Gather nine spar stones from a running stream, taking care not to interrupt the free passage of the water in doing so. Then dip a quart of water from the stream, which must be taken in the direction in which the stream runs;—by no means must the vessel be dipped against the stream.
Then make the nine stones red hot, and throw them into the quart of water. Bottle the prepared water, and give the afflicted child a wine-glass of this water for nine mornings following. If this will not cure the whooping-cough, nothing else can, says the believer.
II.
A female donkey of three years old was taken, and the child was drawn naked nine times over its back and under its belly. Then three spoonfuls of milk were drawn from the teats of the animal, and three hairs cut from the back and three hairs cut from the belly were placed in it. This was to stand for three hours to acquire the proper virtue, and then the child drank it in three doses.
This ceremony was repeated three mornings running, and my informant said the child was always cured. I knew of several children who were treated in this manner in one of the small villages between Penzance and Madron Church-town, some twenty or thirty years since. There were some doggerel lines connected with the ceremony, which have escaped my memory, and I have endeavoured, in vain, to find any one remembering them. They were to the effect that, as Christ placed the cross on the ass’s back when He rode into Jerusalem, and so rendered the animal holy, if the child touched where Jesus sat, it should cough no more.
CURE OF TOOTHACHE.
One good man informed me that, though he had no faith in charming, yet this he knew, that he was underground one day, and had the toothache “awful bad, sure enough; and Uncle John ax’d me, ‘What’s the matter?’ says he. ‘The toothache,’ says I. ‘Shall I charm it?’ says he. ‘Ees,’ says I. ‘Very well,’ says he; and off he went to work in the next pitch. Ho! dedn’t my tooth ache, Lor’ bless ee; a just ded ye knaw; just as if the charm were tugging my very life out. At last Uncle John comed down to the soller, and sing’d out, ‘Alloa! how’s your tooth in there?’ says he. ‘Very bad,’ says I. ‘How’s a feeling?’ says he. ‘Pulling away like an ould hoss with the “skwitches,”’ says I. ‘Hal drag my jaw off directly,’ says I. ‘Ees the charm working?’ says he. ‘Es, a shure enuf,’ says I. ‘Es,’ says he, ‘al be better d’rectly.’ ‘Hope a will,’ says I. Goodness gracious! dedn’t a ache; I believe a did you; then a stopped most to once. ‘Es better,’ says I. ‘I thought so,’ says he; ‘and you waan’t have un no more for a long time,’ says he. ‘Thank ee, Uncle John,’ says I; ‘I’ll give ee a pint o’ beer pay-day,’ and so I ded; an’ I haben’t had the toothache ever since. Now, if he dedn’t charm un, how ded a stop? and if he dedn’t knaw a would be better a long time, how ded he say so? No, nor I haven’t had un never since. So that’s a plain proof as he knaw’d all about it, waden’t a you?”
I nodded assent, convinced it was useless to argue against such reasoning as that.