"Marley-quarley-pachel-farley—Mansto macken furlesparley,—Mondo pondo sicho pinto,Framsigalen hannotinto!"
"Marley-quarley-pachel-farley—Mansto macken furlesparley,—Mondo pondo sicho pinto,Framsigalen hannotinto!"
"Marley-quarley-pachel-farley—Mansto macken furlesparley,—Mondo pondo sicho pinto,Framsigalen hannotinto!"
"Marley-quarley-pachel-farley—
Mansto macken furlesparley,—
Mondo pondo sicho pinto,
Framsigalen hannotinto!"
Everybody was surprised at the words and behaviour of the unfortunate lady.
But what followed surprised them infinitely more. A curious whining, murmuring, incomprehensible sound came along the banks of the river, filling the hearts of those who heard it with a strange sense of fear, and a feeling that something wonderful was about to happen.
The river, too, instead of flowing on in its usual quiet and majestic manner, seemed perturbed in an extraordinary manner, and became as rough as the open ocean in a storm.
By common consent everyone who was present stood as if struck by one feeling of awe, which palsied and unfitted them for action. The men who were supporting the sacks in which the unhappy maidens stood, shivering with fear, remained rooted to their places, and mingled fear and wonder sat upon the faces of the people.
Then slowly arose from the rushes by the waterside the same grotesque figure which had once before held converse with Ophelia. The red cloak, the umbrella, the poke bonnet, the keen eye, were all there, and the old woman stood upon the bank within a very short distance of the sacks.
She looked round upon the people as if rather surprised at seeing them there, but appeared after a short time to have eyes only for Ophelia, upon whom she fixed her gaze attentively, and striking her umbrella upon the ground accosted her in the following words:
"What is it, Ophelia! and what do you fearThat you've called your affectionate godmother here?Have matters gone wrong since you wanted me last?I fear that they have, as my eyes round I cast—You haven't got on the same dress that you woreWhen you came down to see the old lady before—And unless my old eyesight its certainty lacksYou seem hampered and bound in the coarsest of sacks,And some other girls, too! in what sad plight you are;My darling; has aught gone amiss with the jar?"
"What is it, Ophelia! and what do you fearThat you've called your affectionate godmother here?Have matters gone wrong since you wanted me last?I fear that they have, as my eyes round I cast—You haven't got on the same dress that you woreWhen you came down to see the old lady before—And unless my old eyesight its certainty lacksYou seem hampered and bound in the coarsest of sacks,And some other girls, too! in what sad plight you are;My darling; has aught gone amiss with the jar?"
"What is it, Ophelia! and what do you fearThat you've called your affectionate godmother here?Have matters gone wrong since you wanted me last?I fear that they have, as my eyes round I cast—You haven't got on the same dress that you woreWhen you came down to see the old lady before—And unless my old eyesight its certainty lacksYou seem hampered and bound in the coarsest of sacks,And some other girls, too! in what sad plight you are;My darling; has aught gone amiss with the jar?"
"What is it, Ophelia! and what do you fear
That you've called your affectionate godmother here?
Have matters gone wrong since you wanted me last?
I fear that they have, as my eyes round I cast—
You haven't got on the same dress that you wore
When you came down to see the old lady before—
And unless my old eyesight its certainty lacks
You seem hampered and bound in the coarsest of sacks,
And some other girls, too! in what sad plight you are;
My darling; has aught gone amiss with the jar?"
In a mournful voice Ophelia replied at once:—
"Dear godmother! my woes are great,And miserable is my fate:The jar is broken! and I amBoth 'out of luck' and 'out of' jam!This cruel tyrant, whom I wed(I would I'd been at Bath instead!)His senses managed to recover,And, now no more obedient lover,Used language really quite past bearing(He alwayswastoo prone to swearing),Swore I no more his wealth should sponge on,And clapt me in a dirty dungeon.And then, his wrath no way abating,My ladies—five of them—in waitingHe also sent there—scarce politely—And tho' they've not behaved quite rightly,They scarcely have in crime aboundedSo much—as to be sacked—and drownded!Tho' if my throne I once were back inIshould have giventhreea "sacking"—But, godmother, see what I'm brought to!That naughty king!—he didn't ought to!"
"Dear godmother! my woes are great,And miserable is my fate:The jar is broken! and I amBoth 'out of luck' and 'out of' jam!This cruel tyrant, whom I wed(I would I'd been at Bath instead!)His senses managed to recover,And, now no more obedient lover,Used language really quite past bearing(He alwayswastoo prone to swearing),Swore I no more his wealth should sponge on,And clapt me in a dirty dungeon.And then, his wrath no way abating,My ladies—five of them—in waitingHe also sent there—scarce politely—And tho' they've not behaved quite rightly,They scarcely have in crime aboundedSo much—as to be sacked—and drownded!Tho' if my throne I once were back inIshould have giventhreea "sacking"—But, godmother, see what I'm brought to!That naughty king!—he didn't ought to!"
"Dear godmother! my woes are great,And miserable is my fate:The jar is broken! and I amBoth 'out of luck' and 'out of' jam!This cruel tyrant, whom I wed(I would I'd been at Bath instead!)His senses managed to recover,And, now no more obedient lover,Used language really quite past bearing(He alwayswastoo prone to swearing),Swore I no more his wealth should sponge on,And clapt me in a dirty dungeon.And then, his wrath no way abating,My ladies—five of them—in waitingHe also sent there—scarce politely—And tho' they've not behaved quite rightly,They scarcely have in crime aboundedSo much—as to be sacked—and drownded!Tho' if my throne I once were back inIshould have giventhreea "sacking"—But, godmother, see what I'm brought to!That naughty king!—he didn't ought to!"
