Fan nowt ti snap at; t’ hare ’ed geean.
An’ then wa kenn’d wa’d hunted t’ witch[45].
I know a very similar set of verses exist, telling of a wonderful run after a hare in connexion with Bilsdale and that district. But the language, in fact the whole tone of the rhyme, is much too loose for the publication of any part of it.
A word here explaining what is meant by witches milking cows may not be out of place. It has been mentioned that Peggy Flaunders was thought to have drawn the milk from one Mary Parker’s cow. How or by what means, deponent sayeth not, but one Ann Allan, of Ugthorpe, who kept pigs, was almost caught in the act. This was about 1780, and as Ann’s procedure was run on much the same lines as the most respectable witches used some hundreds of years before her time, we may take hers as a typical example.
Not one, but three or four Ugthorpe cows ceased to give their usual quantity of milk. Of course the villagers talked, and at last the priest was visited; but a hundred years ago many of the clergy, both of Rome and the Church of England, so far as learning was concerned, would have been knocked into a cocked hat by a Primitive Methodist local brother of these days. So it will be readily conceived the visit to the priest resulted in very little good. He declared the devil had got hold of the defaulting cows by the tail, and this made them hold their milk back; he further assured them the only way to get the devil to let go was to say three pater nosters and Ave Marias over their milk-pails, and to subscribe a certain sum, which had to be paid to him, to celebrate a mass to Saint somebody, who would send a holy angel to frighten the devil away. Now, I know nothing about doctoring cows, but I am inclined to the belief that old Jonathan Westcott, of Upleatham, was much nearer effecting a cure, when he ordered an aperient draught, to be followed by gentle exercise, than prayers muttered inside any number of milk-cans.
I believe the good people of that day would have fallen in with the prayers, but they drew a hard and fast line when the collection box obtruded itself. They returned home dissatisfied. They were losing their milk—that they could not help; but they could prevent their pockets being dipped into, and they did. Another meeting was held, and a watch was set on Ann, but nothing came of it. At last a neighbour’s cow dried up altogether. At this the good man was so exasperated, that he went to Ann’s and boldly accused her of milking the cows. Words ran high, till in the end he seized a three-legged stool, intending to hurl it at Ann’s head, when, lo! a curious thing happened—as he gripped the leg of the stool, a stream of milk ran from it. The neighbours, who by this time had flocked round the door, cried out with one voice: ‘Thoo’s gitten ’t; that’s what sha milks wer coos wi’.’ And sure enough such was found to be the case. On the name of any neighbour’s cow being mentioned, and a leg of the stool handled as in milking, a fine stream of milk came from it, and the bag of that individual’s cow was found on examination to have shrunk. No wonder she had fat pigs, when she could give them new milk in any quantity and from any one’s cow she liked to name. Such a stool was not a fit piece of furniture for any one to possess, so it was publicly burnt on the moor just beyond the high end of the village, near to where the windmill stands. Ann was ordered to walk three times from one end of the village to the other, clothed in nothing but her sark[46], i.e. chemise. The Godivan rule, which compelled every one to keep within doors during the time of penance, seems (so far as Ugthorpe was concerned) to have been absolutely reversed—they were all there, even down to the babies in arms. From all accounts, Ugthorpe has never had quite such a lively time since. Before judging the people and the ways of that time as altogether too idiotic, indecent, and unjust, it is as well to bear in mind that every age has its curious idiosyncrasies. In 1898 affiliation cases are heard in open court; a man may nearly kick the life out of his wife with a pair of clogs at a small outlay of about seven-and-six; but stealing a turnip necessitates a low form of diet, and enforced seclusion for three months. These masterpieces of our time will bring a smile to faces yet unborn.
