In connexion with the witch-lore of the riding, it strikes one as singular, that whilst many of the stories told of local witches closely resemble those of other countries, yet other stories, equally common, both abroad and a little further north, so far as I have investigated, are with us conspicuous by their absence. Of witches turning their victims into horses by throwing a bridle over their heads and riding them the night through, or of a witch having been outwitted and treated in like manner, even in some instances casting a shoe, and of being reshod during the night, the shoe remaining nailed to the hand on regaining their natural form—of such stories, I repeat, not a vestige remains amongst us. Thorpe’s Mythology and the Wilkie MS. give many instances; and though some of the stories are dated almost in recent times, doubtless their radicals are to be found in the myth of times remote.

Again, whilst we retain the belief in the efficacy of the dead hand in the curing of certain diseases, one never hears mention of the ‘hand of glory[60].’ There are old people to-day who tell you of its marvellous power, but their knowledge is that gained from hearsay. I have never met a single person who knew of an instance of its having been used in the North Riding; and if ever such was the case, it must have been long ago, for many of the old folk know absolutely nothing about it.

Silver shot was a deadly charge, because, in some way not explained, it was charmed. Jane Wood, who was accounted a witch about seventy years ago in the Basedale district, gave little heed either to dogs or guns; when she assumed the form of a hare, she escaped from the former quite easily, and the latter never could hit her. At last one sportsman, acting on the advice of a wise man, melted some silver coins in an iron ladle smeared with the blood of a hare. This was done at the blacksmith’s forge, the same being plentifully supplied with wickenwood. The melted silver was poured into a basin of water, which divided it into fine particles; suitable pieces were collected, the gun charged, and next evening the venturesome hare was fired at. Though it escaped, it was evidently badly hit. Suspicion had for some time rested on Jane. Her cottage was visited; she declared she was too ill to rise and open the door, having, as she said, accidentally turned a beehive over and got severely stung. This statement did not satisfy those outside. The door was burst open, and Jane pulled out of bed; over one part of her body she was found to be covered with small sores, which there was no doubt had been caused by the silver shot. Anyway, that venturesome hare was never seen again, so no further proof was required.

There is one point which requires a few words of explanation, at least so far as it can be explained. We have heard of witches who allowed themselves to be chased as hares, some of which, if not caught, were bitten just as they were entering their own homes; on examination, teeth-marks were found on a corresponding part of their body. The same may be said of the injuries inflicted by the silver shot. The telling of these stories leaves no doubt in one’s mind that the witches in the cases mentioned are supposed to have turned themselves into hares. This, however, was not always the case, as the following story will show. There was a woman on whom grave suspicion rested; for some reason or other she was never openly charged with being a witch, but old heads were ominously shaken when her name was mentioned. In the district in which she lived, there was a notorious hare, which simply jeered at dogs and guns alike. At length some one suggested silver shot; this was duly made, and the hare shot dead. Afterwards, on comparing the times, it was found that Mrs.—— had thrown up her arms the very moment when the hare was shot, ejaculating, ‘They have killed my familiar spirit’; uttering these words, she fell dead on her kitchen floor. Now Mrs.—— had not been out that day—there were plenty of witnesses to testify that—so it would seem it was not always a case of transformation, but a familiar spirit which was chased, whilst the individual herself was at home attending to her household duties. Of course all such were subject to the ills which might befall their familiars.

There seems to be a very close connexion between a hare being shot and corresponding wounds being found on the person of those who had so transformed themselves, and the stories told of the witch mares being shod and the shoes remaining fixed to their hands when their original form was resumed.

Hobmen.

At one time the family of Oughtred, who lived on a farm near Hob Hill, Upleatham, were greatly assisted in their various occupations by the hobman, who lived in the Hob Hill. These hobmen are heard of now and again in the North Riding. The hobman[61] with us seems to hold the same place as the brownies of the north, and the pixies of Devonshire. Anyway, the hobman still did his work as recently as 1820; for the Oughtreds had their hay turned, their cattle brought home and driven back again, their corn and other grain winnowed, their turnips topped and tailed, and I do not know what all. What they did to offend the hobman, is not known. But it is thought that a man hung his coat on the winnowing machine, and forgot to remove it when his day’s work was done. The hobman possibly thought, when he entered late at night, that it had been left for him; and no offence, it seems, could be greater than to offer a hobman clothes of any kind, so he went away, and has never been heard of since. It seems at the very time they unfortunately displeased their friend the hobman, they also incurred the ill-will of Peggy Flaunders; for about this time, late one evening, a fearful knocking came at the back door. The maid, on opening it, saw a fearful thing like a blazing pig standing on the step; with one wild shriek she fled, crying out to her master and mistress that the devil had come, and was standing on the back doorstep. They at once asked, had she closed the back door? On being told that she was too frightened to do anything else but flee from such a monster, they both sank back in dismay, well knowing the evil spirit had been given a chance to enter, which they rightly feared it would not fail to avail itself of. They rushed to the back door, but nothing was there; still they had their misgivings—they were terribly apprehensive. And sure enough it turned out not without cause—crockery was smashed, machinery was broken, cattle died; in fact things got into such a parlous state, that they decided to leave. On the day when they were preparing to flit, a friend looked in, and asked Oughtred if he really meant shifting. As he asked the question, a queer little head popped out over the top of the press, and a voice squeaked out, ‘Aye, we’re gahin ti flit ti morn’; on hearing which, Oughtred said, ‘Whya, if thoo’s gahin wiv uz, it’s teea neea ewse gahin; wa mud ez weel stop[62].’ The wise man was eventually consulted. Legend sayeth not where he lived; but under his directions a live black cock bird was pierced with pins, and roasted alive at dead of night, with every door, window, and cranny and crevice stuffed up. By these means Peggy’s power and the imp were overcome.

