most part into tillage to maintain him and his mother, Jane
  • Hickathrift.
  • Tom’s fame was spread both far and near throughout the country, and it
  • was no longer Tom but Mr. Hickathrift, so that he was now the chiefest
  • man among them, for the people feared Tom’s anger as much as they
  • did the giant before. Tom kept men and maid servants, and lived most
  • bravely. He made a park to keep deer in. Near to his house he built a
  • church and gave it the name of St. James’s Church, because he killed
  • the giant on that day, which is so called to this hour. He did many
  • good deeds, and became a public benefactor to all persons that lived
  • near him.
  • Tom having got so much money about him, and being not used to it, could
  • hardly tell how to dispose of it, but yet he did use the means to do
  • it, for he kept a pack of hounds and men to hunt with him, and who but
  • Tom then? So he took such delight in sports that he would go far and
  • near to any meetings, as cudgel–play, bear baiting, football, and the
  • like.
  • Now as Tom was riding one day, he alighted off his horse to see that
  • sport, for they were playing for a wager. Tom was a stranger, and none
  • did know him there. But Tom spoiled their sport, for he, meeting the
  • football, took it such a kick, that they never found their ball more.
  • They could see it fly, but whither none could tell. They all wondered
  • at it, and began to quarrel with Tom, but some of them got nothing by
  • it, for Tom gets a great spar which belonged to a house that was blown
  • down, and all that stood in his way he knocked down, so that all the
  • county was up in arms to take Tom, but all in vain, for he manfully
  • made way wherever he came.
  • When he was gone from them, and returning homewards, he chanced to be
  • somewhat late in the evening on the road. There met him four stout,
  • lusty rogues that had been robbing passengers that way, and none could
  • escape them, for they robbed all they met, both rich and poor. They
  • thought when they met with Tom he would be a good prize for them, and,
  • perceiving he was alone made cock–sure of his money, but they were
  • mistaken, for he got a prize by them. Whereupon, meeting him, they bid
  • him stand and deliver.
  • “What,” said Tom, “shall I deliver?”
  • “Your money, sirrah,” said they.
  • “But,” said Tom, “you will give me better words for it, and you must be
  • better armed.”
  • “Come, come,” said they, “we do not come here to parley, but we come
  • for money, and money we will have before we stir from this place.”
  • “Ay!” said Tom. “Is it so? Then get it and take it.”
  • So then one of them made at him, but he presently unarmed him and took
  • away his sword, which was made of good trusty steel, and smote so
  • hard at the others that they began to put spurs to their horses and
  • be–gone. But he soon stayed their journey, for one of them having a
  • portmanteau behind him, Tom, supposing there was money in it, fought
  • with a great deal of more courage than before, till at last he killed
  • two of the four, and the other two he wounded very sore so that they
  • cried out for quarter. With much ado he gave them their lives, but
  • took all their money, which was about two hundred pounds, to bear his
  • expenses home. Now when Tom came home he told them how he had served
  • the football–players and the four highwaymen, which caused a laughter
  • from his old mother. Then, refreshing himself, he went to see how all
  • things were, and what his men had done since he went from home.
  • Then going into his forest, he walked up and down, and at last met with
  • a lusty tinker that had a good staff on his shoulder, and a great dog
  • to carry his leather bag and tools of work. Tom asked the tinker from
  • whence he came, and whither he was going, for that was no highway. The
  • tinker, being a sturdy fellow, bid him go look, and what was that to
  • him, for fools would be meddling.
  • “No,” says Tom, “but I’ll make you know, before you and I part, it is
  • me.”
  • “Ay!” said the tinker, “I have been this three long years, and have had
  • no combat with any man, and none durst make me an answer. I think they
  • be all cowards in this country, except it be a man who is called Thomas
  • Hickathrift who killed a giant. Him I would fain see to have one combat
  • with him.”
  • “Ay!” said Tom, “but, methinks, I might be master in your mouth. I am
  • the man: what have you to say to me?”
  • “Why,” said the tinker, “verily, I am glad we have met so happily
  • together, that we may have one single combat.”
  • “Sure,” said Tom, “you do but jest?”
  • “Marry,” said the tinker, “I am in earnest.”
  • “A match,” said Tom. “Will you give me leave to get a twig?”
  • “Ay,” says the tinker. “Hang him that will fight a man unarmed. I scorn
  • that.”
  • Tom steps to the gate, and takes one of the rails for his staff. So
  • they fell to work. The tinker at Tom and Tom at the tinker, like unto
  • two giants, they laid one at the other. The tinker had on a leathern
  • coat, and at every blow Tom gave the tinker his coat cracked again, yet
  • the tinker did not give way to Tom an inch, but Tom gave the tinker a
  • blow on the side of the head which felled the tinker to the ground.
  • “Now, tinker, where are you?” said Tom.
  • But the tinker, being a man of metal, leaped up again, and gave Tom a
  • blow which made him reel again, and followed his blows, and then took
  • Tom on the other side, which made Tom’s neck crack again. Tom flung
  • down the weapon, and yielded the tinker to be the best man, and took
  • him home to his house, where I shall leave Tom and the tinker to be
  • recovered of their many wounds and bruises, which relation is more
  • enlarged as you may read in the second part of Thomas Hickathrift.
  • II.
  • [From a Chap–book. The book bears no date or note as to where or by whom
  • it was printed. It was probably printed at London about the year 1780.]
  • In and about the Isle of Ely many disaffected persons, to the number of
  • ten thousand and upwards, drew themselves up in a body, presuming to
  • contend for their pretended ancient rights and liberties, insomuch that
  • the gentry and civil magistrates of the country were in great danger,
  • at which time the sheriff, by night, privately got into the house of
  • Thomas Hickathrift as a secure place of refuge in so imminent a time
  • of danger, where before Thomas Hickathrift he laid open the villainous
  • intent of this headstrong, giddy–brained multitude.
  • “Mr. Sheriff,” quoth Tom, “what service my brother” (meaning the
  • tinker) “and I can perform shall not be wanting.”
  • This said, in the morning by daybreak, with trusty clubs, they both
  • went forth, desiring the Sheriff to be their guide in conducting them
  • to the place of the rebels’ rendezvous. When they came there, Tom and
  • the tinker marched up to the head of the multitude, and demanded
  • of them the reason why they disturbed the government, to which they
  • answered with a loud cry—
  • “Our will’s our law, and by that alone we will be governed.”
  • “Nay,” quoth Tom, “if it be so, these trusty clubs are our weapons, and
  • by them you shall be chastised,” which words were no sooner out of his
  • mouth than the tinker and he put themselves both together in the midst
  • of the throng, and with their clubs beat the multitude down, trampling
  • them under their feet. Every blow which they struck laid twenty or
  • thirty before them, nay—remarkable it was, the tinker struck a tall
  • man, just upon the nape of the neck, with that force that his head
  • flew off and was carried violently fourteen feet from him, where it
  • knocked down one of their chief ring–leaders,—Tom, on the other hand,
  • still pressing forward, till by an unfortunate blow he broke his club.
  • Yet he was not in the least dismayed, for he presently seized upon
  • a lusty, stout, raw–boned miller, and made use of him for a weapon,
  • till at length they cleared the field, so that there was not found one
  • that dare lift up a hand against them, having run to holes and corners
  • to hide themselves. Shortly after some of their heads were taken and
  • made public examples of justice, the rest being pardoned at the humble
  • request of Thomas Hickathrift and the tinker.
  • The king, being truly informed of the faithful services performed by
  • these his loving subjects, Thomas Hickathrift and the tinker, he was
  • pleased to send for them to his palace, where a royal banquet was
  • prepared for their entertainment, most of the nobility being present.
  • Now after the banquet was over, the king said unto all that were there—
  • “These are my trusty and well–beloved subjects, men of approved courage
  • and valour. They are the men that overcame and conquered ten thousand,
  • which were got together to disturb the peace of my realm. According
  • to the character that hath been given to Thomas Hickathrift and Henry
  • Nonsuch, persons here present, they cannot be matched in any other
  • kingdom in the world. Were it possible to have an army of twenty
  • thousand such as these, I dare venture to act the part of Alexander
  • the Great over again, yet, in the meanwhile, as a proof of my royal
  • favour, kneel down and receive the ancient order of knighthood, Mr.
  • Hickathrift,” which was instantly performed.
  • “And as for Henry Nonsuch, I will settle upon him, as a reward for his
  • great service, the sum of forty shillings a year, during life,” which
  • said, the king withdrew, and Sir Thomas Hickathrift and Henry Nonsuch,
  • the tinker, returned home, attended by many persons of quality some
  • miles from the court. But, to the great grief of Sir Thomas, at his
  • return from the court, he found his aged mother drawing to her end,
  • who, in a few days after, died, and was buried in the Isle of Ely.
  • Tom’s mother being dead, and he left alone in a large and spacious
  • house, he found himself strange and uncouth, therefore he began to
  • consider with himself that it would not be amiss to seek out for a
  • wife. Hearing of a young rich widow, not far from Cambridge, to her he
  • went and made his addresses, and, at the first coming, she seemed to
  • show him much favour and countenance, but between this and his coming
  • again she had given some entertainment to a more genteel and airy
  • spark, who happened likewise to come while honest Tom was there the
  • second time. He looked wistfully at Tom, and he stared as wistfully
  • at him again. At last the young spark began with abuseful language to
  • affront Tom, telling him that he was a great lubberly whelp, adding
  • that such a one as he should not pretend to make love to a lady, as he
  • was but a brewer’s servant.
  • “Scoundrel!” quoth Tom, “better words should become you, and if you do
  • not mend your manners you shall not fail to feel my sharp correction.”
  • At which the young spark challenged him forth into the back–yard, for,
  • as he said, he did not question but to make a fool of Tom in a trice.
  • Into the yard they both walk together, the young spark with a naked
  • sword, and Tom with neither stick nor staff in his hand nor any other
  • weapon.
  • “What!” says the spark, “have you nothing to defend yourself? Well, I
  • shall the sooner despatch you.”
  • Which said, he ran furiously forward, making a pass at Tom, which he
  • put by, and then, wheeling round, Tom gave him such a swinging kick
  • as sent the spark, like a crow, up into the air, from whence he fell
  • upon the ridge of a thatched house, and then came down into a large
  • fish–pond, and had been certainly drowned if it had not been for a
  • poor shepherd who was walking that way, and, seeing him float upon the
  • water, dragged him out with his hook, and home he ran, like a drowned
  • rat, while Tom returned to the lady.
  • This young gallant being tormented in his mind to think how Tom had
  • conquered and shamed him before his mistress, he was now resolved for
  • speedy revenge, and knowing that he was not able to cope with a man of
  • Tom’s strength and activity, he, therefore, hired two lusty troopers to
  • lie in ambush in a thicket which Tom was to pass through from his home
  • to the young lady. Accordingly they attempted to set upon him.
  • “How, now,” quoth Tom, “rascals, what would you be at? Are you, indeed,
  • weary of the world that you so unadvisedly set upon one who is able to
  • crush you in like a cucumber?”
  • The troopers, laughing at him, said that they were not to be daunted at
  • his high words.
  • “High words,” quoth Tom. “No, I will come to action,” and with that he
  • ran in between these armed troopers, catching them under his arm, horse
  • and men, with as much ease as if they had been but a couple of baker’s
  • babbins, steering his course with them hastily towards his own home. As
  • he passed through a meadow, in which there were many haymakers at work,
  • the poor distressed troopers cried out—
  • “Stop him! stop him! He runs away with two of the king’s troopers.”
  • The haymakers laughed heartily to see how Tom hugged them along. Ever
  • and anon he upbraided them for their baseness, and declared that he
  • would make minced meat of them to feed the crows and jackdaws about
  • his house and habitation. This was such a dreadful lecture to them
  • that the poor rogues begged that he would be merciful and spare their
  • lives, and they would discover the whole plot, and who was the person
  • that employed them. This accordingly they did, and gained favour in the
  • sight of Tom, who pardoned them upon promise that they would never be
  • concerned in such a villainous action for the time to come.
  • In regard Tom had been hindered by these troopers, he delayed his visit
  • to his lady till the next day, and then, coming to her, gave her a
  • full account of what had happened. She was pleased at heart at this
  • wonderful relation, knowing it was safe for a woman to marry with a
  • man who was able to defend her against all assaults whatsoever, and
  • such a one she found Tom to be. The day of marriage was accordingly
  • appointed, and friends and relations invited, yet secret malice, which
  • is never satisfied without sweet revenge, had like to have prevented
  • the solemnity, for, having three miles to go to church, where they
  • were to be married, the aforesaid gentleman had provided a second time
  • Russians in armour, to the number of twenty–one, he himself being
  • then present, either to destroy the life of Tom, or put them into
  • strange consternation. However, thus it happened. In a lonesome place
  • they rolled out upon them, making their first assault upon Tom, and,
  • with a spear, gave him a slight wound, at which his love and the rest
  • of the women shrieked and cried like persons out of their wits. Tom
  • endeavoured all that he could to pacify them, saying—
  • “Stand you still and I will show you pleasant sport.”
