The Boggart and the knot-hole

This is a story about a Boggart (or Hob) from The London literary gazette and journal of belles lettres, arts, sciences, etc., 1825, no. 430, pages 252,253. It has similarities at the end with another Boggart / Hob story I have, but the rest is quite different!

One day, a Boggart took up residence (why and how, I never discovered) in the house of a quiet, inoffensive farmer, George Gilbertson. Once there, it seemed to decide that it was the rightful owner and caused a good deal of annoyance. They never saw it of course, as a Boggart is rarely visible to the human eye, though it is frequently seen by cattle and horses. (A Yorkshire term for a ‘shying horse’ is one that has ‘taken the boggle’.)

It seemed to take a particular dislike to the children, tormenting them in various ways. Sometimes their bread and butter would be snatched away, or their porringers of bread and milk be capsized by an invisible hand; at other times, the curtains of their beds would be shaken backwards and forwards, or a heavy weight would press on and nearly suffocate them. The parents had often, on hearing their cries, to fly to their aid.

There was a kind of closet, formed by a wooden partition on the kitchen-stairs, and a large knot having been driven out of one of the deal-boards of which it was made, there remained a hole. Into this one day the farmer’s youngest boy stuck the shoe-horn with which he was amusing himself, when immediately it was thrown out again, and struck the boy on the head. The agent was of course the Boggart, and though the first time was terrifying, it soon became their amusement (which they called laikin’ wi’ Boggart) to put the shoe-horn into the hole and have it shot back at them. This seemed to goad the Boggart into more disruptive behaviour.

At night, heavy steps were heard clattering down the stairs, like someone wearing clogs. Sounds like earthernware and pewter dishes smashing against the kitchen floor were heard, though the dishes were intact on their shelves in the morning.

The Boggart at length proved such a torment that the farmer and his wife resolved to quit the house and let him have it all to himself. This was put into execution, and the farmer and his family were following the last loads of furniture, when a neighbour named John Marshall came up—”Well, Georgey,” said he, “and soa you’re leaving t’ould hoose at last?”—”Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I’m forced tull it; for that damned Boggart torments us soa, we can neither rest neet nor day for’t. It seems loike to have such a malice again t’poor bairns, it ommost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on’t, and soa, ye see, we’re forced to flitt loike.” He scarce had uttered the words when a voice from a deep upright churn cried out, “Aye, aye, Georgey, we’re flitting ye see.”—”‘Od damn thee,” cried the poor farmer, “if I’d known thou’d been there, I wadn’t ha’ stirred a peg. Nay, nay, it’s no use, Mally,” turning to his wife, “we may as weel turn back again to t’ould hoose as be tormented in another that’s not so convenient.”

I believe they did turn back, and seemed to come to a better understanding with the Boggart, though it continued it’s trick of firing the horn from the knot-hole. I remember an old tailor, who used to visit the farmhouse on his rounds, told me the horn was frequently pitched at his head, many years after this first took place.

Potter Thompson

I’m not sure how King Arthur ended up there, but there are at least a couple of stories that suggest there are tunnels under Richmond, hiding a secret army.

Richmond Castle

Once upon a time, in the town of Richmond, lived a man called Potter Thompson. Generally a cherry soul, and well-liked by most people, but his wife was not ‘most people’. She rarely had a good word to say to him, scolding him whatever he did, or didn’t, do.

One evening, after a long and tiring day making pots, his wife was in a particularly bad mood. Potter was in no mood to spend any time in his own house, but instead wandered off down to the river, even considering throwing himself into the waters below the castle.

As he walked along the bank of the river, he spotted an opening in the cliffs that somehow he had never seen before, and, his wife forgotten, climbed into it. He went slowly and cautiously down the passage revealed, with the darkness slowly swallowing him, until a faint glow appeared ahead.

Turning a corner, this faint light revealed itself as a vast lamp, hung in the centre of a huge chamber. Immediately below the lamp was a stone table, with a great sword within its scabbard and a richly decorated horn.

Coming up to the table, he spotted statues lining the far side of the chamber. They looked like mighty stone warriors, lying on the floor in a row, with one wearing a simple crown of gold. Increasingly nervous now, Potter Thompson walked closer to them and realised they were not made of stone, but were sleeping men, breathing heavily and more slowly than normal men normally do.