"Dear godmother! my woes are great,
And miserable is my fate:
The jar is broken! and I am
Both 'out of luck' and 'out of' jam!
This cruel tyrant, whom I wed
(I would I'd been at Bath instead!)
His senses managed to recover,
And, now no more obedient lover,
Used language really quite past bearing
(He alwayswastoo prone to swearing),
Swore I no more his wealth should sponge on,
And clapt me in a dirty dungeon.
And then, his wrath no way abating,
My ladies—five of them—in waiting
He also sent there—scarce politely—
And tho' they've not behaved quite rightly,
They scarcely have in crime abounded
So much—as to be sacked—and drownded!
Tho' if my throne I once were back in
Ishould have giventhreea "sacking"—
But, godmother, see what I'm brought to!
That naughty king!—he didn't ought to!"
Ophelia sobbed aloud when she had concluded these words, which were uttered somewhat incoherently, as if the poor girl was quite overcome by her misfortune. But scarcely had she finished, when the old woman strode up to the sack without another word, and drawing a large pair of scissors from her belt, immediately cut it open in such a manner that the maiden was set free.
Up to this time King Famcram had remained quiet, as if sharing in the general fear and astonishment. No sooner, however, did he see that the old woman's purpose was to set free at least one of his prisoners, and that the chief offender, than fear gave way to wrath, and he leaped up from his armchair in a tremendous passion.
"Who is this?" he cried loudly, "who is this that interferes with the King's sentence? Seize her, guards! Vile hag, you shall soon receive your deserts."
But not a guard moved. Some power greater than that of Famcram seemed to restrain them, and the old woman quietly accomplished her task without taking the slightest notice of anybody but Ophelia.
When the latter was free, and standing by her side, she once more spoke in the same masculine voice as at first, and smiling upon the maiden, thus addressed her:—
"Tho' jars may be broken and jam may be spoiled,The plans of your godmother never are foiled,And power and good-will I must certainly lackEre my favourite god-child be drowned in a sack.Yet if you desire it, my god-daughter sweet,These ladies of thine shall their recompense meet—And since they've behaved, dear, so badly to thee,We'll give them a ducking—just say—shall it be!"
"Tho' jars may be broken and jam may be spoiled,The plans of your godmother never are foiled,And power and good-will I must certainly lackEre my favourite god-child be drowned in a sack.Yet if you desire it, my god-daughter sweet,These ladies of thine shall their recompense meet—And since they've behaved, dear, so badly to thee,We'll give them a ducking—just say—shall it be!"
"Tho' jars may be broken and jam may be spoiled,The plans of your godmother never are foiled,And power and good-will I must certainly lackEre my favourite god-child be drowned in a sack.Yet if you desire it, my god-daughter sweet,These ladies of thine shall their recompense meet—And since they've behaved, dear, so badly to thee,We'll give them a ducking—just say—shall it be!"
"Tho' jars may be broken and jam may be spoiled,
The plans of your godmother never are foiled,
And power and good-will I must certainly lack
Ere my favourite god-child be drowned in a sack.
Yet if you desire it, my god-daughter sweet,
These ladies of thine shall their recompense meet—
And since they've behaved, dear, so badly to thee,
We'll give them a ducking—just say—shall it be!"
Ophelia, who now began to feel sure that she was safe, was too much rejoiced thereat to wish harm to anyone else, and in a few well chosen words she begged her godmother not to be severe on the poor creatures, who, she was certain, would never do it again.
She also told her of the better behaviour of the two daughters of Binks, upon which the old lady cut their sacks open immediately, but could hardly be restrained from punishing the others, especially Paraphernalia, who cried like a great baby from sheer fright and begged Ophelia to forgive her. The godmother then took from her finger a ring which she held before Ophelia and addressed her in these words.
"I give thee, my daughter, this emerald ring(Its colour, you see, is a wonderful green),And tho' you may lose your detestable kingYou still shall be owned as the Pigmy-land queen.Reign long and be happy—through many bright days,May all your past troubles your happiness prove,And would you be safe—hear what godmother says,Be kind to your people, and govern by love!"
"I give thee, my daughter, this emerald ring(Its colour, you see, is a wonderful green),And tho' you may lose your detestable kingYou still shall be owned as the Pigmy-land queen.Reign long and be happy—through many bright days,May all your past troubles your happiness prove,And would you be safe—hear what godmother says,Be kind to your people, and govern by love!"
"I give thee, my daughter, this emerald ring(Its colour, you see, is a wonderful green),And tho' you may lose your detestable kingYou still shall be owned as the Pigmy-land queen.Reign long and be happy—through many bright days,May all your past troubles your happiness prove,And would you be safe—hear what godmother says,Be kind to your people, and govern by love!"
"I give thee, my daughter, this emerald ring
(Its colour, you see, is a wonderful green),
And tho' you may lose your detestable king
You still shall be owned as the Pigmy-land queen.
Reign long and be happy—through many bright days,
May all your past troubles your happiness prove,
And would you be safe—hear what godmother says,
Be kind to your people, and govern by love!"
As she said these words the old woman placed the ring upon Ophelia's finger, and smiled upon her in an affectionate manner.