  • With that he caught a back–sword from the side of a gentleman in his
  • own company, with which he so bravely behaved himself that at every
  • stroke he cut off a joint. Loath he was to touch the life of any, but,
  • aiming at their legs and arms, he lopped them off so fast that, in less
  • than a quarter of an hour, there was not one in the company but what
  • had lost a limb, the green grass being stained with their purple gore,
  • and the ground strewn with legs and arms, as ’tis with tiles from the
  • tops of the houses after a dreadful storm—his love and the rest of the
  • company standing all the while as joyful spectators, laughing one at
  • another, saying—
  • “What a company of cripples has he made, as it were in the twinkling of
  • an eye!”
  • “Yes,” quoth Tom, “I believe that for every drop of blood that I lost,
  • I have made the rascals pay me a limb as a just tribute.”
  • This done, he stept to a farmer’s hard by, and hired there a servant,
  • giving him twenty shillings to carry these cripples home to their
  • respective habitations in his cart. Then did he hasten with his love
  • to the church to be married, and then returned home, where they were
  • heartily merry with their friends, after their fierce and dreadful
  • encounter.
  • Now, Tom being married, he made a plentiful feast, to which he invited
  • all the poor widows in four or five parishes, for the sake of his
  • mother, whom he had lately buried. This feast was kept in his own
  • house, with all manner of varieties that the country could afford,
  • for the space of four days, in honour likewise of the four victories
  • which he had lately obtained. Now, when the time of feasting was ended,
  • a silver cup was missing, and, being asked about it, they every one
  • denied they knew anything about it. At length it was agreed that they
  • should all stand the search, which they did, and the cup was found
  • on a certain old woman, named the widow Stumbelow. Then were all the
  • rest in a rage. Some were for hanging her, others were for chopping
  • the old woman in pieces for her ingratitude to such a generous soul as
  • Sir Thomas Hickathrift, but he entreated them all to be quiet, saying
  • they should not murder the old woman, for he would appoint a punishment
  • for her himself, which was this—he bored a hole through her nose, and,
  • tying a string therein, then ordered her to be led by the nose through
  • all the streets and lanes in Cambridge.
  • The tidings of Tom’s wedding were soon noised in the court, so that
  • the king sent them a royal invitation to the end that he might see his
  • lady. They immediately went, and were received with all demonstrations
  • of joy and triumph, but while they were in their mirth a dreadful cry
  • approached the court, which proved to be the commons of Kent who were
  • come thither to complain of a dreadful giant that was landed in one of
  • the islands, and brought with him abundance of bears and young lions,
  • likewise a dreadful dragon, on which he himself rode, which monster and
  • ravenous beasts had frightened all the inhabitants out of the island.
  • Moreover, they said, if speedy course was not taken to suppress them
  • in time, they might overrun the whole island. The king, hearing this
  • dreadful relation, was a little startled, yet he persuaded them to
  • return home and make the best defence they could for themselves at
  • present, assuring them that he should not forget them, and so they
  • departed.
  • The king, hearing the aforesaid dreadful tidings, immediately sat
  • in council to consider what was to be done for the overcoming this
  • monstrous giant, and barbarous savage lions and beasts, that with him
  • had invaded his princely territories. At length it was agreed upon
  • that Thomas Hickathrift was the most likely man in the whole kingdom
  • for undertaking of so dangerous an enterprise, he being not only
  • a fortunate man of great strength, but likewise a true and trusty
  • subject, one that was always ready and willing to do his king and
  • country service. For which reason it was thought necessary to make him
  • governor of the aforesaid island, which place of trust and honour he
  • readily received, and accordingly he forthwith went down with his wife
  • and family, attended by a hundred knights and gentlemen, who conducted
  • him to the entrance of the island which he was to govern. A castle in
  • those days there was, in which he was to take up his head–quarters,
  • the same being situated with that advantage that he could view the
  • island for several miles upon occasion. The knights and gentlemen,
  • at last taking their leave of him, wished him all happy success and
  • prosperity. Many days he had not been there when it was his fortune to
  • behold this monstrous giant, mounted upon a dreadful dragon, bearing
  • upon his shoulder a club of iron, having but one eye, the which was
  • placed in his forehead, and larger in compass than a barber’s basin,
  • and seemed to appear like a flaming fire. His visage was dreadful, grim
  • and tawny; the hair of his head hanging down his back and shoulders
  • like snakes of a prodigious length; the bristles of his beard being
  • like rusty wire. Lifting up his blare eye, he happened to discover Sir
  • Thomas Hickathrift, who was looking upon him from one of his windows
  • of the castle. The giant then began to knit his brow and breathe forth
  • threatening words to the governor, who, indeed, was a little surprised
  • at the approach of so monstrous a brute. The giant, finding that Tom
  • did not make much haste down to meet him, alighted from the back of the
  • dragon, and chained the same to an oak–tree. Then, marching furiously
  • to the castle, he set his broad shoulder against a corner of the stone
  • walls, as if he intended to overthrow the whole building at once, which
  • Tom perceiving, said—
  • “Is this the game you would be at? Faith, I shall spoil your sport, for
  • I have a delicate tool to pick your teeth withal.”
  • Then, taking his two–handed sword of five foot long, a weapon which
  • the king had given him to govern with,—taking this, I say, down he
  • went, and flinging open the gates, he there found the giant, who, by an
  • unfortunate slip in his thrusting, was fallen all along, where he lay
  • and could not help himself.
  • “What!” quoth Tom, “do you come here to take up your lodging? This is
  • not to be suffered.”
  • With that he ran his long broad–sword into the giant’s body, which
  • made the monstrous brute give such a terrible groan that it seemed
  • like roaring thunder, making the very neighbouring trees to tremble.
  • Then Tom, pulling out his sword again, at six or seven blows separated
  • his head from his unconscionable trunk, which head, when it was off,
  • seemed like the root of a mighty oak. Then turning to the dragon, which
  • was all this while chained to a tree, without any further discourse,
  • with four blows with his two–handed sword, he cut off his head also.
  • This fortunate adventure being over, he sent immediately for a team of
  • horses and a wagon, which he loaded with these heads. Then, summoning
  • all the constables in the country for a guard, he sent them to the
  • court, with a promise to his majesty that he would rid the whole island
  • likewise of bears and lions before he left it. Tom’s victories rang so
  • long that they reached the ears of his old acquaintance the tinker,
  • who, desirous of honour, resolved to go down and visit Tom in his new
  • government. Coming there, he met with kind and loving entertainment,
  • for they were very joyful to see one another. Now, after three or four
  • days’ enjoyment of one another’s company, Tom told the tinker that he
  • must needs go forth in search after wild bears and lions, in order to
  • rout them out of the island.
  • “Well,” quoth the tinker, “I would gladly take my fortune with you,
  • hoping that I may be serviceable to you upon occasion.”
  • “Well,” quoth Tom, “with all my heart, for I must needs acknowledge I
  • shall be right glad of your company.”
  • This said, they both went forward, Tom with his two–handed sword, and
  • the tinker with his long pike–staff. Now, after they had travelled
  • about four or five hours, it was their fortune to light on the whole
  • knot of wild beasts together, of which six of them were bears, the
  • other eight young lions. Now, when they had fastened their eyes on Tom
  • and the tinker, these ravenous beasts began to roar and run furiously,
  • as if they would have devoured them at a mouthful. Tom and the tinker
  • stood, side by side, with their backs against an oak, and as the lions
  • and bears came within their reach, Tom, with his long sword, clove
  • their heads asunder till they were all destroyed, saving one lion who,
  • seeing the rest of his fellows slain, was endeavouring to escape. Now
  • the tinker, being somewhat too venturous, ran too hastily after him,
  • and, having given the lion one blow, he turned upon him again, seizing
  • him by the throat with that violence that the poor tinker fell dead to
  • the ground. Tom Hickathrift, seeing this, gave the lion such a blow
  • that it ended his life.
  • Now was his joy mingled with sorrow, for though he had cleared the
  • island of those ravenous savage beasts, yet his grief was intolerable
  • for the loss of his old friend. Home he returned to his lady, where, in
  • token of joy for the wonderful success which he had in his dangerous
  • enterprises, he made a very noble and splendid feast, to which he
  • invited most of his best friends and acquaintances, to whom he made the
  • following promise—
  • “My friends, while I have strength to stand,
  • Most manfully I will pursue
  • All dangers, till I clear this land
  • Of lions, bears, and tigers too.
  • This you’ll find true, or I’m to blame,
  • Let it remain upon record,
  • Tom Hickathrift’s most glorious fame,
  • Who never yet has broke his word.
  • The man who does his country bless
  • Shall merit much from this fair land;
  • He who relieved them in distress
  • His fame upon record shall stand.
  • And you, my friends, who hear me now,
  • Let honest Tom for ever dwell
  • Within your minds and thoughts, I trow,
  • Since he has pleased you all so well.”
  • THE SPECTRE COACH.
  • Cobblers are a thoughtful race of men, and Tom Shanks was one of their
  • number. He lived in the little village of Acton, in Suffolk, and it
  • was there that an adventure befell him, which, as I am informed by a
  • grandson of his, “had an effect on him from that day to this”—though
  • the “this” in the present case is of a somewhat vague meaning, seeing
  • that Tom has unfortunately been dead some twenty years at least. The
  • terrible adventure that befell him was so much the subject of Tom’s
  • talk, that if ever tale could be handed down by means of oral tradition
  • sure Tom’s story should be intact in every detail.
  • It seems that one day Tom left Acton on a journey—quite a remarkable
  • event for him, for he was a quiet–going fellow, not given to running
  • away from his last, but sitting contentedly in his little shop, busily
  • employed in providing his neighbours with good foot–gear. On this day,
  • however, Tom was called away by the intelligence that a sister of his,
  • who was in service in a town some little distance away, was ill and
  • wished to see him. The little cobbler was a man with a warm heart,
  • and as soon as he received this ill news he laid aside a pair of shoes
  • he was on for the parson, and which he was very anxious to finish, for
  • the sooner he touched the money the better for him and his; put on his
  • best coat, took his stick in his hand, and, having bid farewell to his
  • wife and three little ones, went on his way, looking back now and then
  • to shake his stick to them, till he came to the turn in the road by the
  • side of the high trees when he could see them no more.
  • Well, he walked on, and being a stout–hearted little fellow without
  • much flesh to carry, for cobbling did not even in those days bring in
  • a fortune, and Tom and his folk often had hard times of it; he, in
  • the course of the morning, with a slice out of the afternoon, arrived
  • at his destination. There, thank God, he found his sister much better
  • than he might have expected, judging from the account he had heard of
  • her, and having stayed an hour or two to rest his legs, and recruit
  • his stomach with some beef and a pint of ale, he set out on his way
  • homeward.
  • The way back seemed much longer than it ought to have been, and Tom
  • cleared the ground very slowly. Before he had gone far the night closed
  • in; but what was that to him, for he knew every inch of the road; and
  • as to thieves, why, he had little enough in his pocket to tempt them,
  • and if need be—and Tom was not for his size deficient in courage—he
  • had a good stout stick to defend himself with. Still it was dismal
  • work that tramp through lonely lanes, with the trees standing on each
  • side—not bright and lively as they had been in the day–time, with the
  • sun shining on their leaves, and the wind rustling amongst them, but
  • drawn up, still and dark, like sentinels watching in big cloaks. The
  • day had closed in with clouds, which threatened to make the cobbler’s
  • journey more miserable with a down–pour of rain. But this fortunately
  • kept off, and the moon, having risen, looked out now and then between
  • the clouds, and a star or two winked in a style which brought comfort
  • to Tom’s heart—they seemed so companionable.
  • So he went on and on, till at length he came to the neighbourhood
  • of Acton again; and glad enough he was once more to find himself in
  • quarters where the very trees and gates and stiles seemed, as it were,
  • to be old friends—Tom having been used to the sight of them daily for
  • as many years as had passed since he was born, and those were not a
  • few, for he was not exactly a chicken.
  • Well, he came at length to the park gates, and was hurrying past them,
  • for the spot had no particularly good name, and he remembered that he
  • had heard some queer tales concerning sights folk had chanced to see
  • there which they would very much sooner have escaped, when on a sudden
  • his legs seemed, as it were, to refuse to stir, and with his heart
  • thumping against his ribs, as if it would beat a way out for itself,
  • Tom came to a dead stand. What was it that he heard? It seemed like
  • a rushing and grinding of stones, with a cracking like a body of men
  • walking over dry sticks. It could not be the wind, for there was not a
  • breath stirring, and the leaves on the trees lay perfectly still. The
  • noise came nearer and nearer, and the next thought of Tom was that he
  • would like to hide himself in some of the dark shadows around him. But
  • his legs would not stir, and it was as much as he could do, with the
  • aid of his stick, to hold himself up on them. To make matters worse,
  • the moon now, just as the cobbler was wishing for darkness, broke out
  • from a cloud, and cast its light all about him, as if with the very
  • object of showing him up. It is true the light enabled him to have a
  • good look about him, but that was not a thing Tom very much cared about
  • just then.
  • He stood there a few moments, with the sound coming louder and louder,
  • till it seemed to be just at hand. It was evidently in the park itself.