Nervously he returned to the table, his hands attracted remorselessly towards the sword and horn. He put the horn around his neck and picked up the sword. As he started to draw the sword from its scabbard, the knights stirred slightly in their magical sleep. He lifted the horn to his lips, and again they stirred before he could blow.

This so terrified him, that he dropped them straight back onto the stone table and turned to run from the secret chamber. Immediately a strong wind rushed through, as though speeding him on his way, and an unearthly cry sounded around him:

‘ If thou hadst either drawn

The sword or sound that horn,

Thou hadst been the luckiest man

That ever was born.’

Thus the King Arthur and his nights were allowed to fall back into their long sleep, and the day when they would rise again and come to England’s aid was delayed. Perhaps one day soon a bolder man shall find again the gloomy vault, and draw the sword and sound the horn, still laid up, and awaiting, beneath Richmond’s historic keep.

An East Riding Fairy dance

This was a little “add-on” to a story about a Boggart in “The London literary gazette and journal of belles lettres, arts, sciences, etc.”, 1825, no. 430, page 253. You may think that fairies haven’t been seen in living history, but this was a response to that…

A respectable female, from a village in the East Riding of Yorkshire, who is nearly related to the writer of this, beheld, when she was a little girl, a troop of fairies, “deftly footing a roundel dance” in her mother’s large old wainscotted parlour, even in the “garish eye of day.” I have frequently heard it related by her venerable mother, and subsequently by herself. I shall give the tale as I received it from the old lady:

“My eldest daughter, Betsy, was about four years old; I remember it was on a fine summer’s afternoon, or rather evening, I was seated on this chair which I now occupy; the child had been in the garden, she came into that entry or passage from the kitchen (on the right side of the entry was the old parlour door, on the left the door of the common sitting-room, the mother of the child was in a line with both the doors); the child, instead of turning towards the sitting-room, made a pause at the parlour door, which was open: I observed her to stand, and look in very attentively; she stood several minutes, quite still. At last I saw her draw her hand quickly towards her body, she set up a loud shriek, and ran, or rather flew, to me, crying out, ‘Oh, mammy, green man will heb me, green man will heb me!’ It was a long time before I could pacify her; I then asked her why she was so frightened. ‘Oh, mammy,” she said, “all t’parlour is full of addlers and menters:’ elves and fairies, I suppose she meant. She said they were dancing, and a little man in a green coat, with a gold-laced cock’d hat on his head, offered to take her hand, as if he would have her as his partner in the dance.”

The mother, upon hearing this, went and looked into the old parlour, but the fairy pageant, like Prospero’s spirits, had melted into thin air. Such is the account I heard of this vision of fairies: the person is still alive who witnessed, or supposed she saw it, and, though a well-informed person, still positively asserts the relation to be strictly true. I cannot say how the truth may be, I tell the tale as ’twas told to me.

The Golden Cradle and Castle Hill

This is one of mine… taking little bits of local lore (Dragon on Castle Hill, tunnels under it, etc, etc) and tying them together into a story.

A black dog holding a stick

One cold morning, right at the start of February, not so long ago, George woke up early. It was still dark and George didn’t need to be anywhere that morning, but he couldn’t get back to sleep. So up he got, checked on his sheep, and took Stanley the dog out for a walk.

Up Castle Hill he went, on that cold, foggy morning. On top of the hill, it was as if they were on an island, with the rest of the area hidden by the fog.

Stanley suddenly stopped chasing imaginary rabbits and stood still, barking at something George couldn’t see. As George got closer to him, he saw a stone staircase spiralling down into the hill, a staircase he was sure he hadn’t seen before. Intrigued, he told Stanley to stay put while he took a look. Down the staircase he went, dark for a moment, and then lighter as a faint glow came from moss covering the staircase walls.

The stairs ended in a wide cavern, and George’s attention was drawn to a golden object in the centre of the space. He walked towards it and found a small cradle, like a newborn baby would sleep in, made of gold. He reached out to touch it, but before he could, a voice sounded out. A rich, powerful, old voice.