At this moment Famcram's rage grew beyond all bounds. He literally foamed at the mouth with fury—both at the scene which was being enacted before his eyes, and the unwillingness or impotence of his guards to help him. He yelled out to them again at the top of his voice, whilst his red hair seemed to blaze with fury as he whirled his sceptre round his head.
"Seize the vile witch, I say!" he shouted. "Who dares to talk of any one reigning here while Famcram lives? Seize her and burn her! Varlets! Will none of ye stand by your king?"
With these words the king jumped from the dais on which he had been sitting, and rushed forward himself, calling loudly to his guards to come on.
But his cries were to no purpose—every man stood rooted to the ground, and not a hand was lifted to help the tyrant. Then the smile left the face of the old woman, and she turned from Ophelia to face the king. He paused, as she raised her hand and pointed at him with her umbrella, while she spoke again in the same voice as before. And these were her words:—
"Thou slayer of women, disgrace to thy line,The vengeance is near—be thy punishment mine—You wished my dear god-child in river to drown.No, no, tyrant Famcram,thistime you're 'done brown!'"
"Thou slayer of women, disgrace to thy line,The vengeance is near—be thy punishment mine—You wished my dear god-child in river to drown.No, no, tyrant Famcram,thistime you're 'done brown!'"
"Thou slayer of women, disgrace to thy line,The vengeance is near—be thy punishment mine—You wished my dear god-child in river to drown.No, no, tyrant Famcram,thistime you're 'done brown!'"
"Thou slayer of women, disgrace to thy line,
The vengeance is near—be thy punishment mine—
You wished my dear god-child in river to drown.
No, no, tyrant Famcram,thistime you're 'done brown!'"
She had no time for more, for, overcoming his fear or whatever had hitherto restrained him, the little tyrant rushed upon her.
The old woman now adopted a most curious course. Dropping her umbrella upon the ground, she made no more ado, but seized Famcram the moment he was within reach, wrenched his sceptre from him, and shook him severely.
He struggled, bit, kicked and yelled, but it was all in vain. That fearful grasp was upon him, against which twenty times his strength had been of no avail.
The fight, if such indeed it could be called, was soon over. The wretched creature writhed in the hands of his enemy, who shook him to her heart's content, and then, raising him with apparent ease by the scruff of the neck, calmly placed him in the sack from which she had just liberated her goddaughter.
In spite of his continued struggles, she swiftly tied the mouth of the sack in a knot, which she managed to make; and then, without a word more, good, bad, or indifferent, descended the bank, threw in the sack, and sat down upon it.
OPHELIAOPHELIA.—P. 280
OPHELIA.—P. 280
To the surprise of the people, instead of sinking, the sack floated away into the midst of the river, which boiled and surged around it, so that every now and then it went down, and then came up again in sight of the crowd—the old woman keeping her seat upon it all the time, and smiling grimly as she bobbed up and down in a manner which would have made many respectable old ladies of my acquaintance feel remarkably unwell. No such effect, however, was produced upon the old woman, and she apparently enjoyed the whole thing very much.
When they first left the bank, stifled screams were heard issuing from the sack, but these soon died away, and it was plain enough that the wretched Famcram must have been very speedily drowned.
In a little while the old woman and the sack had floated out of sight, and the people began to recover somewhat from their amazement. Then occurred another marvellous thing.
The river suddenly rose in several places, in the form of a waterspout, and came dashing over the crowd. But the extraordinary part of it was that whilst it drenched and half drowned the black executioners and all Famcram's particular friends, Ophelia and those who were on her side were not touched by it. The courtiers and guards of Famcram turned and fled. Then, after a short pause, the three late ministers, Binks, Chinks, and Pigspud came forward together and knelt at Ophelia's feet. Binks was the spokesman of the party.
"Madam," he said, "after what has just happened, we cannot doubt that a higher power than ours has designated you as our queen. I am sure that I speak in the name of all that is great, good and powerful in Pigmyland, when I ask you to reign over us in the place of him who has proved himself so unworthy to do so."
Ophelia replied at once:—"Rise, sir," she said, "and you too, dear father, for it is not meet that you should kneel before your child. There might, doubtless, have been found worthier sovereigns for our country, but since Fate has thus decreed it, I accept the position which is offered."
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, loud shouts of joy broke forth from the surrounding people. At a sign from Ophelia, the other damsels were all set free, and they now came and stood humbly before her, expressing in meek and lowly tones their deep contrition for the offences they had committed against her.
Paraphernalia was especially vehement in her expressions of regret, vowing that she had always entertained the greatest affection for Ophelia, and that if some demon had not possessed her, she should never have acted as she had done. Her sisters made various protestations of the same sort, whilst Euphemia and Araminta stood with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes awaiting the queen's decision.
Ophelia did not keep them long in suspense. She told the two daughters of the Prime Minister that she freely forgave them all that had occurred, being satisfied that it was not from them or their hostility that it arose. Moreover, they had been the playmates of her childhood, and she should wish still to retain them about her person. She told the daughters of the Lord Chamberlain, however, that she must take a different course with them.
At these words Asphalia, Bettina, and Paraphernalia burst into a dreadful howl, and the latter threw herself at the feet of Ophelia and endeavoured to kiss them. But the queen bade her arise, and told her that she and her sisters need not fear that the commencement of her reign would be sullied by the infliction of any severe punishment upon those who had been her companions in misfortune.
Upon this Paraphernalia turned joyous again, and began vociferously to express her thanks, but was again stopped by the royal lady.