  • Now it was at the gate. Then, all of a sudden, the gates swung back
  • with a terrible clang, and there issued as strange a procession as
  • Tom’s, or indeed mortal’s, eyes ever set on. First there came two
  • grooms on horses, and then a carriage drawn by four large steeds, while
  • two men rode behind. They were all goodly looking men enough, and the
  • horses were, as Tom saw at a glance, as pretty pieces of flesh as any
  • man might wish to throw leg across, but one thing struck horror to the
  • cobbler’s heart as he looked, for he saw that none of the horsemen had
  • a head on him. On they dashed at a break–neck speed, their horses’
  • hoofs seeming to dash fire from the stones on the road, while the
  • wheels of the coach looked like four bright circles, so fast was it
  • drawn over the ground. Cracking their whips, as if to urge the steeds
  • on to even greater speed, the men rode on, nor did Tom hear them utter
  • a word as they swept past him.
  • As the coach went by him, and his eyes were glued upon it, the interior
  • of the carriage seemed to him to be lighted up in some mysterious
  • manner, and inside, Tom said, he clearly saw a gentleman and a lady,
  • for such they evidently were by their dress, sitting side by side, but
  • without heads like their attendants.
  • Another minute and all was gone. Tom rubbed his eyes and wondered if
  • he had not been asleep, but who ever heard of a man falling asleep
  • standing up with no better prop than a stick in his hand? He looked
  • at the gates. They were closed and fast. He looked down the road, but
  • could distinguish nothing. In the distance, however, he could hear the
  • sound of, as it were, a big gust of wind gradually travelling away,
  • while all around him was still.
  • It did not take him long to get home after that, you may be sure, and
  • when he told his story, though there were some that laughed and hinted
  • that Tom was trying to make a hero of himself by pretending that he had
  • seen what no one else of those he told the story to had set eyes on,
  • yet the old folk remembered that they themselves had spoken with folk
  • who had seen the very same sight for themselves, so I think that Tom
  • Shanks has the very best claim to be considered the last man in the
  • place who ever witnessed the progress of the spectre coach.
  • THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER.
  • A very long time ago, I cannot tell you when, it is so long since,
  • there lived in a town in Herefordshire a baker who used to sell bread
  • to all the folk around. He was a mean, greedy man, who sought in every
  • way to put money by, and who did not scruple to cheat such people as he
  • was able when they came to his shop.
  • He had a daughter who helped him in his business, being unmarried and
  • living with him, and seeing how her father treated the people, and how
  • he succeeded in getting money by his bad practices, she, too, in time
  • came to do the like.
  • One day when her father was away, and the girl remained alone in the
  • shop, an old woman came in—
  • “My pretty girl,” said she, “give me a bit of dough I beg of you, for I
  • am old and hungry.”
  • The girl at first told her to be off, but as the old woman would not
  • go, and begged harder than before for a piece of bread, at last the
  • baker’s daughter took up a piece of dough, and giving it to her, says—
  • “There now, be off, and do not trouble me any more.”
  • “My dear,” says the woman, “you have given me a piece of dough, let me
  • bake it in your oven, for I have no place of my own to bake it in.”
  • “Very well,” replied the girl, and, taking the dough, she placed it in
  • the oven, while the old woman sat down to wait till it was baked.
  • When the girl thought the bread should be ready she looked in the oven
  • expecting to find there a small cake, and was very much amazed to find
  • instead a very large loaf of bread. She pretended to look about the
  • oven as if in search of something.
  • “I cannot find the cake,” said she. “It must have tumbled into the fire
  • and got burnt.”
  • “Very well,” said the old woman, “give me another piece of dough
  • instead and I will wait while it bakes.”
  • So the girl took another piece of dough, smaller than the first piece,
  • and having put it in the oven, shut to the door. At the end of a few
  • minutes or so she looked in again, and found there another loaf, larger
  • than the last.
  • “Dear me,” said she, pretending to look about her, “I have surely lost
  • the dough again. There’s no cake here.”
  • “‘Tis a pity,” said the old woman, “but never mind. I will wait while
  • you bake me another piece.”
  • So the baker’s daughter took a piece of dough as small as one of her
  • fingers and put it in the oven, while the old woman sat near. When she
  • thought it ought to be baked, she looked into the oven and there saw a
  • loaf, larger than either of the others.
  • “That is mine,” said the old woman.
  • “No,” replied the girl. “How could such a large loaf have grown out of
  • a little piece of dough?”
  • “It is mine, it is sure,” said the woman.
  • “It is not,” said the girl, “and you shall not have it.”
  • Well, when the old woman saw that the girl would not give her the loaf,
  • and saw how she had tried to cheat her, for she was a fairy, and knew
  • all the tricks that the baker’s daughter had put upon her, she draws
  • out from under her cloak a stick, and just touches the girl with it.
  • Then a wonderful thing occurred, for the girl became all of a sudden
  • changed into an owl, and flying about the room, at last, made for the
  • door, and, finding it open, she flew out and was never seen again.
  • THE FAIRY CHILDREN.
  • “Another wonderful thing,” says Ralph of Coggeshall, “happened in
  • Suffolk, at St. Mary’s of the Wolf–pits.
  • A boy and his sister were found by the inhabitants of that place near
  • the mouth of a pit which is there, who had the form of all their limbs
  • like to those of other men, but they were different in the colour of
  • their skin from all the people of our habitable world, for the whole
  • surface of their skin was tinged of a green colour. No one could
  • understand their speech.
  • When they were brought as curiosities to the house of a certain knight,
  • Sir Richard de Calne, at Wikes, they wept bitterly. Bread and victuals
  • were set before them, but they would touch none of them, though they
  • were tormented by great hunger, as the girl afterwards acknowledged.
  • At length when some beans, just cut, with their stalks, were brought
  • into the house, they made signs, with great avidity, that they should
  • be given to them. When they were brought they opened the stalks
  • instead of the pods, thinking the beans were in the hollow of them.
  • But not finding them there, they began to weep anew. When those who
  • were present saw this, they opened the pods, and showed them the naked
  • beans. They fed on these with great delight, and for a long time tasted
  • no other food. The boy, however, was always languid and depressed, and
  • he died within a short time.
  • The girl enjoyed continual good health, and, becoming accustomed to
  • various kinds of food, lost completely that green colour, and gradually
  • recovered the sanguine habit of her entire body. She was afterwards
  • regenerated by the laver of holy baptism, and lived for many years in
  • the service of that knight, as I have frequently heard from him and his
  • family.
  • Being frequently asked about the people of her country, she asserted
  • that the inhabitants, and all they had in that country, were of a green
  • colour, and that they saw no sun, but enjoyed a degree of light like
  • what is after sunset. Being asked how she came into this country with
  • the aforesaid boy, she replied, that, as they were following their
  • flocks, they came to a certain cavern, on entering which they heard a
  • delightful sound of bells, ravished by whose sweetness they went on
  • for a long time wandering on through the cavern, until they came to
  • its mouth. When they came out of it, they were struck senseless by the
  • excessive light of the sun, and the unusual temperature of the air,
  • and they thus lay for a long time. Being terrified by the noise of
  • those who came on them, they wished to fly, but they could not find the
  • entrance of the cavern before they were caught.”
  • This story is also told by William of Newbury, who places it in the
  • reign of King Stephen. He says he long hesitated to believe it, but was
  • at length overcome by the weight of evidence. According to him, the
  • place where the children appeared, was about four or five miles from
  • Bury–St.–Edmund’s. They came in harvest–time out of the Wolf–pits. They
  • both lost their green hue, and were baptized, and learned English. The
  • boy, who was the younger, died, but the girl married a man at Lenna,
  • and lived many years. They said their country was called St. Martin’s
  • Land, as that saint was chiefly worshipped there; that the people were
  • Christians, and had churches; that the sun did not rise there, but
  • that there was a bright country which could be seen from theirs, being
  • divided from it by a very broad river.
  • THE HISTORY OF JACK AND THE BEANSTALK.
  • [From a Chap–book printed at Paisley, by G. Caldwell, bookseller.
  • Probable date, 1810]
  • In the days of King Alfred there lived a poor woman whose cottage was
  • situated in a remote country village, a great many miles from London.
  • She had been a widow some years, and had an only child named Jack, whom
  • she indulged to a fault. The consequence of her blind partiality was,
  • that Jack did not pay the least attention to anything she said, but was
  • indolent, careless, and extravagant. His follies were not owing to a
  • bad disposition, but that his mother had never checked him. By degrees
  • she disposed of all she possessed—scarcely anything remained but a cow.
  • The poor woman one day met Jack with tears in her eyes. Her distress
  • was great, and, for the first time in her life, she could not help
  • reproaching him, saying—
  • “O you wicked child! by your ungrateful course of life you have at
  • last brought me to beggary and ruin. Cruel, cruel boy! I have not
  • money enough to purchase even a bit of bread for another day. Nothing
  • now remains to sell but my poor cow. I am sorry to part with her. It
  • grieves me sadly, but we must not starve.”
  • For a few minutes Jack felt a degree of remorse, but it was soon over,
  • and he began teasing his mother to let him sell the cow at the next
  • village so much, that she at last consented.
  • As he was going along he met a butcher, who inquired why he was
  • driving the cow from home. Jack replied he was going to sell it.
  • The butcher held some curious beans in his hat that were of various
  • colours and attracted Jack’s notice. This did not pass unnoticed by
  • the butcher, who, knowing Jack’s easy temper, thought now was the time
  • to take advantage of it, and, determined not to let slip so good an
  • opportunity, asked what was the price of the cow, offering at the same
  • time all the beans in his hat for her. The silly boy could not conceal
  • the pleasure he felt at what he supposed so great an offer. The bargain
  • was struck instantly, and the cow exchanged for a few paltry beans.
  • Jack made the best of his way home, calling aloud to his mother before
  • he reached the house, thinking to surprise her.
  • When she saw the beans and heard Jack’s account, her patience quite
  • forsook her. She kicked the beans away in a passion—they flew in all
  • directions—some were scattered in the garden. Not having anything to
  • eat, they both went supperless to bed.
  • Jack awoke very early in the morning, and seeing something uncommon
  • from the window of his bed–chamber, ran downstairs into the garden,
  • where he soon discovered that some of the beans had taken root and
  • sprung up surprisingly. The stalks were of an immense thickness, and
  • had so entwined that they formed a ladder nearly like a chain in
  • appearance.
  • Looking upwards, he could not discern the top. It appeared to be lost
  • in the clouds. He tried the stalk, found it firm, and not to be shaken.
  • He quickly formed the resolution of endeavouring to climb up to the top
  • in order to seek his fortune, and ran to communicate his intention to
  • his mother, not doubting but she would be equally pleased with himself.
  • She declared he should not go; said it would break her heart if he did;
  • entreated and threatened, but all in vain.
  • Jack set out, and, after climbing for some hours, reached the top of
  • the beanstalk, fatigued and quite exhausted. Looking around, he found
  • himself in a strange country. It appeared to be a desert, quite barren,
  • not a tree, shrub, house, or living creature to be seen. Here and there
  • were scattered fragments of stone, and at unequal distances small heaps
  • of earth were loosely thrown together.
  • Jack seated himself, pensively, upon a block of stone, and thought of
  • his mother. He reflected with sorrow on his disobedience in climbing
  • the beanstalk against her will, and concluded that he must die of
  • hunger.
  • However, he walked on, hoping to see a house where he might beg
  • something to eat and drink. Presently a handsome young woman appeared
  • at a distance. As she approached Jack could not help admiring how
  • beautiful and lively she looked. She was dressed in the most elegant
  • manner, and had a small white wand in her hand, on the top of which was
  • a peacock of pure gold.
  • While Jack was looking, with the greatest surprise, at this charming
  • female, she came up to him, and, with a smile of the most bewitching
  • sweetness, inquired how he came there. Jack related the circumstance of
  • the beanstalk. She asked him if he recollected his father. He replied
  • he did not, and added there must be some mystery relating to him,
  • because if he asked his mother who his father was she always burst
  • into tears and appeared to be violently agitated, nor did she recover
  • herself for some days after. One thing, however, he could not avoid
  • observing on these occasions, which was, that she always carefully
  • avoided answering him, and even seemed afraid of speaking, as if there
  • were some secret connected with his father’s history which she must not
  • disclose.
  • The young woman replied—
  • “I will reveal the whole story. Your mother must not do so. But before
  • I begin I require a solemn promise on your part to do what I command. I
  • am a fairy, and, if you do not perform exactly what I desire, you will
  • be destroyed.”
  • Jack was frightened at her menaces, and promised to fulfil her
  • injunctions exactly, and the fairy thus addressed him—
  • “Your father was a rich man. His disposition was very benevolent. He
  • was very good to the poor, and constantly relieved them. He made it a
  • rule never to let a day pass without doing good to some person. On one
  • particular day in the week he kept open house, and invited only those
  • who were reduced and had lived well. He always presided himself, and
  • did all in his power to render his guests comfortable. The rich and
  • the great were next invited. The servants were all happy and greatly
  • attached to their master and mistress. Your father, though only a
  • private gentleman, was as rich as a prince, and he deserved all he
  • possessed, for he only lived to do good. Such a man was soon known
  • and talked of. A giant lived a great many miles off. This man was
  • altogether as wicked as your father was good. He was, in his heart,
  • envious, covetous, and cruel, but he had the art of concealing those
  • vices. He was poor, and wished to enrich himself at any rate.
