‘Now, crafty Sir, the bargain was
That you should have what first did pass
Across the bridge—so now, alas!
The dog’s your right.
The Cheater cheated, struck with shame,
Squinted and grinned, then in a flame
He vanished quite.’”
At least two legends have come down to us of the days of the wolves. A lady belonging to the Lucy family—the great territorial lords of West Cumberland—was one evening walking near to Egremont Castle when she was devoured by a wolf at a place afterwards marked by a stone cairn, and known as Woful Bank. The name of Wotobank is given to a place in the parish of Beckermet. The story here is that Edgar, a lord of Beckermet, and his lady, Edwina, and servants, were at one time hunting the wolf. “During the chase the lord missed his lady, and after a long and painful search the party at last found her body lying on the hill, or bank, slain by a wolf, with the ravenous beast still in the act of tearing it to pieces. In the first transports of his grief, the words that the distressed husband first uttered were, ‘Woe to this Bank’—a phrase since altered and applied to the place as ‘Wotobank.’” Another wolf legend of a somewhat similar character is attached to a well called Lady’s Dub, at Ulpha.
What can only be described as legends—for as to their authenticity it would perhaps not be wise to inquire too closely—belong to the fortunes of several estates in the two counties. One of the owners of Warthell (or Warthol) Hall, in the parish of Plumbland, was notorious for his passion for card-playing—a form of amusement, by the way, which probably for more than two hundred years has been a favourite among all classes in the two counties. The Lord of Warthell, Mr. Dykes, one evening lost a large sum, and was face to face with ruin. Growing desperate, he determined to risk all on a single game of putt, and at the last deal cried,
“Up, now deuce, or else a tray,
Or Warthell’s gone for ever and aye.”
While it would perhaps be unjust even to suggest that the people of Cumberland and Westmorland are now more superstitious than those of other counties, it is nevertheless a fact that many curious beliefs prevailed in the country districts long after they had ceased in other places. The faith in the efficacy of charms has even yet not died away. Toothache has long been a favourite medium for testing the skill of the charmer and the faith of the sufferer. The Rev. H. J. Bulkeley, then rector of Lanercost, who spent much time in collecting records of the old and fleeting beliefs, told in 1885 how the toothache charm was worked. “A boy suffering from toothache was taken to an old blacksmith, who prodded the decayed tooth with a rusty nail; blindfolded the boy, led him into a wood, and, taking the bandage off his eyes, made him hammer the nail into a young oak; blindfolded him again, and led him out, making him promise not to try and find the tree or tell anyone of it. And that tooth never ached any more!” Another method was to rub, with a stone, the part affected, the operation taking place soon after sunset. While performing the rubbing, the charmer muttered an incantation which does not seem to have been preserved in print, although it is doubtless well known in the country districts.
Fairies have given place to more material creations, but the faith in the “little folk” has not died out, and even yet occasionally the dairy-maid may be seen furtively to put a pinch of salt in the fire at churning time, “so that t’ fairies mayn’t stop t’ butter frae comin’.” The rowan-tree branch used to be placed above doorways to keep away evil influences throughout the north of England, and in the Lake Country the stick used for stirring the cream to counteract the bewitching of the churn is still frequently made of rowan or mountain ash wood.
Among the old superstitions is that of the death strokes:—
“As with three strokes above the testered bed
The parting spirit of its tenant fled.”
The opinion once very commonly prevailed that shortly before the coming of the last summons three distinct raps were heard on the wall immediately over the bed head. This, of course, was nothing more than the noise made by a small worm when trying to bore itself a passage through the decayed woodwork where it had been bred.
“Telling the bees” is a custom in several parts of the country, and is still believed in by some of the old people of these counties. When a death occurred in a household where bees were kept it was deemed desirable for some one to acquaint the occupants of the hives with the fact, and also to tell them on the day of the funeral that the corpse was about to be lifted. The late Mr. W. Dickinson, who by his “Cumbriana,” “Reminiscences,” and “Glossary,” did much to preserve a knowledge of old-time life in the county, said the last case of “telling the bees” which came to his knowledge was at Asby, near Arlecdon, in 1855. To miss taking the doleful news to the bees was held to be a certain way of bringing ill-luck to the house.