‘I’m Brigid, and that is my golden cradle. The Brigantes gave it to me when they built the fort on this hill, so I would protect the high ground. Within it they placed their most valued daughter to stay with me within the hill. In return, for nearly 1,000 years I protected them. Even when the Romans came, they didn’t touch the fort, it was safe under my care. Then the new gods came and my people drifted away and stopped worshipping me. Still, I protected them. Until the people thought the new priests might like the gold for their god. They came back to me, within the hill, and tried to steal away my golden cradle, my price for protection. So I sent their daughter back to them, with fire and destruction as their reward. She left their lands scorched and barren, their livestock and stores destroyed, and the stones of their fort melting like wax. Few have dared to return to me since then, with the path only open on my day each year, when they used to feast in my honour. Have you come for the cradle? Perhaps you should meet the Brigante’s daughter?’

The voice faded and a slithering noise came from the steps George had just walked down. He turned to see two red eyes burning in the low light, smoke curling from wide nostrils, and the first coils of a huge serpent coming around the spiral steps.

George panicked. He didn’t know what to do, or where to go. The way he came in was completely blocked. But while he stood frozen in place for those first moments, he heard barking from the side of the cavern. He dashed towards the noise and found a narrow tunnel which he dived into. He wriggled, he crawled, he squirmed. As fast as he could, he made his way towards the barking, fearful that any moment he’d feel the hot breath of the serpent on his feet.

After what seemed like an eternity, but must have been only a few minutes, his head popped out into fresh air and he dropped a few feet onto the hill side. Stanley was there, barking to guide him back to safety.

They rushed back from the hill as fast as they could, and though they’ve been back many times since, George has never found the stone stairs again. That said, he’s made sure never to go back before dawn, and never on the 1^st February…

The Barguest (extract from a poem):

The Barguest, is often seen as a large dog – if you see it, then death or disaster is surely coming.

(This is an extract from New Monthly mag, No. 13., page 65, from 1815. “The Convicts”. It doesn’t seem to state the author, so I’ll leave it as anon!)

“When darkness o’er the world her mantle throws,

And weary swains have sunk to calm repose,

Except some straggler chance the street to roam,

Who, from the alehouse reeling, seeks his home;

Where late he sate, the blithest of the throug,

None drank more deep, none bawl’d a louder song;

None boasted more of prodigies of might;

Sudden behold him stop, as in affright:

Trembling, he sees before his swimming eyes,

Just in the middle path, a goblin rise,

In form more rugged than Hyrcanian bear,

Whose eyes like burning coals or meteors glare;

A lambent flame plays o’er its rugged hide,

In its own lurid light the demon is descried:

‘Tis heard to drag a massy chain behind;

Thick coming fancies fierce assail his mind;

Legends of terror which his grand-dam told,

Now chill the heart of him. of late so bold:

Fast as he flies he hears,

Oh, dire to Close at his heels tell this minister of hell.

Dogs bark, chains rattle, groans and yells resound,

More near they seem’d at every fear-urged bound;

Gasping for joy, he gains his cottage door,

He flies to bed, nor deems himself secure:

Shiv’ring with horror, tells his injur’d wife

The dreadful scene, and vows to mend his life;

Breathes a short prayer, inspir’d alone by fear,”

The Legend of Semerwater

Yorkshire seems to be covered in reservoirs that required the flooding of whole villages to make them!

A ruined mill poking out from a reservoir that contains less water than normal.

A long time ago, in the spot where the great lake Semerwater, source of the river Bain, now occupies, was once a fair sized town.

One day an old man came to the town. He was scruffy, his clothes not much more than rags, and dirty from many months spent on the road.

He knocked on the first door he came to and ask for food, but they turned him away. He moved through the town, knocking on every door to ask for a meal and a drink. Each household told him the same. He was not welcome, and they would give him nothing.

As he got to the far end of town, he tried the very last house. It was a small and humble cottage, with an aged and poverty stricken couple. He repeated his request to these, and unlike the others, they invited him in.

They didn’t have much to share, but offered him all they could. A small bowl of stew, some bread, and some freshly drawn water to drink.

What’s more, they invited him to stay the night, dry and safe in their cottage, before continuing on his journey the next day.