  • “Hearing your father spoken of, he formed the design of becoming
  • acquainted with him, hoping to ingratiate himself into your father’s
  • favour. He removed quickly into your neighbourhood, and caused it to be
  • reported that he was a gentleman who had just lost all he possessed by
  • an earthquake and had found it difficult to escape with his life. His
  • wife was with him. Your father gave credit to his story and pitied him.
  • He gave him handsome apartments in his own house, and caused him and
  • his wife to be treated like visitors of consequence, little imagining
  • that the giant was undertaking a horrid return for all his favours.
  • “Things went on this way for some time, the giant becoming daily
  • more impatient to put his plan in execution. At last a favourable
  • opportunity presented itself. Your father’s house was at some
  • distance from the sea–shore, but with a glass the coast could be seen
  • distinctly. The giant was one day using the telescope; the wind was
  • very high, and he saw a fleet of ships in distress off the rocks.
  • He hastened to your father, mentioned the circumstance, and eagerly
  • requested he would send all the servants he could spare to relieve the
  • sufferers.
  • “Every one was instantly despatched, except the porter and your nurse.
  • The giant then joined your father in the study, and appeared to be
  • delighted. He really was so. Your father recommended a favourite book,
  • and was handing it down, when the giant, taking the opportunity,
  • stabbed him, and he instantly fell down dead. The giant left the
  • body, found the porter and nurse, and presently despatched them, being
  • determined to have no living witnesses of his crimes.
  • “You were then only three months old. Your mother had you in her arms
  • in a remote part of the house, and was ignorant of what was going
  • on. She went into the study, but how was she shocked on discovering
  • your father dead. She was stupefied with horror and grief, and was
  • motionless. The giant, who was seeking her, found her in that state,
  • and hastened to serve her and you as he had done your father, but she
  • fell at his feet, and, in a pathetic manner, besought him to spare her
  • life and yours.
  • “Remorse, for a moment, seemed to touch the barbarian’s heart. He
  • granted your lives, but first he made her take a most solemn oath
  • never to inform you who your father was, or to answer any questions
  • concerning him, assuring her that if she did he would certainly
  • discover her and put both of you to death in the most cruel manner.
  • Your mother took you in her arms and fled as quickly as possible.
  • She was scarcely gone when the giant repented he had suffered her to
  • escape. He would have pursued her instantly, but he had to provide
  • for his own safety, as it was necessary he should be gone before the
  • servants returned. Having gained your father’s confidence he knew where
  • to find all his treasure. He soon loaded himself and his wife, set the
  • house on fire in several places, and, when the servants returned, the
  • house was burnt quite down to the ground.
  • “Your poor mother, forlorn, abandoned, and forsaken, wandered with you
  • a great many miles from this scene of desolation. Fear added to her
  • haste. She settled in the cottage where you were brought up, and it was
  • entirely owing to her fear of the giant that she never mentioned your
  • father to you.
  • “I became your father’s guardian at his birth, but fairies have laws
  • to which they are subject as well as mortals. A short time before
  • the giant went to your father’s I transgressed. My punishment was a
  • suspension of power for a limited time—an unfortunate circumstance—for
  • it totally prevented my succouring your father.
  • “The day on which you met the butcher, as you went to sell your
  • mother’s cow, my power was restored. It was I who secretly prompted you
  • to take the beans in exchange for the cow.
  • “By my power the beanstalk grew to so great a height and formed a
  • ladder. I need not add I inspired you with a strong desire to ascend
  • the ladder.
  • “The giant lives in this country, and you are the person appointed
  • to punish him for all his wickedness. You will have dangers and
  • difficulties to encounter, but you must persevere in avenging the death
  • of your father, or you will not prosper in any of your undertakings,
  • but be always miserable.
  • “As to the giant’s possessions, you may seize on all you can, for
  • everything he has is yours though now you are unjustly deprived of it.
  • One thing I desire. Do not let your mother know you are acquainted with
  • your father’s history till you see me again.
  • “Go along the direct road, and you will soon see the house where your
  • cruel enemy lives. While you do as I order you I will protect and guard
  • you, but, remember, if you dare disobey my commands, a most dreadful
  • punishment awaits you.”
  • When the fairy had concluded, she disappeared leaving Jack to pursue
  • his journey. He walked on till after sunset when, to his great joy,
  • he espied a large mansion. This agreeable sight revived his drooping
  • spirits, and he redoubled his speed, and soon reached the house. A
  • plain–looking woman was at the door, and Jack accosted her, begging she
  • would give him a morsel of bread and a night’s lodging.
  • She expressed the greatest surprise at seeing him, and said it was
  • quite uncommon to see a human being near their house, for it was well
  • known her husband was a large and very powerful giant, and that he
  • would never eat anything but human flesh, if he could possibly get it;
  • that he did not think anything of walking fifty miles to procure it,
  • usually being out the whole day for that purpose.
  • This account greatly terrified Jack, but still he hoped to elude
  • the giant, and therefore he again entreated the woman to take him in
  • for one night only, and hide him where she thought proper. The good
  • woman at last suffered herself to be persuaded, for she was of a
  • compassionate and generous disposition, and took him into the house.
  • First they entered a fine large hall, magnificently furnished. They
  • then passed through several spacious rooms, all in the same style of
  • grandeur, but they appeared to be quite forsaken and desolate.
  • A long gallery was next. It was very dark, with just light enough to
  • show that, instead of a wall, on one side there was a grating of iron
  • which parted off a dismal dungeon, from whence issued the groans of
  • those poor victims whom the cruel giant reserved in confinement for his
  • own voracious appetite.
  • Poor Jack was half dead with fear, and would have given the world
  • to have been with his mother again, for he now began to fear that
  • he should never see her more, and gave himself up for lost. He even
  • mistrusted the good woman, and thought she had let him into the house
  • for no other purpose than to lock him up among the unfortunate people
  • in the dungeon.
  • At the further end of the gallery there was a spacious kitchen, and
  • a very excellent fire was burning in the grate. The good woman bade
  • Jack sit down, and gave him plenty to eat and drink. Jack, not seeing
  • anything here to make him uncomfortable, soon forgot his fear, and was
  • just beginning to enjoy himself when he was aroused by a loud knocking
  • at the street–door, which made the whole house shake. The giant’s wife
  • ran to secure Jack in the oven and then went to let her husband in.
  • Jack heard him accost her in a voice like thunder, saying—
  • “Wife, I smell fresh meat.”
  • “Oh, my dear,” replied she, “it is nothing but the people in the
  • dungeon.”
  • The giant appeared to believe her, and walked into the very kitchen
  • where poor Jack was concealed, who shook, trembled, and was more
  • terrified than he had yet been.
  • At last the monster seated himself quietly by the fireside, whilst his
  • wife prepared supper. By degrees Jack recovered himself sufficiently to
  • look at the giant through a small crevice. He was quite astonished to
  • see what an amazing quantity he devoured, and thought he would never
  • have done eating and drinking. When supper was ended the giant desired
  • his wife to bring him his hen. A very beautiful hen was brought and
  • placed on the table before him. Jack’s curiosity was very great to see
  • what would happen. He observed that every time the giant said “Lay,”
  • the hen laid an egg of solid gold.
  • The giant amused himself a long while with his hen, and meanwhile his
  • wife went to bed. At length the giant fell asleep by the fireside and
  • snored like the roaring of a cannon. At daybreak Jack, finding the
  • giant still asleep, and not likely to awaken soon, crept softly out of
  • his hiding–place, seized the hen, and ran off with her.
  • He met with some difficulty in finding his way out of the house, but,
  • at last, he reached the road in safety. He easily found his way to the
  • beanstalk and descended it better and quicker than he had expected.
  • His mother was overjoyed to see him. He found her crying bitterly, and
  • lamenting his hard fate, for she concluded he had come to some shocking
  • end through his rashness.
  • Jack was impatient to show his hen, and inform his mother how valuable
  • it was.
  • “And now, mother,” said Jack, “I have brought home that which will
  • make us rich, and I hope to make some amends for the affliction I have
  • caused you through my idleness, extravagance, and folly.”
  • The hen produced as many golden eggs as they desired, which Jack and
  • his mother sold, and so in a little time became possessed of as much
  • riches as they wanted.
  • For some months Jack and his mother lived very happily together,
  • but he, being very desirous of travelling, recollecting the fairy’s
  • commands, and fearing that if he delayed she would put her threats into
  • execution, longed to climb the beanstalk and pay the giant another
  • visit, in order to carry away some more of his treasure, for, during
  • the time that Jack was in the giant’s mansion, while he lay concealed
  • in the oven, he learned, from the conversation that took place between
  • the giant and his wife, that he possessed some wonderful curiosities.
  • Jack thought of his journey again and again, but still he could not
  • summon resolution enough to break it to his mother, being well assured
  • she would endeavour to prevent his going. However, one day he told
  • her boldly that he must take a journey up the beanstalk. His mother
  • begged and prayed him not to think of it, and tried all in her power to
  • dissuade him. She told him that the giant’s wife would certainly know
  • him again, and the giant would desire nothing better than to get him
  • into his power, that he might put him to a cruel death in order to be
  • revenged for the loss of his hen.
  • Jack, finding that all his arguments were useless, pretended to give up
  • the point, though he was resolved to go at all events. He had a dress
  • prepared which would disguise him, and something to colour his skin,
  • and he thought it impossible for any one to recollect him in this dress.
  • In a few mornings after this, he rose very early, changed his
  • complexion, and, unperceived by any one, climbed the beanstalk a second
  • time. He was greatly fatigued when he reached the top, and very hungry.
  • Having rested some time on one of the stones, he pursued his journey
  • to the giant’s mansion. He reached it late in the evening, and found
  • the woman at the door as before. Jack addressed her, at the same time
  • telling her a pitiful tale, and requesting she would give him some
  • victuals and drink, and also a night’s lodging.
  • She told him (what he knew very well before) about her husband’s being
  • a powerful and cruel giant and also how she one night admitted a poor,
  • hungry, friendless boy, who was half dead with travelling, and that
  • the ungrateful fellow had stolen one of the giant’s treasures, ever
  • since which her husband had been worse than before, had used her very
  • cruelly, and continually upbraided her with being the cause of his loss.
  • Jack was at no loss to discover that he was attending to the account
  • of a story in which he was the principal actor. He did his best to
  • persuade the old woman to admit him, but found it a very hard task.
  • At last she consented, and as she led the way Jack observed that
  • everything was just as he had found it before. She took him into the
  • kitchen, and after he had done eating and drinking, she hid him in an
  • old lumber closet. The giant returned at the usual time, and walked
  • in so heavily that the house was shaken to the foundation. He seated
  • himself by the fire, and, soon after, exclaimed—
  • “Wife, I smell fresh meat.”
  • The wife replied it was the crows, which had brought a piece of raw
  • meat and left it on the top of the house.
  • Whilst supper was preparing, the giant was very ill–tempered and
  • impatient, frequently lifting up his hand to strike his wife for not
  • being quick enough, but she was always so fortunate as to elude the
  • blow. The giant was also continually upbraiding her with the loss of
  • his wonderful hen.
  • The giant’s wife, having set supper on the table, went to another
  • apartment and brought from it a huge pie which she also placed before
  • him.
  • When he had ended his plentiful supper and eaten till he was quite
  • satisfied, he said to his wife—
  • “I must have something to amuse me, either my bags of money or my harp.”
  • After a good deal of ill–humour, and after having teased his wife for
  • some time, he commanded her to bring down his bags of gold and silver.
  • Jack, as before, peeped out of his hiding place, and presently the wife
  • brought two bags into the room. They were of a very large size. One
  • was filled with new guineas, and the other with new shillings. They
  • were placed before the giant, who began reprimanding his poor wife
  • most severely for staying so long. She replied, trembling with fear,
  • that they were so heavy she could scarcely lift them, and concluded by
  • saying she would never again bring them downstairs, adding that she
  • had nearly fainted owing to their weight.
  • This so exasperated the giant that he raised his hand to strike her,
  • but she escaped and went to bed, leaving him to count over his treasure
  • by way of amusement.
  • The giant took his bags, and after turning them over and over to see
  • they were in the same state he had left them, began to count their
  • contents. First the bag which contained the silver was emptied, and the
  • contents placed upon the table. Jack viewed the glittering heaps with
  • delight, and most heartily wished them in his own possession. The giant
  • (little thinking he was so narrowly watched) reckoned the silver over
  • several times, and then, having satisfied himself that all was safe,
  • put it into the bags again, which he made very secure.
  • The other bag was opened next, and the guineas placed upon the table.
  • If Jack was pleased at the sight of the silver, how much more delighted
  • must he have felt when he saw such a heap of glittering gold? He
  • even had the boldness to think of gaining both bags, but, suddenly
  • recollecting himself, he began to fear that the giant would sham sleep,
  • the better to entrap any one who might be concealed.
  • When the giant had counted over the gold till he was tired, he put it
  • up, if possible more secure than he had put up the silver before, and
  • he then fell back on his chair by the fireside and fell asleep. He
  • snored so loud that Jack compared his noise to the roaring of the sea
  • in a high wind, when the tide is coming in. At last Jack concluded him
  • to be asleep and therefore secure. He stole out of his hiding–place and
  • approached the giant, in order to carry off the two bags of money. Just
  • as he laid his hand upon one of the bags a little dog, which he had not
  • observed before, started from under the giant’s chair and barked at
  • Jack most furiously, who now gave himself up for lost. Fear rivetted
  • him to the spot, and instead of endeavouring to escape he stood still,
  • though expecting his enemy to awake every instant. Contrary, however,
  • to his expectation the giant continued in a sound sleep, and the dog
  • grew weary of barking. Jack now began to recollect himself, and, on
  • looking around, saw a large piece of meat. This he threw to the dog,
  • who instantly seized it, and took it into the lumber–closet which Jack
  • had just left.