Years ago, when the old church at Marske-by-the-Sea was condemned, and a new one about to be built, it was decided to pull down the old structure and use the stone for building the new. This bit of vandalism was duly commenced; part of the old building was razed, and the stone carted to the new site[63]—so far, so good. The old people murmured, for they objected greatly to the demolition of the edifice in which they and their fore-elders had worshipped; but they were powerless—they could only stand by and watch with aching hearts stone after stone being carted away. And so the first day’s work came to an end, which to them was work of desecration, and they returned home sad at heart. But if they were powerless, they had a champion, and one whom they had never dreamt of taking up their cause. Next morning, when the men returned to their work, what was their surprise, and the amazement of every one else, to find the old church whole again, without a stone displaced or a mark of the previous day’s work to be found anywhere. Every stone had been brought back again and replaced in situ, and the mortar which had been used to reset the displaced stones was as hard and set as that of hundreds of years before.

This marvellous occurrence was duly reported at head-quarters. What the officials thought or imagined, is not recorded; they ordered the work to proceed, and even set on more men to pull the old place down, so that on the second day a considerable portion was carted away and stacked on the new site; but next morning the old church was found to have been fully repaired during the night, every stone having once again been brought back and placed in its original position. Things were now looking a bit serious. On the third day, however, work was resumed, a portion again pulled down and carted away, but this time men were set to watch the stones and find out who came for them. Now, whether these watchers fell asleep—they declared they did not—or whether in the darkness the stones were all stolen away so quietly that they never heard or saw anything of what was transpiring, cannot be stated; one thing is only known—when daylight appeared, every stone had vanished, and again the old church was found to have been restored, so perfectly that no one could tell that ever a stone had been removed. Those in authority were bound to admit that it was useless to contend further against such a powerful and invisible opponent. For long it was not generally known by what means the work of replacement had been wrought; but there were those who knew, and in time every one did. It was the hobman, assisted by others of his friends. In those days it was simply the essence of folly for architects and bricklayers to pit themselves against a hobman, just the same it would be to-day, if the hobmen took it into their heads to undertake a job—but they don’t now.

There was a hobman once had his home in a hill near to Hob Garth, and no doubt in his day performed many acts which are now forgotten; however, I had one related to me years ago by an old chap who at that time was working on the Mulgrave estate. His grandfather, Thomas Stonehouse, lived at Hob Garth for many years. I think he had a small holding; anyway, he kept sheep. It seems that some misunderstanding arose between him and one Matthew Bland, of Great Fryup. Bland was of a vindictive nature—at least, if the supposition was true that he broke Tommy’s hedge down late one night, drove the sheep out, and left them to wander whither they liked. And wander they did to some purpose, for at the close of the day following, Stonehouse had only managed to find five out of forty. Next morning, what was his surprise not only to find his sheep back in the field, but the hedge repaired with new posts and rails. The neighbours knew that he could not have done the repairing, for he had caught a severe cold, having been wet to the skin searching for the lost sheep the day previous. Next night, however, every head of cattle belonging to Bland was turned loose. ‘And great deed there was lating on ’em; it war ower a fo’tnit afoor they war all gitten tigither again.’ That Stonehouse was quite innocent of this bit of retaliation was clear even to Bland, as it was well known he was too ill to stir out of doors. But when Bland had recovered all his lost cattle, Stonehouse’s were set loose again, and the damage done was even greater this time; and as the poor fellow was still too ill to turn out to find them, the neighbours did what they could. This time, however, even fewer were found, but again on the following morning all but four were safely back in the field, and all damage repaired; subsequently the four were found dead, having fallen into a disused quarry. People talked, as naturally they would, and the bringing back of the lost sheep and repairing of the rails was put down to the hobman. When this conclusion was come to, heads were shaken in an ominous manner, for evidently if Tommy was befriended by the hobman, Matthew would have to mind what he did. As soon as Tommy could, he set off to see his sheep. It happened to be rather late when he paid the first visit after his illness, owing to the fact that a neighbour was driving past where the sheep were, and as he was returning presently, he offered to put Stonehouse down and pick him up again as he returned. Tommy counted his sheep, and after cutting some hay for them—it was wintertime—he sat by the gate waiting for the return of his neighbour. Presently an old man accosted him, and begged him not to fret about the lost sheep, as they would be more than compensated for when lambing time came. The old chap told him that Bland had on both occasions been guilty, but that he had not to mind. Just then his friend drove up. Tommy bade his new acquaintance good-night, thanked him, and got into the cart. No sooner was he seated, than the good neighbour asked him what he meant by saying good-night and thanking nobody at all. It transpired that the owner of the cart had not noticed any one speaking to Tommy. In the end he thought the old chap ’war a bit waak an rafflin.’ Anyway, when lambing time came, though the weather was very severe, and every one else, and more particularly Bland, lost many lambs, Stonehouse never lost one. Ewes, during Tommy’s absence, were found safely delivered of their lambs, and mostly had two, and never a black one amongst them. ‘An’ noo that war a larl bit sing’lar, warn’t it? Bud then, ya knaw, i’ them daays when t’ hobman did tak ti yan, ya war yal reet i’ t’ lang-run; an’ ivvery wo’d ’at Ah’ve tell’d ya’s trew, ’coz Ah’ve heeard mah gran’father tell t’ taal ower an’ up agaan; bud it’s a gay bit sen noo,’ wound up my informant. The hobman was described as a little old fellow, with very long hair, large feet, eyes, mouth, and hands, stooping much as he walked, and carrying a long holly stick. The date of the story would be about 1760.