Nan Hardwicke’s fame at one time was great, and her name and deeds still live in many of the Cleveland dales. I remember once being driven to Westerdale by an old chap, who gave me the following story. I think the circumstance occurred to his father, and not himself—on this point my notes are silent, anyway. Either his mother or his wife was expecting the advent of a new baby, and the expectant mother’s sister had to be sent for, to some place about five miles distant. That afternoon Nan Hardwicke called as she was passing (she must have been some miles from home), and asked for ’a shive o’ breead an’ a pot o’ beer,’ which were given her. Nan let them know she was aware of all that was about to transpire. Finishing her food, she opened the door of the room where the wife was lying, and poking her head inside, said, ‘Ah wish ya weell; ya’ll ’ev a lad afoor morning, an’ ya’ll call him Tommy, weean’t ya?’ ‘Whya, wa ’a’e made up wer mahnds ti call him John,’ replied the wife. ‘Aye, mebbe, bud ya’d best call him Tommy; an’ thanking ya, Ah’ll be saying good-daay ti ya.’ And with that she closed the door and departed. The husband, on being made acquainted with the witch’s request, declared that nothing of the sort should happen—John they had decided to call the bairn, and John it should be—he dare not run the risk of changing its name then. About six o’clock that evening the husband put his horse in the gig, or whatever he had, and drove away to bring back the sister-in-law. About three miles on the journey, he had to cross a small bridge, but when within twenty or thirty yards of it, the horse stopped, and could not be persuaded to move a step further. The good man at last decided to get out and lead the mare over, but in this he was wrong. Much to his amazement, he discovered he could not leave his seat—he was ‘ez fast ez owt.’ Vainly did he strive, but it was of no use. At last he came to the conclusion that a spell was on them both, so he called out, ‘Noo, Nan, what’s ti eftther? this is thi wark.’ Immediately he heard Nan commence to laugh, and then she shouted, but he did not know where the voice came from, ‘Thoo’ll call t’ bairn Tommy, weean’t ta?’ The husband was desperately bold for those days, for he shouted, ‘Neea, Ah weean’t, nowther foor thoo na all t’ Nan divils i’ t’ country.’ ‘Then thoo’ll bahd wheer thoo is, whahl t’ bairn’s born an’ t’ muther dees,’ croaked Nan. This, in its way, was a bit of a clincher, to sit stuck fast in a gig, neither able to proceed nor get out, at a time too when all speed was necessary; add to this a sinister threat of immediate death of the one he most loved, unless he consented to christen an unborn child Tommy, when he had decided to name it Johnny, and with a feeling at the bottom of his heart that there was a margin for uncertainty, and that after all it might happen to be a girl. Taking all these things into consideration, was it to be wondered that he gave way, and swore the child, if a boy, should be christened Tom? Having made this promise, he was allowed to proceed on his way.
But Nan did not always have her own way. She had a habit of hiding herself amongst the whins and brackens, which grew in abundance near her humble roof. The young men used to collect all the hounds together and put them on the scent of Au’d Nan. According to legend, they had many a good run, ‘bud tha nivver catch’d her.’ One other unrecorded story of Nan[47].
Nan had a relation living at Lowna Bridge, to whom she occasionally paid a visit. This relation, I believe, only looked forward with pleasure to Nan’s departure. On this point, however, Nan seems to have been pretty thick-skinned. It is a mystery how this journey was accomplished. Some thought she turned herself into a hare and ran the distance of twenty miles easily in that form; anyway, the fact remains that now and again Au’d Nan turned up at Lowna Bridge. It may, en passant, be mentioned that human nature was very much the same in the early part of this century as it is to-day. I mean, poor relations are never welcome; their presence, or anything which calls them to mind, makes one feel we ought to do something which we had very much rather not do—their presence digs the spur into one’s conscience, you know! But to return to Nan and her Lowna relations. I believe the following occurred on her last visit: she arrived just after the bridal procession of the daughter of the house had returned from church. By-and-by the question arose—where could Au’d Nan sleep? On this particular occasion every bed had more than one claimant already. The matter was solved by a kindly bridesmaid offering to take Nan home and share her bed with her, and then bring her back when the guests had departed. Unfortunately, the bride, not knowing that Nan was near, said to her friend, ‘Relation though the old thing is, I would not sleep with her for anything.’ At this Nan turned round and, before the whole company, exclaimed, ‘Neea, bud thoo wad sleep wi’ him,’ pointing to the bridegroom; and then she added, shaking her stick,—
Ah’ve let tha be wedded,