  • Finding himself delivered from a noisy and troublesome enemy, and
  • seeing the giant did not awake, Jack boldly seized the bags, and,
  • throwing them over his shoulders, ran out of the kitchen. He reached
  • the street–door in safety, and found it quite daylight. On his way to
  • the top of the beanstalk he found himself greatly incommoded with the
  • weight of the money bags, and, really, they were so heavy he could
  • scarcely carry them.
  • Jack was overjoyed when he found himself near the beanstalk. He soon
  • reached the bottom and ran to meet his mother. To his great surprise
  • the cottage was deserted. He ran from one room to another without being
  • able to find any one. He then hastened into the village, hoping to see
  • some of his neighbours, who could inform him where he could find her.
  • An old woman at last directed him to a neighbouring house, where his
  • mother was ill of a fever. He was greatly shocked on finding her
  • apparently dying, and could scarcely bear his own reflections on
  • knowing himself to be the cause of it.
  • On being informed of our hero’s safe return, his mother, by degrees,
  • revived, and gradually recovered. Jack presented her his two valuable
  • bags, and they lived happy and comfortably. The cottage was rebuilt and
  • well furnished.
  • For three years Jack heard no more of the beanstalk, but he could not
  • forget it, though he feared making his mother unhappy. She would not
  • mention the hated beanstalk, lest her doing so should remind him of
  • taking another journey.
  • Notwithstanding the comforts Jack enjoyed at home, his mind continually
  • dwelt upon the beanstalk, for the fairy’s menaces in case of his
  • disobedience were ever present to his mind and prevented him from being
  • happy. He could think of nothing else. It was in vain he endeavoured to
  • amuse himself. He became thoughtful, would arise at the first dawn of
  • day, and would view the beanstalk for hours together.
  • His mother discovered that something preyed heavily upon his mind, and
  • endeavoured to discover the cause, but Jack knew too well what the
  • consequence would be should he discover the cause of his melancholy
  • to her. He did his utmost, therefore, to conquer the great desire
  • he had for another journey up the beanstalk. Finding, however, that
  • his inclination grew too powerful for him, he began to make secret
  • preparations for his journey, and, on the longest day, arose as soon
  • as it was light, ascended the beanstalk, and reached the top with
  • some little trouble. He found the road, journey, etc., much as it was
  • on the two former times. He arrived at the giant’s mansion in the
  • evening, and found his wife standing, as usual, at the door. Jack had
  • disguised himself so completely that she did not appear to have the
  • least recollection of him. However, when he pleaded hunger and poverty
  • in order to gain admittance, he found it very difficult, indeed, to
  • persuade her. At last he prevailed, and was concealed in the copper.
  • When the giant returned, he said—
  • “I smell fresh meat,” but Jack felt composed, for the giant had said
  • so before, and had been soon satisfied; however, the giant started
  • up suddenly and searched all round the room. Whilst this was going
  • forward Jack was exceedingly terrified, and ready to die with fear,
  • wishing himself at home a thousand times, but when the giant approached
  • the copper, and put his hand upon the lid, Jack thought his death was
  • certain. The giant ended his search there without moving the lid, and
  • seated himself quietly by the fireside.
  • The giant at last ate a hearty supper, and when he had finished, he
  • commanded his wife to fetch down his harp. Jack peeped under the copper
  • lid and soon saw the most beautiful harp that could be imagined. It was
  • placed by the giant on the table, who said—
  • “Play,” and it instantly played of its own accord, without being
  • touched. The music was uncommonly fine. Jack was delighted, and felt
  • more anxious to get the harp into his possession than either of the
  • former treasures.
  • The giant’s soul was not attuned to harmony, and the music soon lulled
  • him into a sound sleep. Now, therefore, was the time to carry off the
  • harp. As the giant appeared to be in a more profound sleep than usual,
  • Jack, soon determined, got out of the copper and seized the harp. The
  • harp, however, was enchanted by a fairy, and it called out loudly—
  • “Master, master!”
  • The giant awoke, stood up, and tried to pursue Jack, but he had drunk
  • so much that he could hardly stand. Poor Jack ran as fast as he could,
  • and, in a little time, the giant recovered sufficiently to walk
  • slowly, or rather, to reel after him. Had he been sober he must have
  • overtaken Jack instantly, but as he then was, Jack contrived to be
  • first at the top of the beanstalk. The giant called after him in a
  • voice like thunder, and sometimes was very near him.
  • The moment Jack got down the beanstalk he called out for a hatchet,
  • and one was brought him directly. Just at that instant the giant was
  • beginning to descend, but Jack with his hatchet cut the beanstalk close
  • off at the root, which made the giant fall headlong into the garden.
  • The fall killed him, thereby releasing the world from a barbarous enemy.
  • Jack’s mother was delighted when she saw the beanstalk destroyed. At
  • this instant the fairy appeared. She first addressed Jack’s mother, and
  • explained every circumstance relating to the journeys up the beanstalk.
  • The fairy then charged Jack to be dutiful to his mother, and to follow
  • his father’s good example, which was the only way to be happy. She
  • then disappeared. Jack heartily begged his mother’s pardon for all the
  • sorrow and affliction he had caused her, promising most faithfully to
  • be very dutiful and obedient to her for the future.
  • JOHNNY REED’S CAT.
  • “Yes, cats are queer folk, sure enough, and often know more than a
  • simple beast ought to by knowledge that’s rightly come by. There’s that
  • cat there, you’ve been looking at, will stand at a door on its hind
  • legs with its front paws on the handle trying like a Christian to open
  • the door, and mewling in a manner that’s almost like talking. He’s a
  • London cat, he is, being brought me by a cousin who lives there, and is
  • called Gilpin, after, I’m told, a mayor who was christened the same.
  • He’s a knowing cat, sure enough; but it’s not the London cats that are
  • cleverer than the country ones. Who knows, he may be a relative of
  • Johnny Reed’s own tom–cat himself.”
  • “And who was Johnny Reed? and what was there remarkable about his cat?”
  • “Have you never heard tell of Johnny Reed’s cat? It’s an old tale they
  • have in the north country, and it’s true enough, though folk may not
  • believe it in these days when the Bible’s not gospel enough for some
  • of them. I’ve heard my father often tell the story, and he came from
  • Newcastle way, which is the very part where Johnny Reed used to live,
  • being a parish sexton in a village not far away.
  • “Well, Johnny Reed was the sexton, as I’ve already said, and he and
  • his wife kept a cat, a well enough behaved creature, sure enough,
  • and a beast as he had no fault to set on, saving a few of the tricks
  • which all cats play at times, and which seem born in the blood of the
  • creatures. It was all black except one white paw, and seemed as honest
  • and decent a beast as could be, and Tom would as soon have suspected it
  • of being any more than it really seemed to be as he would one of his
  • own children themselves, like many other folk, perhaps, who, may be,
  • have cats of the same kind, little thinking it.
  • “Well, the cat had been with him some years when a strange thing
  • occurred.
  • “One night Johnny was going home late from the churchyard, where he had
  • been digging a grave for a person who had died on a sudden, throwing
  • the grave on Johnny’s hands unexpectedly, so that he had to stop
  • working at it by the light of a lantern to have it ready for the next
  • day’s burying. Well, having finished his work, and having put his tools
  • in the shed in a corner of the yard, and having locked them up safe, he
  • began to walk home pretty brisk, thinking would his wife be up and have
  • a bit of fire for him, for the night was cold, a keen wind blowing over
  • the fields.
  • “He hadn’t gone far before he comes to a gate at the roadside, and
  • there seemed to be a strange shadow about it, in which Johnny saw,
  • as it might be, a lot of little gleaming fires dancing about, while
  • some stood steady, just like flashes of light from little windows in
  • buildings all on fire inside. Says Johnny to himself, for he was not a
  • man to be easily frightened, being accustomed by his calling to face
  • things which might upset other folk—
  • “‘Hullo! What’s here? Here’s a thing I never saw before,’ and with that
  • he walks straight up to the gate, while the shadow got deeper and the
  • fires brighter the nearer he came to it.
  • “Well, when he came right up to the gate he finds that the shadow was
  • just none at all, but nine black cats, some sitting and some dancing
  • about, and the lights were the flashes from their eyes. When he came
  • nearer he thought to scare them off, and he calls out—
  • “‘Sh—sh—sh,’ but never a cat stirs for all of it.
  • “‘I’ll soon scatter you, you ugly varmin,’ says Johnny, looking about
  • him for a stone, which was not to be found, the night being dark and
  • preventing him seeing one. Just then he hears a voice calling—
  • “‘Johnny Reed!’
  • “‘Hullo!’ says he, ‘who’s that wants me?’
  • “‘Johnny Reed,’ says the voice again.
  • “‘Well,’ says Johnny, ‘I’m here,’ and looking round and seeing no one,
  • for no one was about ’tis true. ‘Was it one of you,’ says he, joking
  • like, to the cats, ‘as was calling me?’
  • “‘Yes, of course,’ answers one of them, as plain as ever Christian
  • spoke. ‘It’s me as has called you these three times.’
  • “Well, with that, you may be sure, Johnny begins to feel curious, for
  • ’twas the first time he had ever been spoken to by a cat, and he didn’t
  • know what it might lead to exactly. So he takes off his hat to the cat,
  • thinking that it was, perhaps, best to show it respect, and, seeing
  • that he was unable to guess with whom he was dealing, hoping to come
  • off all the better for a little civility.
  • “‘Well, sir,’ says he, ‘what can I do for you?’
  • “‘It’s not much as I want with you,’ says the cat, ‘but it’s better
  • it’ll be with you if you do what I tell you. Tell Dan Ratcliffe that
  • Peggy Poyson’s dead.’
  • “‘I will, sir,’ says Johnny, wondering at the same time how he was to
  • do it, for who Dan Ratcliffe was he knew no more than the dead. Well,
  • with that all the cats vanished, and Johnny, running the rest of the
  • way home, rushes into his house, smoking hot from the fright and the
  • distance he had to go over.
  • “‘Nan,’ says he to his wife, the first words he spoke, ‘who’s Dan
  • Ratcliffe?’
  • “‘Dan Ratcliffe,’ says she. ‘I never heard of him, and don’t know
  • there’s any one such living about here.’
  • “‘No more do I,’ says he, ‘but I must find him wherever he is.’
  • “Then he tells his wife all about how he had met the cats, and how they
  • had stopped him and given him the message. Well, his cat sits there
  • in front of the fire looking as snug and comfortable as a cat could
  • be, and nearly half–asleep, but when Johnny comes to telling his wife
  • the message the cats had given him, then it jumped up on its feet, and
  • looks at Johnny, and says—
  • “‘What! is Peggy Poyson dead? Then it’s no time for me to be here;’ and
  • with that it springs through the door and vanishes, nor was ever seen
  • again from that day to this.”
  • “And did the sexton ever find Dan Ratcliffe,” I asked.
  • “Never. He searched high and low for him about, but no one could tell
  • him of such a person, though Johnny looked long enough, thinking it
  • might be the worse for him if he didn’t do his best to please the cats.
  • At last, however, he gave the matter up.”
  • “Then, what was the meaning of the cat’s message?”
  • “It’s hard to tell; but many folk thought, and I’m inclined to agree
  • with them, that Dan Ratcliffe was Johnny’s own cat, and no one else,
  • looking at the way he acted, and no other of the name being known.
  • Who Peggy Poyson was no one could tell, but likely enough it was some
  • relative of the cat, or may be some one it was interested in, for it’s
  • little we know concerning the creatures and their ways, and with whom
  • and what they’re mixed up.”
  • LAME MOLLY.
  • Two Devonshire serving–maids declared, as an excuse perhaps for
  • spending more money than they ought upon finery, that the pixies were
  • very kind to them, and would often drop silver for their pleasure
  • into a bucket of fair water, which they placed for the accommodation
  • of those little beings every night in the chimney–corner before they
  • went to bed. Once, however, it was forgotten; and the pixies, finding
  • themselves disappointed by an empty bucket, whisked upstairs to the
  • maids’ bedroom, popped through the keyhole, and began, in a very
  • audible tone, to exclaim against the laziness and neglect of the
  • damsels.
  • One of them, who lay awake and heard all this, jogged her
  • fellow–servant, and proposed getting up immediately to repair the
  • fault of omission; but the lazy girl, who liked not being disturbed
  • out of a comfortable nap, pettishly declared “That, for her part, she
  • would not stir out of bed to please all the pixies in Devonshire.”
  • The good–humoured damsel, however, got up, filled the bucket, and
  • was rewarded by a handful of silver pennies found in it the next
  • morning. But, ere that time had arrived, what was her alarm, as she
  • crept towards the bed, to hear all the elves in high and stern debate
  • consulting as to what punishment should be inflicted on the lazy lass
  • who would not stir for their pleasure.