"I cannot have about my court," she said, "persons who have behaved as you have done, nor indeed can I retain you in my service. I wish that I could have done so for your father's sake, but he must himself acknowledge that it is impossible. Out of respect to him I will only condemn Asphalia and Bettina to be confined to the limits of the city walls for a year, and during that time they will be forbidden to attend my court. As for Paraphernalia, she must be banished from Pigmyland altogether, until I shall have proofs—which I much doubt my ever receiving—of her entire reformation of character."
At this decision the unhappy Paraphernalia raised a shrill scream and fell fainting upon the ground, but was speedily carried off by the attendants. Her sisters, who felt that they had deserved, and fully expected, to share her fate, returned thanks to Ophelia for her great clemency, and vowed to lead such lives as should convince her of their undying loyalty and sincere devotion to her throne and person.
These professions the queen received with a gracious inclination of the head, and expressed her hope that they might prove to be founded on a true desire on the part of the damsels to repent of the past and do better for the future. She then turned to her father and requested that he, Binks, and Chinks would again resume their former offices, and render her their best assistance in carrying on the government of the country.
To this the three statesmen readily assented, having, in fact, desired nothing better. Ophelia in the first place directed them to prepare a proclamation, announcing her accession to the throne, and her determination to govern upon constitutional principles, which, being a high sounding phrase, and one which nobody exactly understood, naturally gave great satisfaction.
One or two discontented people did indeed whisper that as the constitution of Pigmyland had always been a pure despotism, Ophelia only meant to say that she should rule as other Pigmy kings and queens had ruled before her. These murmurs, however, were soon silenced, and this the more effectually when the queen issued the next day a second proclamation, in which she gave free pardon to all those who had supported Famcram in his late acts of tyranny, provided they would at once acknowledge her as their sovereign and obey her authority.
Some people indeed objected to this proclamation, on the ground that those who had obeyed Famcram, whether he had been right or wrong, were only acting in accordance with the country's laws in carrying out the orders of their lawful sovereign (which he undoubtedly was), and required no pardon at all.
But these people, again, were held to be mere cavillers and idle talkers, and so general was Ophelia's popularity that whatever she might have chosen to make the subject of a proclamation would have been hailed with delight by her loving and loyal subjects.
She ascended the throne under the happiest auspices: the good-will of her people filled her heart with happiness and strengthened the stability of her throne, whilst her great talents secured for her kingdom the blessings of good government, her many virtues afforded a bright example to all her subjects, and her reign was throughout, that which it promised at the first to become, an era of unmixed happiness and prosperity to Pigmyland.
Things are very dull now-a-days in the country districts of England.
The country gentlemen have got into the habit of going to London a great deal more than they used to do before railroads were made as extensively as has been the case of late years. The farmers, too, move about more than they did in the olden days, and act very differently in many respects from their forefathers.
Nor are the labourers quite the same; they ask more wages, touch their hats to master, squire, and parson less than they did, and discuss matters of politics and the government of the country, which formerly never entered their heads.
I dare say it is all right: it is a wise and good frame of mind to cherish, which teaches one that whateveris, is right, although it is sometimes very difficult to think so.
For instance, when my tooth takes to aching without any obvious cause, and certainly very much against my will, the fact of its doing so is well established, but the existing state of things in my face is not recognised by me—not for one single moment—as right because itisthe existing state. And when I have overdrawn my account at my banker's, and the state of things is that he will not let me do so any more, the circumstance that it is so does not reconcile me to the fact in the very slightest degree.
Still, as regards the progress which this country has made, and the condition at which we have now arrived, I am ready to bow my head meekly, and allow that as a general maxim, the general results may be admitted by me to be "all right."
Therearethe railroads, and (though the carriages are not always comfortable, and the trains generally late) they afford such facilities for the gentryfolk to go to town, that we cannot wonder at their doing so. If it is not right that they should, surely railroads would never have been permitted, cutting up the beautiful country as they do, and sending their screaming engines along through the green fields and thriving plough-lands, where all before was peaceful and quiet.
Then if the farmers are changed, it is also all for the best without doubt. Changed they are, beyond all question. They are a different class of men from the old species of farmer who existed fifty years ago, and who seldom went further than his market town.
Our farmers, now-a-days, have all visited London again and again, and instead of the homely talk over a market dinner which used to take place in old days, they have got "Chambers of Agriculture," in which they evince a remarkable ability in discussing anything which Parliament proposes to do about agricultural matters, and talk nearly as wisely, I am told, as the members of the House of Commons itself!
Still, however, I stick to my text, and say that, being as it is, it must be all right.
Of course it is, and so also with regard to the labourers. When I was a boy they did not know half as much as they do now, but they worked well for all that.
I have lodged in two rooms in this farmhouse in which I write for twenty-seven years come next Michaelmas, and I have often heard farmer Barrett say that his best labourers were generally those who could neither read nor write.
Most of them can do both now, and people used to say that it was a sin and a shame that every labourer should not be able to read his Bible and write his name in it.
"All right," again say I, only unfortunately (as I sometimes venture to think) it is not their Bibles they read, so much as the penny papers, and these sometimes teach them different lessons from the Bible, I fancy. Then there is a lot of cheap—well, trash I was going to say, and I think I must, too—a lot of cheap trash which is sent about all over the country, or which they pick up here and there, and which teaches them lessons altogether mischievous.
Moreover, they have societies, which are curious sort of concerns, I am told, and through which they are taught actually to demand an increase of wages, and various other things which were never thought of in old times.
All these things have made the country districts of England very different places from what they used to be when I first knew them. That is now a long time ago, but I know a great deal that happened before I knew anything from my own eyesight and observation—I mean before I was born.
