Part 3

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.