  • Some proposed “pinches, nips, and bobs,” others to spoil her new
  • cherry–coloured bonnet and ribands. One talked of sending her the
  • toothache, another of giving her a red nose, but this last was voted
  • too severe and vindictive a punishment for a pretty young woman. So,
  • tempering mercy with justice, the pixies were kind enough to let her
  • off with a lame leg, which was so to continue only for seven years, and
  • was alone to be cured by a certain herb, growing on Dartmoor, whose
  • long and learned and very difficult name the elfin judge pronounced in
  • a high and audible voice. It was a name of seven syllables, seven being
  • also the number of years decreed for the chastisement.
  • The good–natured maid, wishing to save her fellow–damsel so long a
  • suffering, tried with might and main to bear in mind the name of this
  • potent herb. She said it over and over again, tied a knot in her garter
  • at every syllable, in order to assist her memory, and thought she had
  • the word as sure as her own name, and very possibly felt much more
  • anxious about retaining the one than the other. At length she dropped
  • asleep, and did not wake till the morning. Now, whether her head might
  • be like a sieve, that lets out as fast as it takes in, or whether the
  • over–exertion to remember caused her to forget, cannot be determined,
  • but certain it is when she opened her eyes, she knew nothing at all
  • about the matter, excepting that Molly was to go lame on her right leg
  • for seven long years, unless a herb with a strange name could be got to
  • cure her. And lame she went for nearly the whole of that period.
  • At length (it was about the end of the time) a merry, squint–eyed,
  • queer–looking boy started up one fine summer day, just as she went to
  • pluck a mushroom, and came tumbling, head over heels, towards her. He
  • insisted on striking her leg with a plant which he held in his hand.
  • From that moment she got well, and lame Molly, as a reward for her
  • patience in suffering, became the best dancer in the whole town at the
  • celebrated festivities of May–day on the green.
  • THE BROWN MAN OF THE MOORS.
  • In the year before the great rebellion two young men from Newcastle
  • were sporting on the high moors above Elsdon, and, after pursuing
  • their game several hours, sat down to dine in a green glen, near one
  • of the mountain streams. After their repast, the younger lad ran to
  • the brook for water, and, after stooping to drink, was surprised, on
  • lifting his head again, by the appearance of a brown dwarf, who stood
  • on a crag covered with brackens across the burn. This extraordinary
  • personage did not appear to be above half the stature of a common man,
  • but was uncommonly stout and broad–built, having the appearance of vast
  • strength. His dress was entirely brown, the colour of the brackens, and
  • his head covered with frizzled red hair. His countenance was expressive
  • of the most savage ferocity, and his eyes glared like those of a bull.
  • It seems he addressed the young man, first threatening him with his
  • vengeance for having trespassed on his demesnes, and asking him if he
  • knew in whose presence he stood. The youth replied that he supposed him
  • to be the lord of the moors; that he had offended through ignorance;
  • and offered to bring him the game he had killed. The dwarf was a little
  • mollified by this submission, but remarked that nothing could be more
  • offensive to him than such an offer, as he considered the wild animals
  • as his subjects, and never failed to avenge their destruction. He
  • condescended further to inform the young man that he was, like himself,
  • mortal, though of years far exceeding the lot of common humanity, and
  • that he hoped for salvation. He never, he added, fed on anything that
  • had life, but lived in the summer on whortle berries, and in winter on
  • nuts and apples, of which he had great store in the woods. Finally,
  • he invited his new acquaintance to accompany him home and partake his
  • hospitality, an offer which the youth was on the point of accepting,
  • and was just going to spring across the brook (which if he had done,
  • the dwarf would certainly have torn him to pieces) when his foot was
  • arrested by the voice of his companion, who thought he had tarried
  • long. On his looking round again “the wee brown man was fled.”
  • The story adds that the young man was imprudent enough to slight the
  • admonition, and to sport over the moors on his way homewards, but soon
  • after his return he fell into a lingering disorder, and died within a
  • year.
  • HOW THE COBBLER CHEATED THE DEVIL.
  • It chanced that once upon a time long years ago, in the days when
  • strange things used to happen in the world, and the devil himself
  • used sometimes to walk about in it in a bare–faced fashion, to the
  • distraction of all good and bad folk alike, he came to a very small
  • town where he resolved to stay a while to play some of his tricks. How
  • it was, whether the people were better or were worse than he expected
  • to find them, whether they would not give way to him, or whether they
  • went beyond him and outwitted him, I don’t know, and so cannot say;
  • but sure it is that in a short while he became terribly angry with
  • the folk, and at length was so disgusted that he threatened he would
  • make them repent their treatment of him, for he would punish them in
  • a manner which should show them his power. With that he flew off in a
  • fury, and the folk, knowing with whom they had to deal, were very sad
  • thinking what terrible thing would overtake them, and at their wits’
  • end to imagine how they might manage to escape the claws of the Evil
  • One.
  • Accordingly it was decided to call a meeting of the townsfolk, to which
  • all, old and young, should come to deliver their opinion as to the best
  • course to be pursued, only those too old to walk, the sick, and the
  • foolish, being not called to the council.
  • Very many different courses were proposed, and while these were being
  • debated a man rushed into the hall where the council was held, and
  • informed them that their enemy was coming, for he had himself seen him
  • making his way to the town, bearing on his shoulder a stone almost big
  • enough to bury the place under it. He reported that the devil was yet a
  • long way off, for his load hampered him sadly and he could not travel
  • fast.
  • What to do the councillors did not know, when suddenly there came
  • amongst them a poor cobbler, whom they had forgot to call to the
  • meeting, for he was, indeed, looked upon as only half–witted.
  • “I will go and meet him,” said he, “and stop him coming here.”
  • “You stop him!” cried they all; “it’s mad you must be to think of it.”
  • “I’ll go all the same,” said the cobbler, and without saying a word
  • more he goes out and begins to make ready for his journey.
  • First of all he collected together as many old boots and shoes as he
  • could find, and when he had got them all in a bundle, he finds out the
  • man who had seen the devil coming on, and inquired of him the way
  • he should go to meet him. The man told him the road, and the cobbler
  • set out. He walked, and walked, and walked, till at last he came to
  • the devil, who was sitting by the roadside resting himself and trying
  • to get cool, for the day was warm, and he was nearly worn out with
  • carrying the big rock which lay beside him.
  • “Do you know such–and–such a place?” asks he of the man, naming the
  • town he would be at.
  • “I do, indeed,” says the man, “for I ought to, seeing I have lived in
  • its neighbourhood these many years, and have only left there to travel
  • here.”
  • “And how many days have you been getting here?” asked the devil
  • anxiously, for he had hoped he was near the end of his journey.
  • “Oh, days and days,” replies the man. “See here,” and he opens his
  • bundle of old boots that he had ready,—“see here,” says he, “these are
  • the boots I’ve worn out on the hard road in coming from the place here.”
  • “‘Have you, indeed!’ says the devil, looking at them amazed, little
  • thinking that the man was lying as he showed him pair after pair, all
  • in holes and shreds. “Well, indeed, it must be a long way off,” and he
  • looks around him, and then at the rock, and thinks what a terrible long
  • way he has had to bring it, and begins to doubt whether, after all,
  • since he’s still got so far to go, it’s worth all the trouble.
  • “If it had been near,” says he, “it would have been a different thing,
  • and I would have shown them what it is to treat me as they did, but as
  • it’s so far off it’s another matter, and I don’t think it’s worth the
  • trouble.”
  • So he just takes up the rock and flings it aside in a field, and goes
  • off back again. So the cobbler came home, and told all the townsfolk
  • what he had done, and how he had cheated the devil, and I can assure
  • you that they all admired his cleverness, and the joke of tricking
  • the devil as he had, nor did they allow him to lose in consequence of
  • missing his day’s work.
  • THE TAVISTOCK WITCH.
  • An old witch in days of yore lived in the neighbourhood of Tavistock,
  • and whenever she wanted money she would assume the shape of a hare,
  • and would send out her grandson to tell a certain huntsman, who lived
  • hard by, that he had seen a hare sitting at such a particular spot, for
  • which he always received the reward of sixpence. After this deception
  • had been practised many times, the dogs turned out the hare pursued,
  • often seen but never caught, a sportsman of the party began to suspect
  • “that the devil was in the dance,” and there would be no end to it. The
  • matter was discussed, a justice consulted, and a clergyman to boot, and
  • it was thought that however clever the devil might be, law and church
  • combined would be more than a match for him. It was therefore agreed
  • that, as the boy was singularly regular in the hour at which he came to
  • announce the sight of the hare, all should be in readiness for a start
  • the instant such information was given, and a neighbour of the witch,
  • nothing friendly to her, promised to let the parties know directly that
  • the old woman and her grandson left the cottage and went off together,
  • the one to be hunted, and the other to set on the hunt.
  • The news came, the hounds were unkennelled, and huntsmen and sportsmen
  • set off with surprising speed. The witch, now a hare, and her little
  • colleague in iniquity, did not expect so very speedy a turn out, so
  • that the game was pursued at a desperate rate, and the boy, forgetting
  • himself in a moment of alarm, was heard to exclaim—
  • “Run, granny, run; run for your life!”
  • At last the pursuers lost the hare, and she once more got safe into
  • the cottage by a little hole in the bottom of the door, but not large
  • enough to admit a hound in chase. The huntsman and the squires, with
  • their train, lent a hand to break open the door, but could not do it
  • till the parson and the justice came up, but as law and church were
  • certainly designed to break through iniquity, even so did they now
  • succeed in bursting the magic bonds that opposed them. Up–stairs they
  • all went. There they found the old hag, bleeding and covered with
  • wounds, and still out of breath. She denied she was a hare, and railed
  • at the whole party.
  • “Call up the hounds,” said the huntsman, “and let us see what they take
  • her to be. Maybe we may yet have another hunt.”
  • On hearing this, the old woman cried quarter. The boy dropped on his
  • knees and begged hard for mercy. Mercy was granted on condition of its
  • being received with a good whipping, and the huntsman, having long
  • practised amongst the hounds, now tried his hand on their game. Thus
  • the old woman escaped a worse fate for the time being, but on being
  • afterwards put on trial for bewitching a young woman, and making her
  • spit pins, the above was given as evidence against her, and the old
  • woman finished her days, like a martyr, at the stake.
  • THE WORM OF LAMBTON.
  • The young heir of Lambton led a dissolute and evil course of life,
  • equally regardless of the obligations of his high estate, and the
  • sacred duties of religion. According to his profane custom, he was
  • fishing on a Sunday, and threw his line into the river to catch fish,
  • at a time when all good men should have been engaged in the solemn
  • observance of the day. After having toiled in vain for some time, he
  • vented his disappointment at his ill success, in curses loud and deep,
  • to the great scandal of all who heard him, on their way to Holy Mass,
  • and to the manifest peril of his own soul.
  • At length he felt something extraordinary tugging at his line, and, in
  • the hope of catching a large fish, he drew it up with the utmost skill
  • and care, yet it required all his strength to bring the expected fish
  • to land.
  • What was his surprise and mortification, when, instead of a fish, he
  • found that he had only caught a worm of most unseemly and disgusting
  • appearance. He hastily tore it from his hook and threw it into a well
  • hard by.
  • He again threw in his line, and continued to fish, when a stranger of
  • venerable appearance, passing by, asked him—
  • “What sport?”
  • To which he replied—
  • “I think I’ve caught the devil;” and directed the inquirer to look into
  • the well.
  • The stranger saw the worm, and remarked that he had never seen the like
  • of it before—that it was like an eft, but that it had nine holes on
  • each side of its mouth, and tokened no good.
  • The worm remained neglected in the well, but soon grew so large that it
  • became necessary to seek another abode. It usually lay in the day–time
  • coiled round a rock in the middle of the river, and at night frequented
  • a neighbouring hill, twining itself around the base; and it continued
  • to increase in length until it could lap itself three times around the
  • hill.
  • It now became the terror of the neighbourhood, devouring lambs, sucking
  • the cow’s milk, and committing every species of injury on the cattle of
  • the affrighted peasantry.
  • The immediate neighbourhood was soon laid waste, and the worm, finding
  • no further support on the north side of the river, crossed the stream
  • towards Lambton Hall, where the old lord was then living in grief and
  • sorrow, the young heir of Lambton having repented him of his former
  • sins, and gone to the wars in a far distant land.
  • The terrified household assembled in council, and it was proposed by
  • the stewart, a man far advanced in years and of great experience, that
  • the large trough which stood in the courtyard should be filled with
  • milk. The monster approached and, eagerly drinking the milk, returned
  • without inflicting further injury, to repose around its favourite hill.
  • The worm returned the next morning, crossing the stream at the same
  • hour, and directing its way to the hall. The quantity of milk to be
  • provided was soon found to be the product of nine cows, and if any
  • portion short of this quantity was neglected or forgotten the worm
  • showed the most violent signs of rage, by lashing its tail around the
  • trees in the park, and tearing them up by the roots.
  • Many a gallant knight of undoubted fame and prowess sought to slay
  • this monster which was the terror of the whole country side, and it
  • is related that in these mortal combats, although the worm had been
  • frequently cut asunder, yet the several parts had immediately reunited,
  • and the valiant assailant never escaped without the loss of life or
  • limb, so that, after many fruitless and fatal attempts to destroy the
  • worm, it remained, at length, in tranquil possession of its favourite
  • hill—all men fearing to encounter so deadly an enemy.