I am an old man now, and having enough money to live upon and be comfortable, I have all my lifetime indulged my inclination for living in the country.
I used to make it my principal endeavour to avoid railways. I hired lodgings in rustic villages, and lived quietly therein, studying the ways and habits of the people, and picking up old legends, which was always my chief delight. But wherever I went, a railroad was sure to be immediately afterwards projected through that particular district.
The steam fiend seemed to have marked me out as an involuntary pioneer to herald his advance; and, move where I would, he and his myrmidons very shortly appeared in my wake.
This continued for five and twenty years—for I began my system of country-lodging when I was a tolerably young man—barely turned thirty. When I tell you, as I did just now, that I have been in my present abode for twenty-seven years, a little calculation will show you that I shall never again see my eighty-second birthday. You will therefore, I hope, excuse the garrulity of old age, and forgive me if I have somewhat wandered from the tale which in fact I have not yet begun, but which I have been leading up to all this time.
For you must know that the changes of which I have been speaking have had great effect upon other people besides gentry, farmers, and labourers. There are nothing like so many witches, wizards and curious creatures of that kind as there were, in country places, in the good old times.
I do not for one moment say that this is to be regretted. On the contrary, I say again, that being so, I have no doubt it is "all right."
But, right or wrong, it is undoubtedly true that the witches, warlocks and wise women have greatly diminished, if indeed they have not altogether vanished. I hope it will be understood that by "wise women" I do not allude to the ladies who give scientific lectures and talk about a variety of subjects upon which they evidently know much more than an old gentleman like I am could ever know, and, I must say, more than I should like to know about some things.
This is a different kind of wisdom altogether, and there are plenty of persons who possess it, or think they do, which serves their purpose quite as well. I mean "wise," in the sense of possessing an unusual and supernatural insight into things which are commonly hidden from mortal knowledge.
Of these people there are few, if any, left in the present day; or if there are such, they do not come to the front as they once did. There are, indeed, many persons in the world now, who actually disbelieve in witches and all creatures of that sort, and who not only disbelieve in their existence now, but who stoutly maintain that they neverdidexist.
I don't know how they get over the Witch of Endor, or the various other allusions to witches in the Bible, but I suppose theydosomehow or other.
People are much too clever for me, nowadays, and get over any difficulty that comes in their way—or fancy that they do so, and trouble themselves no more about it. I have even heard people disbelieve in fairies, but that of course is sheer nonsense; and no one who wanders—as I have often done, at all seasons and at all hours—through the glorious English woodlands, can doubt the existence of the dear little elves.
Doubt their existence! I should as soon think of doubting my own! How do the fairy-rings come, I should like to know? Whence comes the name of "the Fairy Well"—not uncommon by any means? Oh, no! I do not believe that anybody disbelieves that fairies exist, though I know that there is a dreadful amount of unbelief in the world regarding warlocks and witches.
I am glad to say that good Farmer Barrett was never one of the unbelievers. He was near upon seventy when I first came to lodge under his roof, so that if he had lived till now he would have been ninety-seven. As he didn't, however, it is no use making the remark. He died some twelve years ago, when about eighty-five; cut off, as one may say, in the prime of life.
Ah, me! how our friends, young and old, fall around us, like grass. My godson, Jack Barrett, here remarks, with less of reverence than I could have wished, in speaking of his grandfather, that a man taken away at eighty-five would be better compared to hay than grass. Well, well, Jack is young; barely forty, and boysmusthave their jokes, as we all know.
I was going to say that good Farmer Barrett's death affected me very much. He was a very great comfort to me, was Farmer Barrett. It was not only that we agreed upon most points, and thought alike in a manner most satisfactory to both of us.Thatwas a great comfort, living as we did under the same roof, and sitting together, either in his kitchen or my parlour, almost every evening, to enjoy a quiet gossip. But there were other comforts too, and the chief one—that which I may fairly consider the principal advantage which I reaped from the society of Farmer Barrett—was derived from his extraordinary knowledge of the legends and traditions of his native county concerning witches and wizards.
Many and many an evening have we sat talking upon such matters, till I have really felt quite nervous about going to bed. Not that I am a nervous man: not by any means; but I own that more than once, after discussing witches and their cats to a late hour, I have felt a curious sensation when the house cat came rubbing herself against my shins, and have looked with a species of creepy feeling over my left shoulder as I went upstairs to bed, almost thinking I should see something "uncanny" close behind me.
I never knew any man with such a collection of stories and legends as old Barrett. He had tales without end of the "Warlock of Coombe," the "Wizard of Bockhanger," and the "Witch of Brook Hollow." He could tell of the dark doings of the "Hag of Hothfield," and the fearful creature who so long inhabited the regions of Charing, and darkened the woods of Longbeach with her awesome shadow.
I do not believe that any witch or wizard ever existed in Kent whose story was not well known to Barrett. Of his own knowledge he could tell something. Once there happened a curious thing in his stables.
His two teams of horses, fed alike, housed equally well, and treated with precisely the same care, strangely varied in their appearance and condition. One team were always sleek and slim, "fat and well-liking," like Pharaoh's fat kine, and the admiration of all beholders. The other team were just the reverse. Nothing they took seemed to agree with them, they fell away, their bones started through their skins, and their appearance was a disgrace to the farm. This state of things greatly puzzled and annoyed the farmer and his men.
