“‘You are right, and a death will follow his last night’s appearance.’
“‘Whose death?’
“‘Not yours.’
“As Bertha refused to make any further communication, I left her. In less than three hours after I quitted her I was informed that my friend N——, whose figure I had seen enveloped in the mist of the caldron, had that morning committed suicide, by drowning himself at Arncliffe bridge, in the very spot where I beheld the disturbance of the stream!”
Such was the story of my companion; the tale amused me, but by no means increased my belief in witchcraft. I told the narrator so, and we again entered into a serious discussion, which continued till the inn clock struck seven, when the stranger left me, saying, that he could not stay any longer, as he had a distance of ten miles to travel that evening along a very lonely road.
The belief of witchcraft is still very prevalent in Craven; and there are now residing in different parts wise men and wise women, whom the country people consult when any property is stolen or lost, as well as for the purpose of fortune-telling. These impostors pretend generally to practise divination by the crystal, as in the tale—a mode of deception which Moncrieff has very ingeniously ridiculed in his “Tom and Jerry.” Witches and wizards are not so common as they were a few years ago amongst us. The spread of education, by means of National and Sunday Schools, goes a great way to destroy superstition. Few witches were better known in Craven than Kilnsay Nan, who died a few years ago. This old hag travelled with a Guinea pig in her breast, which she pretended solved questions, and used at times to open a witchcraft shop in Bag’s-alley, Skipton: her stock of spells was not very large, for it only consisted of her Guinea pig, and about half a pack of dirty cards.
Littondale, the romantic valley which forms the scene of the above tale, is at the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, where Wharfdale forks off into two great branches, one whereof retains the name of Wharfdale to the source of the river; and the other, which is watered by the Skirfare, (sometimes called the Litton and Litton Bech,) is called Littondale. The ancient name was Amerdale; and by that designation Wordsworth alludes to it in his “White Doe,”
“The deep fork of Amerdale.”
The whole of the dale is in the parish of Arncliffe; so called, according to my great authority in Craven matters, Dr. Whitaker, from Єaꞃn, an eagle, and clyꝼꝼ, a rock; i. e. the eagle’s rock; “as it afforded many secure retreats for that bird in its ridges of perpendicular limestone.” The western side of the valley extends to Pennigent; on the skirts of which mountain are many ancient places of interment, called “Giants’ Graves,” thought to be Danish.
During the last summer I took a ride up Littondale, principally with a view of inspecting Arncliffe church, on the venerable tower of which I had frequently gazed at a distance. Alas! it is the only venerable thing about the church, all the rest of which has been rebuilt in a most paltry and insignificant style—not an ornament about it, inside or outside: as Dr. Whitaker truly says, “it has been rebuilt with all the attention to economy, and all the neglect, both of modern elegance and ancient form, which characterises the religious edifices of the present day.” It is indeed, as the same historian observes, “a perfect specimen” of a “plain, oblong, ill-constructed building, without aisles, choir, column, battlements, or buttresses; the roof and wainscotting of deal, the covering of slate; the walls running down with wet, and the whole resembling a modern conventicle, which this year may serve as a chapel, and the next as a cockpit.” The remarks that Arncliffe church leads the doctor to make ought to be thundered in the ears of every “beautifier” from Cornwall to Berwick upon Tweed:—