  • At length, after seven long years, the gallant heir of Lambton
  • returned from the wars of Christendom, and found the broad lands of
  • his ancestors laid waste and desolate. He heard the wailings of the
  • people, for their hearts were filled with terror and alarm. He hastened
  • to the hall of his ancestors, and received the embraces of his aged
  • father, worn out with sorrow and grief, both for the absence of his
  • son, whom he had considered dead, and for the dreadful waste inflicted
  • on his fair domain by the devastations of the worm.
  • He took no rest until he crossed the river to examine the worm, as it
  • lay coiled around the base of the hill, and being a knight of tried
  • valour and sound discretion, and hearing the fate of all those who had
  • fallen in the strife, he consulted a Sibyl on the best means to be
  • pursued to slay the monster.
  • He was told that he himself had been the cause of all the misery which
  • had been brought upon the country, which increased his grief and
  • strengthened his resolution. He was also told that he must have his
  • best suit of mail studded with spear–blades, and, taking his stand on
  • the rock in the middle of the river, commend himself to Providence
  • and the might of his sword, first making a solemn vow, if successful,
  • to slay the first living thing he met, or, if he failed to do so, the
  • Lords of Lambton for nine generations would never die in their beds.
  • He made the solemn vow in the chapel of his forefathers, and had his
  • coat studded with the blades of the sharpest spears. He took his stand
  • on the rock in the middle of the river, and unsheathing his trusty
  • sword, which had never failed him in time of need, he commended himself
  • to the will of Providence.
  • At the accustomed hour the worm uncoiled its lengthened folds, and,
  • leaving the hill, took its usual course towards Lambton Hall, and
  • approached the rock where it sometimes reposed. The knight, nothing
  • dismayed, struck the monster on the head with all his might and main,
  • but without producing any other visible effect than irritating and
  • vexing the worm, which, closing on the knight, clasped its frightful
  • coils around him, and endeavoured to strangle him in its poisonous
  • embrace.
  • The knight was, however, provided against this dangerous extremity,
  • for, the more closely he was pressed by the worm, the more deadly were
  • the wounds inflicted by his coat of spear–blades, until the river ran
  • with gore.
  • The strength of the worm diminished as its efforts increased to destroy
  • the knight, who, seizing a favourable opportunity, made such a good
  • use of his sword that he cut the monster in two. The severed part was
  • immediately carried away by the current, and the worm, being thus
  • unable to reunite itself, was, after a long and desperate conflict,
  • destroyed by the gallantry and courage of the knight of Lambton.
  • The afflicted household were devoutly engaged in prayer during the
  • combat, but on the fortunate issue, the knight, according to promise,
  • blew a blast on his bugle to assure his father of his safety, and
  • that he might let loose his favourite hound which was destined to be
  • the sacrifice. The aged father, forgetting everything but his parental
  • feelings, rushed forward to embrace his son.
  • When the knight beheld his father he was overwhelmed with grief. He
  • could not raise his arm against his parent, but, hoping that his vow
  • might be accomplished, and the curse averted by destroying the next
  • living thing he met, he blew another blast on his bugle.
  • His favourite hound broke loose and bounded to receive his caresses,
  • when the gallant knight, with grief and reluctance, once more drew
  • his sword, still reeking with the gore of the monster, and plunged it
  • into the heart of his faithful companion. But in vain—the prediction
  • was fulfilled, and the Sibyl’s curse pressed heavily on the house of
  • Lambton for nine generations.
  • THE OLD WOMAN AND THE CROOKED SIXPENCE.
  • An old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a crooked sixpence.
  • “What,” says she, “shall I do with this sixpence? I will go to the
  • market and buy a pig with it.”
  • She went; and as she was coming home she came to a stile. Now the pig
  • would not go over the stile. The woman went on a little further and met
  • a dog—
  • “Dog,” said she, “bite pig. Piggy won’t go over the stile, and I shan’t
  • get home to–night.”
  • But the dog would not bite the pig. The woman went on a little further,
  • and she met a stick.
  • “Stick,” said she, “beat dog. Dog won’t bite pig, piggy won’t go over
  • stile, and I shan’t get home to–night.”
  • But the stick would not. The woman went on a little further, and she
  • met a fire.
  • “Fire,” said she, “burn stick. Stick won’t beat dog, dog won’t bite
  • pig, piggy won’t go over the stile, and I shan’t get home to–night.”
  • But the fire would not. The woman went on a little further and she met
  • some water.
  • “Water,” said she, “quench fire. Fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t
  • beat dog,” etc.
  • But the water would not. The woman went on a little further, and she
  • met an ox.
  • “Ox,” said she, “drink water. Water won’t quench fire,” etc.
  • But the ox would not. The woman went on again, and she met a butcher.
  • “Butcher,” said she, “kill ox. Ox won’t drink water,” etc.
  • But the butcher would not. The woman went on a little further, and met
  • a rope.
  • “Rope,” said she, “hang butcher. Butcher won’t kill ox,” etc.
  • But the rope would not. Again the woman went on, and she met a rat.
  • “Rat,” said she, “gnaw rope. Rope won’t hang butcher,” etc.
  • But the rat would not. The woman went on a little further, and met a
  • cat.
  • “Cat,” said she, “kill rat. Rat won’t gnaw rope,” etc.
  • “Oh,” said the cat, “I will kill the rat if you will fetch me a basin
  • of milk from the cow over there.”
  • The old woman went to the cow and asked her to let her have some milk
  • for the cat.
  • “No,” said the cow; “I will let you have no milk unless you bring me a
  • mouthful of hay from yonder stack.”
  • Away went the old woman to the stack and fetched the hay and gave it to
  • the cow. Then the cow gave her some milk, and the old woman took it to
  • the cat.
  • When the cat had lapped the milk, the cat began to kill the rat, the
  • rat began to gnaw the rope, the rope began to hang the butcher, the
  • butcher began to kill the ox, the ox began to drink the water, the
  • water began to quench the fire, the fire began to burn the stick, the
  • stick began to beat the dog, the dog began to bite the pig, and piggy,
  • in a fright, jumped over the stile, and so, after all, the old woman
  • got safe home that night.
  • THE YORKSHIRE BOGGART.
  • A boggart intruded himself, upon what pretext or by what authority
  • is unknown, into the house of a quiet, inoffensive, and laborious
  • farmer; and, when once it had taken possession, it disputed the right
  • of domicile with the legal mortal tenant, in a very unneighbourly and
  • arbitrary manner. In particular, it seemed to have a great aversion to
  • children. As there is no point on which a parent feels more acutely
  • than that of the maltreatment of his offspring, the feelings of the
  • father, and more particularly of his good dame, were daily, ay, and
  • nightly, harrowed up by the malice of this malignant and invisible
  • boggart (a boggart is seldom visible to the human eye, though it is
  • frequently seen by cattle, particularly by horses, and then they are
  • said to “take the _boggle_,” a Yorkshireism for a shying horse). The
  • children’s bread and butter would be snatched away, or their porringers
  • of bread and milk would be dashed down by an invisible hand; or if they
  • were left alone for a few minutes, they were sure to be found screaming
  • with terror on the return of the parents, like the farmer’s children in
  • the tale of the _Field of Terror_, whom the “drudging goblin” used to
  • torment and frighten when he was left alone with them.
  • The stairs led up from the kitchen; a partition of boards covered
  • the ends of the steps, and formed a closet beneath the staircase; a
  • large round knot was accidentally displaced from one of the boards of
  • this partition. One day the farmer’s youngest boy was playing with
  • the shoe–horn, and, as children will do, he stuck the horn into this
  • knot–hole. Whether the aperture had been found by the boggart as a
  • peep–hole to watch the motions of the family, or whether he wished
  • to amuse himself, is uncertain, but sure it is the horn was thrown
  • back with surprising precision at the head of the child. It was found
  • that as often as the horn was replaced in the hole, so surely it was
  • ejected with a straight aim at the offender’s head. Time at length
  • made familiar this wonderful occurrence, and that which at the first
  • was regarded with terror, became at length a kind of amusement with
  • the more thoughtless and daring of the family. Often was the horn
  • slipped slyly into the hole, and the boggart never failed to dart it
  • out at the head of one or the other, but most commonly he or she who
  • placed it there was the mark at which the invisible foe launched the
  • offending horn. They used to call this, in their provincial dialect,
  • “laking wit boggart,” _i.e._, playing with the boggart. As if enraged
  • at these liberties taken with his boggartship, the goblin commenced
  • a series of night disturbances. Heavy steps, as of a person in wooden
  • clogs, were often heard clattering down the stairs in the dead hour of
  • darkness, and the pewter and earthen dishes appeared to be dashed on
  • the kitchen floor, though, in the morning, all were found uninjured on
  • their respective shelves.
  • The children were chiefly marked out as objects of dislike by their
  • unearthly tormenter. The curtains of their beds would be violently
  • pulled backward and forward. Anon, a heavy weight, as of a human being,
  • would press them nearly to suffocation. They would then scream out for
  • their “daddy” and “mammy,” who occupied the adjoining room, and thus
  • the whole family was disturbed night after night. Things could not long
  • go on after this fashion. The farmer and his good dame resolved to
  • leave a place where they had not the least shadow of rest or comfort.
  • The farmer, whose name was George Gilbertson, was following, with
  • his wife and family, the last load of furniture, when they met a
  • neighbouring farmer, whose name was John Marshall, between whom and the
  • unhappy tenant the following colloquy took place—
  • “Well, George, and soa you’re leaving t’ould hoose at last?”
  • “Heigh, Johnny, ma lad, I’m forc’d till it, for that boggart torments
  • us soa we can neither rest neet nor day for’t. It seems loike to have
  • such a malice again’t poor bairns. It ommost kills my poor dame here at
  • thoughts on’t, and soa, ye see, we’re forc’d to flitt like.”
  • He had got thus far in his complaint when, behold! a shrill voice, from
  • a deep upright churn, called out—
  • “Ay, ay, George, we ’re flitting, you see.”
  • “Confound thee,” says the poor farmer, “if I’d known thou’d been there
  • I wadn’t ha stirrid a peg. Nay, nay, it’s to na use, Mally,” turning
  • to his wife, “we may as weel turn back again to t’ould hoose, as be
  • tormented in another that’s not sa convenient.”
  • They are said to have turned back, but the boggart and they afterwards
  • came to a better understanding, though it long continued its trick of
  • shooting the horn from the knot–hole.
  • THE DUERGAR.
  • The following encounters with the _duergar_, a species of mischievous
  • elves, are said to have taken place on Simonside Hills, a mountainous
  • district between Rothbury and Elsdon in Northumberland.
  • A person well acquainted with the locality went out one night to
  • amuse himself with the pranks of these mysterious beings. When he had
  • wandered a considerable time, he shouted loudly—
  • “Tint! tint!” and a light appeared before him, like a burning candle
  • in the window of a shepherd’s cottage. Thither, with great caution,
  • he bent his steps, and speedily approached a deep slough, from whence
  • a quantity of moss or peat had been excavated, and which was now
  • filled with mud and water. Into this he threw a piece of turf which he
  • raised at his feet, and when the sound of the splash echoed throughout
  • the surrounding stillness, the decoying light was extinguished. The
  • adventurer retraced his steps, overjoyed at his dexterity in outwitting
  • the fiendish imps, and in a moment of exultation, as if he held all the
  • powers of darkness in defiance, he again cried to the full extent of
  • his voice—
  • “Tint! tint!”
  • His egotism subsided, however, more quickly than it arose, when he
  • observed three of the little demons, with hideous visages, approach
  • him, carrying torches in their diminutive hands, as if they wished to
  • inspect the figure of their enemy. He now betook himself to the speed
  • of his heels for safety, but found that an innumerable multitude of
  • the same species were gathering round him, each with a torch in one
  • hand and a short club in the other, which they brandished with such
  • gestures, as if they were resolved to oppose his flight, and drive him
  • back into the morass. Like a knight of romance he charged with his
  • oaken staff the foremost of his foes, striking them, as it seemed, to
  • the earth, for they disappeared, but his offensive weapon encountered
  • in its descent no substance of flesh or bone, and beyond its sweep the
  • demons appeared to augment both in size and number. On witnessing so
  • much of the unearthly, his heart failed him. He sank down in a state
  • of stupor, nor was he himself again till the gray light of the morning
  • dispersed his unhallowed opponents, and revealed before him the direct
  • way to his own dwelling.
  • Another time, a traveller, wandering over these mountain solitudes, had
  • the misfortune to be benighted, and, perceiving near him a glimmering
  • light, he hastened thither and found what appeared to be a hut, on the
  • floor of which, between two rough, gray stones, the embers of a fire,
  • which had been supplied with wood, were still glowing and unconsumed.