When he left in the morning, he stood by the door of the cottage where he’d been welcomed in, and, looking back over the hard-hearted, uncharitable town, lifted up his hands and repeated the following lines:

‘Semerwater rise! Semerwater sink !

And swallow the town, all save this house, where they gave me meat and drink’

No sooner said than done. The waters of the valley rose, the town sunk and the houses disappeared beneath them.

But as they approached the hospitable cottage, the waves stopped short. Even now, you can see a small old house near the lower end of the lake, which is all that is left of the once flourishing town.

On some days, if you look carefully through the waters, you may yet see the roofs and chimneys of the other houses at the bottom of the lake.

THE FAIRIES AT WILLY HOUE

A tiny bit of a story about an encounter with faires in East Yorkshire, taken direct from Parkinson, but I feel there must probably be a slightly longer version of this, it seems to be a bit sudden to suddenly say “it was given to Henry I”!

A fungi known as a fairy cup — Björn S. [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D

Among the ancient grave-mounds, or barrows, in the Wold districts of Yorkshire, which were favourite haunts of the fairies, no place was more favoured by them than “Willy Houe”, a large barrow near Wold Newton in the East Riding.

It is related of this spot, by William of Newborough, an Augustinian canon, whose chronicle terminates about the time of the death of Richard I., that as a man was riding, late at night, near Willy Houe, he heard the most soft and delightful music proceeding from it. He carefully approached the place, and then saw, through a door open in the side of the mound, a magnificent hall, with a great company of fairies banqueting therein. Before he could withdraw, an attendant came forth and offered to him drink, from a magnificent cup. He knew the danger of eating, or drinking, with fairies, and resisted the temptation, but seized the cup from the hand of the cup-bearer and succeeded, though hotly pursued by the whole company, in carrying it off in safety. “It was”, says the chronicler, “a vessel of unknown material, of unusual colour and shape”.

The legend as told in the locality now, states that it was of fairy gold, and so of no value. It was given to Henry I., who seems to have thought it of sufficient value, intrinsic or otherwise, to send to his brother-in-law, David, King of Scotland, to whom, it is said, he presented it.

The Farndale Hob

I love this little story about a hob. These seem to have dozens of names depending on where you are in the country, hobs being creatures that can be helpful, but that you really don’t want to offend. I like the cheekiness of the hob in this story.

Barn, slightly tumbledown, surrounded by fields.

In days past, when fairy folk were more commonly found than today, a farmer called Jennifer lived in Farndale with her husband.

One night she was fast asleep in her bed, when a thumping sound woke her. At first she felt she must be dreaming, but the thumping continued, and she became convinced it was coming from the barn.

The whole family gathered downstairs, unsure what to do, but there was such a racket coming from the barn, no-one dared investigate. Instead they made sure the doors were all locked securely and waited until the morning, so they could check in daylight.

Dawn broke, and the family cautiously opened the doors. Jennifer tiptoed up to the barn and carefully peered through a crack in the door. She was amazed at what she saw! The thumping noise was corn being threshed. In one night, more corn had been threshed than they could have done in a week.

The next night the noise started again, but they felt a little safer after seeing what had happened the night before and slept a little better too. By the morning, all the corn they’d harvested had been threshed.

The helper returned again a while later, shearing all the sheep in one night the next summer, and mowing the hay another time. The family got used this, and felt thankful that a hob had moved in to offer his unseen help. They didn’t know how to show their thanks, however, as hobs and fairies can be a tad funny in their dealings with people, especially if offered clothes to wear.

So they tried leaving a bowl of cream out at night for the hob, as a treat to show him how much they appreciated him. Sure enough, the cream was gone the next morning and the bowl was clean. For the price of a bowl of cream each night, Jennifer and her farm had gained the best farm worker they’d ever had.

The good times didn’t last forever though. One winter, her husband became sick of the fever and died. She remarried after a while, but her new husband was a mean and jealous man. He resented the best cream being left out for the hob each night and told her she was wasting it on cats and rats who would be helping themselves to it each night.

One day, Jennifer knew she’d be working late, so asked her new husband to put the cream out for the hob in case she didn’t return in time. Instead of the cream, however, he put out the thin whey left over cheesemaking instead.