Barrett himself laid the blame upon the waggoner and his mate, and threatened to discharge both of them if things went on so, as he felt sure they petted one team of horses at the expense of the other. The men earnestly denied the charge, and were evidently much vexed at its having been made.
Things went on the same until at last the waggoner, who was a clever and withal a courageous man, determined to sit up all night and watch. He did so, being carefully hidden in the corner of the stable. The horses fed well, and lay down as usual. All was quiet until twelve o'clock struck. At that moment several little men, about a foot high, leaped down from the loft above the stables, and going to the favoured team, began to brush and comb them with great care and energy, rubbing them well all over and uttering no words to anybody as they did so, save to each other as they worked, as if to encourage themselves to greater exertions.
"I work—you work, I work—you work," they kept saying, and the coats of the horses rapidly became more smooth and glossy, until, when the little men had finished, they were perfect models of what horses should be.
They merely looked at the other team with funny faces, and then hastened up again to their loft. All this the waggoner duly told his master next morning, and, of course, with the natural incredulity of man, he at first refused to believe it.
But when, upon the man again and again assuring him of its truth, he determined to put the matter to the proof by hiding himself that same night, he saw precisely the same thing, and was of course convinced.
I forget how the story ended, but I know that, somehow or other, he managed to get some "wise" person in the neighbourhood to speak up for the poor, thin team, and prevent the little elves, or whatever they were, from "spiting" them any more.
Then the farmer had a tale which had been told him by a groom he had once in his service, who came from the hill above Charing. Up over the hill there was a reputed witch, Mrs. Dorland.
I questioned the groom about this woman myself, so I may as well give the story in his own words.
"She were a noted witch, she were," he said.
"How do you know?" I asked, not because I myself doubted for a moment, but because I wanted to glean all the particulars I possibly could.
"Bless ye, sir," replied the youth, "I knows all about it because o' my grandfather. She wouldn't never let him alone. I expect he'd affronted her, one time or other. I recollect when I was a-staying along with him once, and the door locked and all—he looked over the stairs and there, sure enough, was old Dame Dorland on the mat at the bottom, and her eyes! oh theygloundedin her head, they did!"
"But how did she get in?" I asked.
"That's just what I want to know," answered the boy. "The door was shut and fast locked; but there she was, anyhow. Another time my grandfather had to drive some bullocks down to Ashford market, and he overtook Dame Dorland. She had a basket on her arm, and she asked my grandfather to carry it for her. He wouldn't. I expect he didn't know what bad game might be up. Well, do you think he could keep his bullocks in the road, after that? Not he: they was over the hedge, first one side and then another, and then they was for running back. He couldn't do nothing with them, so he turns back and offers to carry the old girl's basket. Then the bullocks was all right directly, and he hadn't no trouble in getting them along all the way to Ashford."
Since Farmer Barrett had lived all his life in a county where such people as Dame Dorland were to be found, there can hardly be much surprise felt at his entire and implicit belief in witchcraft.
But the most wonderful tale that he ever told me was that which not only concerned the county, but the very district in which he dwelt. It is a story to which I listened with intense interest when first I heard it, and my interest was never lessened by its repetition.
Again and again I asked the old farmer to go over it once more, and I cross-examined him upon all the particulars of his tale in a manner which would really have offended some people of my acquaintance. He, however, was not only not offended, but pleased at the perseverance with which I questioned him.
He told me the story, in fact, so often, that I got to know it nearly by heart; and I think it is one which I ought to relate for the benefit of a world, in which, as far as I can see, belief of any kind, and certainly belief in witches and the like, will shortly be extinct.
The parish of Mersham has long been known as a favourite resort of queer people of the kind of whom I am speaking. It is a very long, narrow parish: much narrower, of course, at some parts than others.
Its north end runs into and beyond the park of Mersham Hatch—that is, the west side of the park, the east side being in the parishes of Brabourne and Smeeth. The south part of the parish joins Bilsington and Aldington, and on the south west you are very close upon the Ruckinge and Orlestone big woods—so close that I am not sure whether a portion of that vast tract of woodland does not actually lie within the boundaries of the parish of Mersham. Be that as it may, it is a wild part of the world, and just the very sort of place in which you would fancy witches and their confederates to abound. Whether you fancy it or not, however, beyond all doubt such was the case, in the good old times of which I speak.
No one ever dreamed of being out at night in those parts if he could possibly help it. The roads were wretchedly bad, full of deep ruts and big stones, with ditches inconveniently exposed on either side, and bushes jutting out from the adjoining woods in the most awkward manner for the traveller.
But it was not the badness of the roads which deterred people from moving about at night, or towards evening, but something much worse, namely the strange and terrible beings who frequented the locality.
All kinds of rumours were current with respect to witch meetings, and gatherings held by wicked creatures, upon which, if a mortal man of ordinary mould happened to come, he ran a terrible risk of some dreadful misfortune happening to him and his, shortly afterwards.
Cottages were few and far between: there was scarce a public house to be found in the neighbourhood, save one or two which had an evil reputation as the haunt of smugglers and outlawed men.
No gentleman's house was near, and Bilsington Priory had passed away with all its holy train of priests, and nothing was to be seen of their former glory, and no vestige of themselves either, unless it was true that a monk walked occasionally round the walls with ghostly tread, and moaned, deeply and sadly, as he compared the past with the present. In short, it was a wild, weird country, and wild, weird people dwelt there.