  • He entered, and the impression on his mind was that the place had been
  • deserted an hour or two previously by gipsies, for on one side lay a
  • couple of old gate–posts ready to be split up for fuel, and a quantity
  • of refuse brush–wood, such as is left from besom making, was strewn
  • upon the floor. With this material he trimmed the fire, and had just
  • seated himself on one of the stones, when a diminutive figure in human
  • shape, not higher than his knee, came waddling in at the door, and
  • took possession of the other. The traveller, being acquainted with
  • the manner in which things of this description ought to be regarded,
  • retained his self–possession, kept his seat, and remained silent,
  • knowing that if he rose up or spoke, his danger would be redoubled,
  • and as the flame blazed up he examined minutely the hollow eyes, the
  • stern vindictive features, and the short, strong limbs of the visitor
  • before him. By degrees he perceived that the hut afforded little or
  • no shelter from the cold night air, and as the energy of the fire
  • subsided he lifted from the floor a piece of wood, broke it over his
  • knee, and laid the fragments upon the red–hot embers. Whether this
  • operation was regarded by his strange neighbour as a species of insult
  • we cannot say, but the demon seized, as if in bitter mockery, one of
  • the gate–posts, broke it likewise over its knee, and laid the pieces
  • on the embers in the same manner. The other having no wish to witness
  • a further display of such marvellous agency, thenceforth permitted the
  • fire to die away, and kept his position in darkness and silence, till
  • the fair dawn of returning day made him aware of the extreme danger to
  • which he was exposed. He saw a quantity of white ashes before him, but
  • the grim dwarfish intruder, with the roof and walls of the hut, were
  • gone, and he himself, sat upon a stone, sure enough, but it formed one
  • of the points of a deep, rugged precipice, over which the slightest
  • inadvertent movement had been the means of dashing him to pieces.
  • THE BARN ELVES.
  • An honest Hampshire farmer was sore distressed by the nightly
  • unsettling of his barn. However straightly, over night, he laid his
  • sheaves on the threshing floor, for the application of the morning’s
  • flail, when morning came all was topsy–turvy, higgledy–piggledy, though
  • the door remained locked, and there was no sign whatever of irregular
  • entry.
  • Resolved to find out who played him these mischievous pranks, Hodge
  • couched himself one night deeply among the sheaves, and watched for
  • the enemy. At length midnight arrived. The barn was illuminated as if
  • by moonbeams of wonderful brightness, and through the keyhole came
  • thousands of elves, the most diminutive that could be imagined. They
  • immediately began their gambols among the straw, which was soon in the
  • most admired disorder. Hodge wondered, but interfered not, but at last
  • the supernatural thieves began to busy themselves in a way still less
  • to his taste, for each elf set about conveying the crop away, a straw
  • at a time, with astonishing activity and perseverance. The keyhole was
  • still their port of egress and regress, and it resembled the aperture
  • of a beehive, on a sunny day in June. The farmer was rather annoyed at
  • seeing his grain vanish in this fashion, when one of the fairies, while
  • hard at work, said to another, in the tiniest voice that ever was heard—
  • “I weat; you weat?” (I sweat; do you sweat?)
  • Hodge could contain himself no longer. He leapt out, crying—
  • “The deuce sweat ye! Let me get among ye.”
  • The fairies all flew away so frightened that they never disturbed the
  • barn any more.
  • LEGENDS OF KING ARTHUR.
  • Immemorial tradition has asserted that King Arthur, his queen
  • Guinevere, court of lords and ladies, and his hounds, were enchanted in
  • some cave of the crags, or in a hall below the castle of Sewingshields,
  • and would continue entranced there till some one should first blow a
  • bugle–horn that lay on a table near the entrance into the hall, and
  • then “with the sword of stone” cut a garter, also placed there beside
  • it. But none had ever heard where the entrance to this enchanted hall
  • was, till a farmer at Sewingshields, about fifty years since, was
  • sitting knitting on the ruins of the castle, and his clew fell and ran
  • downwards through a bush of briars and nettles, as he supposed, into
  • a deep subterranean passage. Full in the faith that the entrance into
  • King Arthur’s hall was now discovered, he cleared the briary portal of
  • its weeds and rubbish, and entering a vaulted passage, followed, in his
  • darkling way, the web of his clew. The floor was infested with toads
  • and lizards, and the dark wings of bats, disturbed by his unhallowed
  • intrusion, flitted fearfully around him. At length his sinking faith
  • was strengthened by a dim, distant light, which, as he advanced, grew
  • gradually lighter, till, all at once, he entered a vast and vaulted
  • hall, in the centre of which a fire without fuel, from a broad crevice
  • in the floor, blazed with a high and lambent flame, that showed all the
  • carved walls and fretted roof, and the monarch and his queen and court
  • reposing around in a theatre of thrones and costly couches. On the
  • floor, beyond the fire, lay the faithful and deep–toned pack of thirty
  • couple of hounds, and on the table, before it, the spell–dissolving
  • horn, sword, and garter. The farmer reverently but firmly grasped the
  • sword, and as he drew it leisurely from its rusty scabbard, the eyes of
  • the monarch and his courtiers began to open, and they rose till they
  • sat upright. He cut the garter, and, as the sword was being slowly
  • sheathed, the spell assumed its ancient power, and they all gradually
  • sank to rest, but not before the monarch lifted up his eyes and hands,
  • and exclaimed—
  • “O woe betide that evil day
  • On which this witless wight was born
  • Who drew the sword—the garter cut,
  • But never blew the bugle–horn.”
  • Of this favourite tradition, the most remarkable variation is
  • respecting the place where the farmer descended. Some say that after
  • the king’s denunciation, terror brought on loss of memory, and the
  • farmer was unable to give any correct account of his adventure, or
  • the place where it occurred. All agree that Mrs. Spearman, the wife
  • of another and more recent occupier of the estate, had a dream in
  • which she saw a rich hoard of treasure among the ruins of the castle,
  • and that for many days together she stood over workmen employed in
  • searching for it, but without success.
  • Another version of the story has less of “the pomp of sceptred state”
  • than the preceding, and has evidently sprung from a baser original, but
  • its verity is not the less to be depended upon.
  • A shepherd one day, in quest of a strayed sheep on the crags, had his
  • attention aroused by the scene around him assuming an appearance he
  • had never before witnessed. There seemed to be about it a more than
  • wonted vividness, and such a deep solemnity hung over its aspect, that
  • its features became, as it were, palpably impressed upon his mind.
  • While he was musing upon this unexpected occurrence, his steps were
  • arrested by a ball of thread. This he laid hold of, and, pursuing the
  • path it pointed out, found it led into a cavern, in the recesses of
  • which, as the guiding line used by miners in their explorations of
  • devious passages, it appeared to lose itself. As he approached, he
  • felt perforce constrained to follow the strange conductor, that had
  • so marvellously come into his hands. After passing through a long and
  • dreary vestibule, he entered into an apartment in the interior. An
  • immense fire blazed on the hearth, and cast its broad flashes with
  • a wild, unearthly glare, to the remotest corner of the chamber. Over
  • it was placed a huge caldron, as if preparations were being made for
  • a feast on an extensive scale. Two hounds lay couchant on either side
  • of the fire–place, in the stillness of unbroken slumber. The only
  • remarkable piece of furniture in the apartment was a table covered
  • with green cloth. At the head of the table, a being, considerably
  • advanced in years, of a dignified mien, and clad in the habiliments
  • of war, sat, as it were, fast asleep, in an arm–chair. At the other
  • end of the table lay a horn and a sword. Notwithstanding these signs
  • of life, there prevailed a dead silence throughout the chamber, the
  • very feeling of which made the shepherd reflect that he had advanced
  • far beyond the limits of human experience, and that he was now in the
  • presence of objects that belonged more to death than to life. The very
  • idea made his flesh creep. He, however, had sufficient fortitude to
  • advance to the table and lift the horn. The hounds pricked up their
  • ears most fearfully, and the grisly veteran started up on his elbow,
  • and raising his half–unwilling eyes, told the staggered hind that if he
  • would blow the horn and draw the sword, he would confer upon him the
  • honours of knighthood to last through time. Such unheard–of dignities,
  • from a source so ghastly, either met with no appreciation from the
  • awe–stricken swain, or the terror of finding himself alone in the
  • company, it might be of malignant phantoms, who were only tempting
  • him to his ruin, became too urgent to be resisted, and, therefore,
  • proposing to divide the peril with a comrade, he groped his darkling
  • way, as best his quaking limbs could support him, back to the blessed
  • daylight. On his return, with a reinforcement of strength and courage,
  • all traces of the former scene had disappeared. The crags presented
  • their usual cheerful and quiet aspect, and every vestige of the opening
  • of a cavern was obliterated. Thus failed another of the repeated
  • opportunities for releasing the spell–bound king of Britain from the
  • “charmed sleep of ages.” Within his rocky chamber he still sleeps on,
  • as tradition tells, till the appointed hour; or if invited by his
  • enchantress to participate in the illusions of the fairy festival,
  • it has charms for him no longer. “Wasted with care,” he sits beside
  • her—the banquet untasted—the pageantry unmasked—
  • “... By constraint
  • Her guest, and from his native land withheld
  • By sad necessity.”
  • SILKY.
  • 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_.
  • TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
  • —Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
  • End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Folk-lore and legends: English, by
  • Charles John Tibbits
  • *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS: ENGLISH ***
  • ***** This file should be named 47408-0.txt or 47408-0.zip *****
  • This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
  • http://www.gutenberg.org/4/7/4/0/47408/
  • Produced by Giovanni Fini and The Online Distributed
  • Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
  • produced from images generously made available by The
  • Internet Archive)
  • Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
  • will be renamed.
  • Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
  • one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
  • (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
  • permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
  • set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
  • copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
  • protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
  • Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
  • charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
  • do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
  • rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
  • such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
  • research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
  • practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
  • subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
  • redistribution.
  • *** START: FULL LICENSE ***
  • THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
  • PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
  • To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
  • distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
  • (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
  • Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
  • Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
  • www.gutenberg.org/license.
  • Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
  • electronic works
  • 1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
  • electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
  • and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
  • (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
  • the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
  • all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
  • If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
  • Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
  • terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
  • entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
  • 1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
  • used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
  • agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
  • things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
  • even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
  • paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
  • Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
  • and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
  • works. See paragraph 1.E below.
  • 1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
  • or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
  • Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
  • collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
  • individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
  • located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
  • copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
  • works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
  • are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
  • Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
  • freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
  • this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
  • the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
  • keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
  • Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
  • 1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
  • what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
  • a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
  • the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
  • before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
  • creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
  • Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
  • the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
  • States.
  • 1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
  • 1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
  • access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
  • whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
  • phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
  • Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
  • copied or distributed:
  • This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
  • almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
  • re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
  • with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
  • 1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
  • from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
  • posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
  • and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
  • or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
  • with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
  • work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
  • through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
  • Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
  • 1.E.9.
  • 1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
  • with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
  • must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
  • terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
  • to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
  • permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
  • 1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
  • License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
  • work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
  • 1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
  • electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
  • prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
  • active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
  • Gutenberg-tm License.
  • 1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
  • compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
  • word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
  • distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
  • "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
  • posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
  • you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
  • copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
  • request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
  • form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
  • License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
  • 1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
  • performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
  • unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
  • 1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
  • access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
  • that
  • - You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
  • the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
  • you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
  • owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
  • has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
  • Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
  • must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
  • prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
  • returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
  • sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
  • address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
  • the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
  • - You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
  • you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
  • does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
  • License. You must require such a user to return or
  • destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
  • and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
  • Project Gutenberg-tm works.
  • - You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
  • money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
  • electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
  • of receipt of the work.
  • - You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
  • distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
  • 1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
  • electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
  • forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
  • both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
  • Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
  • Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
  • 1.F.
  • 1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
  • effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
  • public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
  • collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
  • works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
  • "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
  • corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
  • property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
  • computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
  • your equipment.
  • 1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
  • of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
  • Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
  • Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
  • Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
  • liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
  • fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
  • LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
  • PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
  • TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
  • LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
  • INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
  • DAMAGE.
  • 1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
  • defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
  • receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
  • written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
  • received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
  • your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
  • the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
  • refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
  • providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
  • receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
  • is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
  • opportunities to fix the problem.
  • 1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
  • in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
  • WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
  • WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
  • 1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
  • warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
  • If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
  • law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
  • interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
  • the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
  • provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
  • 1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
  • trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
  • providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
  • with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
  • promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
  • harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
  • that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
  • or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
  • work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
  • Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
  • Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
  • Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
  • electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
  • including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
  • because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
  • people in all walks of life.
  • Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
  • assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
  • goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
  • remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
  • Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
  • and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
  • To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
  • and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
  • and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org
  • Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
  • Foundation
  • The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
  • 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
  • state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
  • Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
  • number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
  • Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
  • permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
  • The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
  • Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
  • throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809
  • North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email
  • contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the
  • Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
  • For additional contact information:
  • Dr. Gregory B. Newby
  • Chief Executive and Director
  • gbnewby@pglaf.org
  • Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
  • Literary Archive Foundation
  • Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
  • spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
  • increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
  • freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
  • array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
  • ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
  • status with the IRS.
  • The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
  • charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
  • States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
  • considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
  • with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
  • where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
  • SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
  • particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
  • While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
  • have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
  • against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
  • approach us with offers to donate.
  • International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
  • any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
  • outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
  • Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
  • methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
  • ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
  • To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
  • Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
  • works.
  • Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
  • concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
  • with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project
  • Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
  • Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
  • editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
  • unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
  • keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
  • Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
  • www.gutenberg.org
  • This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
  • including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
  • Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
  • subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.