For the first time in years, the farm was silent that night. No corn was threshed, no sheep sheared, no spinning done. There was to be no help any night from then on. Instead, everything started to go wrong on the farm. The butter wouldn’t churn, the cheese went black with mould, and foxes killed the chickens. Every week, there were new disasters on the farm, and they struggled to make ends meet.

Strange noises and screams were heard at night, and things moved mysteriously around the farm, scaring the rest of the farm workers away. Gates were left open, allowing animals to wander off, and candles blew out at the darkest point of night.

With the farm going to rack and ruin, Jennifer decided they must move on and leave the angry hob behind. They loaded all their possessions onto a cart and said goodbye to the farm.

As they road along the lane, one of their neighbours came out to see what was happening.

‘How do, Jennifer. Has it really come to this?’, he asked.

‘Aye, George’, she replied. ‘It really has come to it, we’re flitting’.

At that point they heard another voice…

‘Aye, we’ve flitting.’

Sat there top of their cart was the strangest, hairiest little creature you’ve ever seen. He chuckled as they turned to him

Jennifer knew she was beaten and turned the cart around to head back to the farm. ‘We were flitting, but if you’re flitting with us we may as well flit back. For I see now that for us there is no hope.’

Sad to say, she was right. So if you hear strange noises in the night and think you may have a hob living with you, make sure you reward it well and don’t annoy him, otherwise, you’ll always regret it.

Janet’s Cove

Adapted slightly (mainly cutting out dialect words!) from Moorman, “More tales from the Ridings”, a story based in a gorgeous bit of countryside near Malham.

A limestone cliff with a beck flowing beneath it, Malham Cove.

Well, I reckon I’ve told this story before, Grannie began, but when I was a lass I lived up Malham way. My father had a farm close by Gordale Scar, and it’s a strange country around there. Great rocks on all sides where only goats can climb, becks flowing underground and then bubbling up in the fields.

On the other side of our steading, was a cove that folks called Janet’s Cove. They told all sorts of tales about it and reckoned it was plagued by boggarts. But they couldn’t keep me away from it, it was the prettiest spot in the dale, and I never got bored wandering around by the water and among the rowans. There was a waterfall in the cove, with a dark cave behind it, and it was overhung with ash and hazel trees.

One night I was sitting up for my father until 4 o’clock in the morning. It was the day before Easter Sunday and my father was desperately busy with lambing. He hadn’t taken his shoes and socks off for a week! He’d doze a little by the fire, and then wake up, light the lantern, and go out to check on the sheep. He let me wait up for him, so I could warm him a spot of tea over the fire. But when the clock struck 4, he said I must go to bed. He’d take a turn around the croft, then set off to the barn, to milk the cows.

But I didn’t want to go to bed, I’d been dozing off and on all night, and I wasn’t feeling a little bit tired. So when my father had set off, I went to the door and looked outside. My, it was a grand night! The moon had just turned full, and was lighting up the stones in the meadow, the becks were like sliver, and the old yew-trees that grow on the face of the scar had long shadows as black as pitch. I stood there on the threshold for maybe five minutes, and then said to myself, “I’ll just run down as far as Janet’s Cove before I go to bed.”

It was only two or three minutes walk, and before long I was sat amongst the rocks, and the moon was glistening through the ash trees and onto the water. I must have dropped off to sleep for best part of an hour, because before I knew it the moon was setting, and I could see that dawn wasn’t far off. I reckoned I’d better get back to my bed, but just then I saw something moving on the far side of the beck. At first, I thought it was just a sheep, but when I looked closer I saw I was wrong, it was a lass about the same size as myself.

Strangest thing about the lass was that she was naked, as naked as a hens egg, and that at five o’clock on a frosty April morning! It made me shiver to see her standing there with not even a shawl to warm her back. Well, I crept close to a large stone and kept my eye on her. First of all, she moved down to the water and stood in it, then started splashing water all over herself, like a bird washing itself in the beck. The she climbed to the waterfall and let the water flow all over her face and shoulders. I could see her body shining through the water and her yellow hair streaming out on both sides of her head. After a while she climbed onto a rock in the middle of the beck and grabbed hold of the branch of an ash. She broke off a stick, shaped it into a sort of wand, and started waving it in the air.