From Aldington Knoll, right away down to the other side of Ham-street, the thick woods contained a class of beings who, if they lived there nowadays, would be a horror to all Christian men, and an intolerable nuisance to the Kent County Constabulary. There were, however, honest men there, as everywhere else; and, although for the most part such people preferred to dwell nearer Mersham-street or immediately below the church, yet the scattered cottages further south were not altogether without inmates, who, having nowhere else to live, lived there.
John Gower was one of these, a respectable middle-aged man, who won his bread by the sweat of his brow, and was proud of the name of a Kentish labourer.
John had married early in life, lost his wife after the birth of their fourth child, and remained a widower ever since. Although he could neither read nor write, he was blessed with good common sense, and was able to give his children plain and sensible advice, which might serve them, he said, in as good stead as book-learning, if they would only lay it to heart and act upon it.
His eldest girl, Mary, was as good a girl as you would meet in a day's journey. She had her good looks (as most Mersham girls have), but she had that which is even better than good looks, an even temper and a good disposition. She was about seventeen when our story begins; her brother Jack, between fifteen and sixteen, was away at work "down in the sheers" (shires), as the neighbours called all other counties but their own; and two little ones, Jane, under fourteen, and Billy, just twelve, were at home, the former helping her sister as well as she could, and the latter doing such odd jobs as could be found for him, and doing no more mischief than a boy of his age could help.
The cottage in which they lived was very near the big woods—too near to be pleasant for anyone who feared witches or wizards—and it must be confessed that John Gower was not without his fears.
He had various horse-shoes nailed up about his premises to keep the evil creatures off, and he carefully barred his doors and windows every night, not knowing what might happen if any of them were left open. He could tell of strange cries heard in the woods at night, and if you suggested that they might proceed from owls, he shook his head sadly and gravely, as one who knew better, and grieved over your doubting spirit.
But in spite of his fears and precautions, and the strange locality in which he lived, Gower could not be called otherwise than a cheerful man. He worked all day, got home as soon as he could, was pleasant and happy with his children (of whom he was very fond), and was certainly of a contented disposition, and one who made the best of the world and took things as he found them.
Such was he and such was his family at the time that the occurrences took place which I am about to relate.
Some years before the date at which our story commences, there had lived at the extreme south of the parish of Mersham a woman of the name of Betty Bartlet. She was not only a reputed witch, but the fact of her being so was testified to by a great number of credible witnesses who had either suffered in their own persons from her evil power, or had seen and heard things which could not have been had she been an ordinary and Christian woman.
She lived to a very great age—nobody knew exactly how old she was when she died; and, although the rumours respecting her career caused the clergyman of the Parish to entertain serious doubts as to the course he should pursue, she was eventually carried to Mersham churchyard to be therein interred.
But if I am correctly informed—and I obtained my information from highly respectable people—there were strange and terrible doings at her funeral.
She was carried on a waggon, from the cottage in which she had breathed her last, as far as the bridge over the river Stour, which flows, as all the world knows, a few hundred yards south of the church. There, from some unknown cause, the horses would not cross the bridge; and it was told me that they seemed quite exhausted with the short journey—little over three miles—which they had performed.
So the people unharnessed them from the waggon, placed all that remained of old Betty on the shoulders of eight stout bearers, and marched forward towards the churchyard. But not only was their burden wondrously heavy, but it seemed to grow heavier as they went on, and they had the greatest difficulty in making their way up the short hill, and so round to the right towards the churchyard. And just before they got to the gate, why or wherefore nobody could tell, one of the bearers stumbled, and in doing so tripped up another, and down came the whole concern with a great crash upon the ground. Everything connected with their burden suddenly disappeared: a vast cloud of black dust arose and blew all over the place, and out of the dust flew a great black bird, with a strange and awful croak, with which it terribly frightened the bystanders and bearers, as it flew off directly in the contrary direction to the churchyard.
What happened immediately afterwards Farmer Barrett never heard, or, at least, he never told me, but nobody ever doubted that the old witch had flown off in the shape of the black, fearsome bird, being unable to enter the holy ground of the churchyard. Be this as it may, the ancient woman left behind her three daughters, who had all inherited their mother's wickedness, and were witches every one of them. Their actual names were Betty, Jane, and Sarah, but they were popularly known as Skinny, Bony, and Humpy, the two elder sisters being thin and gaunt, whilst the youngest was shorter, and had a species of hump between her shoulders.
Every one in Mersham, and, for the matter of that, in the adjoining parishes also, knew these three sisters by sight, and avoided them as much as possible. No conceivable misfortune ever happened in that neighbourhood that was not attributed to their influence, and all that went wrong was immediately laid at their door.
The sisters were well aware of the awe with which the neighbours regarded them, and took good care that it should not diminish, never losing an opportunity of frightening those simple people with whom they came in contact. They lived in a long, low cottage—scarcely worthy of the name of cottage—so miserable was it both as regards the outside building and the inside accommodation. The roof was of thatch, and the dwelling itself was at one end built of Kentish rag-stone, but badly constructed, and all the rest of it was composed entirely of wood, and apparently afforded but poor shelter against wind and rain.
The women lived mostly at the stone-built end of their house, for there was their kitchen, such as it was; but very little was known of the interior of this place, inasmuch as nobody came near it who could possibly go another way. It was situate, however, barely half a mile from John Gower's cottage, a fact which caused him and his no little annoyance, inasmuch as the three Crones of Mersham, as they were usually called, were not the best of neighbours, and never very particular as far as other people's property was concerned.
Now John Gower had a great number of relations; in fact there was and is an old proverb in his native parish, to the effect that "if you know the Gowers, you know all Mersham;" and certainly the knowledge would to this day make you acquainted with a large quantity of people.
They were none of them rich relations, certainly, unless you might have applied that adjective to the wife of a certain Farmer Long who lived a few miles off, and whose husband might certainly be said to be thriving.
Sally Long was a stout, comfortable-looking dame, who could not fairly have found fault if you had called her fat, but who, unlike most fat people, was not gifted with the best of tempers. If all reports were true, she led her husband rather a life of it, and scolded pretty equally all her household. She had no children, and her husband's son by a former wife being a trifle weak in the head, and for that reason generally known by the name of "Simple Steenie," there was no one to dispute her authority in house, yard or farm.
These worthy people lived in the parish of Aldington, and although John Gower was no looker after dead men's shoes, and a man who would have scorned to bow down before any one for the sake of their wealth, he thought it was but right and fair towards his children to encourage them to maintain friendly relations with his distant cousin, Dame Long.
She had noticed the children more than once, when they were quite little things; and when a woman of a certain age, with no children of her own, notices the children of other people, who happen to be her own relations, there is no telling what may come of it. So the boys had orders to take their caps off and the girls to drop a respectful curtsey whenever they passed Mrs. Long, and any little act of civility which they could possibly perform was never forgotten.
Now it happened that someone, many years ago, had given to the Gower family a very particular cat. When I use the word "particular," I do not mean to imply a very strict or fastidious cat, but one that was particular in the sense of being different from the general run of cats, which was certainly true of this individual cat.
She was jet black, which you will say is not at all uncommon; but Farmer Barrett always maintained that no cats that he ever heard of weresojet and so glossy as the Gower cats. She was a magnificent animal: her whiskers unusually long, her tail splendidly bushy, her body beautifully and symmetrically made, and her head, in size, shape, and the intelligence which was displayed upon her face, little short of perfection.
This cat lived until a great age, and nobody exactly knew when or where it died. To tell the truth there was always a legend in the Gower family that it neverdiddie, at least not in their cottage, but that it disappeared on the very day of old Betty Bartlet's death.
I do not know—for Farmer Barrett could not tell me, though I asked him more than once—how they connected the two events, but nevertheless they had this legend, if so I may call it.
But whatever happened to this cat, of one thing there is certainly no doubt, namely, that during her lifetime she several times went through the ceremony of kittening, and that her race seemed by no means likely to be extinct. Her kittens were always black, always very glossy and always remarkably clever and intelligent, and people were always glad to get a kitten of the Gower breed.
So when, upon a fine summer's morning, one of the descendants of the famous animal of which I have spoken was found by John Gower with a little family of four kittens around her, he and his children were not displeased at the addition to their household. And when, after a few days, one of these kittens appeared to be developing into an animal more comely and more sprightly than the rest, the worthy man thought it would be a proper and becoming compliment upon his part if he made a present of it to good Mrs. Long.
So he told Mary that she should take it up in a little basket the very next day, give his "duty" to "old aunt Sally" (for so they called her in the cottage when they spoke of her among themselves, though it was always "Mrs. Long" when they spoketoher) and ask her acceptance of the gift. Mary made her preparations accordingly. She could not go up to the farm in the morning, for she had the rooms to "do," the house to sweep, father's dinner to get ready and carry to him, and a number of little jobs to get done which it was necessary to finish before she could feel herself at liberty to go out.
At last, however, every duty seemed to have been discharged, as is always the case, at some time or other, if people will only set themselves at work to do resolutely that which they have before them to do, instead of sitting down with folded hands and sighing over the prospect of it.
It must have been between three and four o'clock in the afternoon when Mary found that she could get away with a clear conscience. Then she put on her little straw hat, donned her grey cloak, put the kitten in a little basket with a little hay for it to lie on, and called her brother Billy to come with her, wisely thinking this the most likely way to keep him out of mischief.
It was a truly glorious afternoon, such as an English summer's afternoon often is.
"Talk to me about foreign countries," as Farmer Barrett often used to say, snapping his fingers audibly, "thatfor your furrineerers; there an't no land like old England, to my mind;" and, being myself old and prejudiced, I confess that I am very much of the good old farmer's opinion.
It is very charming, no doubt, to roam through foreign lands, and there is doubtless much to admire. When I shut my eyes and muse over beautiful views that I have seen, many such come back to me with pleasing memories.
I see the sparkling Rhine with castle-crowned heights, and scenery world-worshipped for its varied beauty; I gaze with a delight tempered with awe upon the mighty snow-clad mountains of life-breathing Switzerland; I sit upon the shores of the sea of seas, the Mediterranean, and I cast my eyes upon its waters of eternal blue; and, most wonderful sight of all, I stand upon the plateau opposite the Cascatelle at Tivoli, and, with the waterfall and town on one side, Adrian's Villa nestling below on the left, and the hills behind, look out over the vast Campagna with its ever-changing lights, see Rome—grand, glorious Rome—in the far distance, and feel carried out of myself and away from all ideas of mere earth and earthly things as I lose all individuality of being in the absorbing contemplation of a beauty so divinely sublime.
And then—as the magic power of thought enables me to move faster than railroads, steamers, or electric telegraphs—I suddenly transport myself to a quiet, homely, English scene upon a summer's afternoon; and I think to myself that neither the Rhine, Switzerland, nor Italy can produce anything more pleasing to the eye, more soothing to the senses, or more entirely enjoyable to any person capable of enjoyment, and not given to despise the beauties of scenery merely because they can be seen at home without hurrying off to foreign lands.