Now, up to that point, everything in the cove was a silent as the grave. I could hear the cockerels crowing up at our house, but all the wild birds were still roosting and asleep. But no sooner did this lass start waving her wand, than the larks started singing. The fields had been full of sleeping larks, and they’d all taken flight above our heads, singing their hearts out. She then pointed her wand at the moors, and the curlews started singing. When she heard them, she started laughing, and splashing the water with her foot.

All the while, she kept beating time to the bird song with her wand. Sometimes she pointed it to the curlews on the moor, sometimes to fields, and then, suddenly, to the hazels and rowan bushes by the beck-side. Before I knew what was happening, the blackbirds woke up and started whistling like mad. It sounded like there must be a blackbird for every bush along the beck. The birds kept at it for several minutes, then the lass made a fresh movement with her wand, and the robins began to try and drown out the songs of the blackbirds.

She always seemed to know whose turn was next, and where every type of bird was roosting. One minute she pointed her wand to the top of the trees and I heard “caw, caw”, the next she pointed towards the mossy roots of the trees near the beck and a Jenny wren hopped out and sang as though it was fit to burst.

All the while, it was getting lighter, and lighter, and I could see that the sun was shining on the cliffs above Malham, even though the cove was still in shade. I knew my mother would soon by looking for me in bed, and I started wondering what she’d say when she found it empty. I was a tad afraid when I thought that, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the lass with the wand. I was fair bewitched by her, and I reckon that if she pointed at me, I would have started singing!

However, she never clapped eyes on me sat behind the stone, she was far too busy with the birds, and getting more excited every minute. By now the birdsong was deafening, I’d never heard anything like it before or since.

The sun cleared the top of the fell, and shone down into the cove. Janet saw it, and when it was shining like a great golden ball at the top of the hill, she pointed her wand at it. I looked at her, and looked at the sun too, and was amazed to see the sun was dancing too! I rubbed my eyes to see if I’d made a mistake, but sure enough, there was the little naked lass making the sun dance with her like mad. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered that it was Easter Sunday, and I’d heard tell that the sun always dances on Easter morning.

When she’d danced with the sun a while, she seemed to forget about the birds. She let her wand drop and climbed down the waterfall. Then she sat herself on a rock behind the fall, and clapped her hands together and laughed. I looked at her and I saw the prettiest sight I’d ever set eyes on.

By now the sun was high in the sky, and was shining straight up the beck onto the waterfall. Water was spraying up as it fell onto the rocks, and a rainbow formed across the fall. There, plain as life, was Janet sat on a rock right in the middle of the rainbow, with all the colours shining on her hair.

I fair lost track of time, sat there, wrapped in my shawl, staring at Janet, at the sun, at the waterfall, until I heard someone calling me. It was my father, and then I knew that folks had missed me up at the farm and were looking for me. When I realised that, I shot off like a rabbit, straight to my father who was stood between the cove and our house, shouting for me as loud as he could.

The Drummer boy of Richmond

A story about an army hidden in tunnels near Richmond Castle!

Richmond castle, taken from the air.

There were legends that tunnels ran under the countryside near Richmond Castle, but no-one knew where the entrances were. That is, until a group of soldiers, stationed nearby, found what looked like a tunnel entrance while on patrol in the area.

The entrance was tiny though, and none of the soldiers could squeeze through. Rather than trying to dig it out, they sent for the Regimental Drummer Boy instead. They gave him a lantern, his drum, and helped him wiggle through the tiny entrance.

Once in, he played his drum as he moved along the tunnel, with the soldiers following the sound of the drum from above ground. It worked for a while, and the soldiers followed the drumming towards the abbey, which used to have close links with the Norman castle.

Suddenly, however, the sound of the drumming changed, as the drummer boy had entered a large chamber. A large group of knights were in an enchanted sleep, along with King Arthur and his mighty sword Excalibur. A knight raised his hand to silence the loud drumming, and above ground the soldiers heard instead the faint whispers of a conversation taking place.

‘Is England in danger?’, the knight asked. ‘No’, the boy replied. ‘Then now is not the time to awaken King Arthur’, said the knight. ‘Will you stay with us, and sleep until we are needed?’. In great excitement and pride, the boy agreed, and still lies there to this day.