All Washed Up….

Bring out your dead and welcome Suzie Lennox, with a tale of bodysnatching!

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All Washed Up….

The last thing that you’d want to happen if you were in the habit of providing anatomy schools with fresh cadavers was to be caught in the act of exhumation. Clever concealment of both your tools and the cadaver when you were leaving the churchyard was key. You did not want to upset the parishioners and ruin your chances of visiting a graveyard again, not when there could be money to be made. Bodies however can sometimes be difficult to hide in a hurry and history has left us with a few macabre stories of the unfortunate events to befall just some of the bodysnatchers that I have found during my research.  

Imagine if you will, you've been digging and pulling and folding and stuffing a cadaver out of its coffin into a sack when you hear a noise not too far behind you. Grabbing your quarry you take flight, frantically looking for somewhere to stash your loot until the coast is clear and it's safe to retrieve it. Yes, there were safe houses. Houses where you stashed cadavers and distributed them in a more orderly fashion the following morning, but not all bodysnatchers were fortunate enough to have access to such luxuries.

  As a general rule you improvised. Bodies were found stuffed in sacks tucked under hedges, stored under staircases or in unused outbuildings and even on occasion dung heaps. In Peterborough in 1830, the body of a young woman was found in a garden shed, the house being conveniently situated behind the cemetery. Upon further investigation, it was found that a doctor lived at the address. No doubt a handy location! There is also the case of Dr Lowry, ‘a notorious lifter’ who used his house as a site to store cadavers before they were shipped to Edinburgh. Lowry’s house ‘Homefield’ was based in Coldingham in the Scottish Borders, and it is said that a small window acted as means of getting the bodies in and out of the premises. This ‘Resurrection Window’ was just the right size to allow bodies to be passed through and subsequently stored away in a vault found under the floor of the room beyond.  

But what about the more gruesome cases? 

 In 1793, long before the rise of the professional bodysnatcher, while students would still stalk graveyards at night acquiring their own subjects, a strange occurrence happened in a field near Battle Bridge, London. It happened on a Thursday. Limbs of all shapes and sizes were found strewn over the grass. Legs and arms of men, women and children, tossed into the field without a care in the world and for all to see. It is thought that it was the night-soil man’s fault. His round took in the cesspit of a number of ‘dissecting surgeons’ and after diligently going about his duty, he had emptied the contents of his cart in the said field without giving it a second thought. 

     In 1821, ‘several human bodies with limbs lopped off’ were found mangled under some palisades on the Dover Road. Three females and one child’s body were found intact while a number of ‘hand, feet &c.’ had also been dumped. All were in a high state of decay. It was later concluded that the resurrection men had dumped the bodies and extremities to avoid detection, although they must have gone undetected for a number of weeks judging by the state of decay. No bodysnatcher would risk his freedom for a rotting body. 

       Several months later Islington was ‘very much alarmed’ when the extremities of both men and women were found floating along the Regent’s Canal. As if this ghastly discovery was not enough, as the limbs were being collected by some local constables, out of the shadows appeared two well-dressed individuals brandishing a knife.  Walking calmly over to the various off cuts, one of the men proceeded to hack at one of the limbs, cutting off one of the legs just below the knee. The obvious remonstrations ensued. It is thought that the bodies had been thrown in to the canal by the resurrection men, again hoping to avoid detection. 

Floating bodies were not just found in London. Janet Sparks, a onetime parishioner of the parish of Torry, Aberdeenshire, died in 1808 and after being committed to the ground, was hastily removed  that same night. Fearing detection, the bodysnatchers had quickly reburied Janet in the sandbanks of the Nigg Bay hoping to collect her body when things had died down. Unfortunately a violent storm blew up and the waves thrashed the sandbank where Janet was stored. Unable to return to get Janet’s body, she was left there to slowly decompose, finally washing up on the river bank opposite the church two months later.  

As bodysnatching intensified, stealing a cadaver from a churchyard without being detected became more and more difficult. These are just a few of the methods that Britain’s resurrection men thought of to store cadavers, there are probably many more that we will never know about. Talk about having a skeleton in your cupboard! 

 Bio:

If you are interested in finding  out more about Britain’s bodysnatchers, ‘Digging up the Untold Stories’  is now available to purchase to from Pen and Sword Books, AmazonUk , AmazonUS and all good bookshops. 

If you’re on twitter, you can follow Suzie at @Diggingup1800 or via Facebook or Suzie’s blog Britain’s Forgotten Bodysnatchers.  

Secrets of the Parish Register

It's my pleasure to welcome Helen Barrell to the salon, to delve into some eye-opening tales form the parish register!

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Parish registers aren’t only useful for genealogists. Often, you’ll find surprising notes in the margins. A baby born in a barn, a certificate for the King’s Evil, someone killed when the bell fell out of the steeple and crushed them. It was a note in the margin of a burial register about a victim of arsenic poisoning, which sparked my book Poison Panic. But maybe it’s thanks to Sharpe, or perhaps Mr Wickham, that one of my favourite parish register discoveries has to be the hundreds of soldiers, their wives and babies, who appear in the small Essex village of Weeley during the Napoleonic War. What on earth were they doing there?

In 1803, when Napoleon’s sabre-rattling grew ever louder, it was felt that the north-east Essex coastline was dangerously undefended. Harwich, which had a Royal Navy presence, is just to the north of Weeley, and going west, there were docks and shipyards along the River Colne, and the garrison town of Colchester about 12 miles away. Martello towers were built along the coast, and several hundred soldiers were stationed in Weeley, ready in case the French ships appeared over the horizon.

The first soldiers’ babies appear in the register in July 1803, the vicar carefully recording the father’s regiment or militia beside each entry. That same month, Mary Ann Grant, wife of Captain James Grant of the 42^nd Regiment (better known as the Black Watch) wrote a letter to a friend from Weeley Camp. She described Weeley as ‘an insignificant village; but the encampment is large.’ She and James had married only a couple of months earlier, in Scotland. ‘I frequently accompany my dear G. to visit it; we have lodgings in the close vicinity,’ she explained.

Life was genteel to start with - at least for officers’ wives like Mary Ann. The other wives would have been living at the Camp, but at least they could be with their husbands, unlike the wives who missed out on the ballots and couldn’t accompany their husbands when they were posted abroad. Mary Ann paid social calls, visiting the eccentric ‘Mr C’ (apparently Clarkson Cardinall in Tendring), and there was an entertainment at St Osyth Priory, then the home of the Nassaus. 

Mary Ann and her husband were posted to Scotland, but a few months later they were back in Weeley. The transformation was astonishing: ‘we found so complete a metamorphosis, that I doubted whether some enchantress had not been exerting her magical powers; it appeared hardly possible that in so short a space of time, as seven or eight weeks, barracks to contain five thousand men, could have sprung up by the hands of men; yet so it is.’ The field had disappeared, churned to mud under the feet of men and horses, and huts had been built to accommodate the soldiers and their families. 

Weeley

The Grants arrived in November. Water ran down the walls of their hut, and the mud was so bad that Mary had to be carried. ‘There is no way for a woman to venture out, but upon men’s shoulders, no very pleasant conveyance you must allow’: no mean feat when she was pregnant. Her husband urged her to find lodgings elsewhere, but ‘there are no lodgings to be had within two miles, and owing to the strict orders now issued for no officer to be absent from the barracks, in consequence of the prevailing idea of an invasion’ her husband had to stay in the Barracks. And Mary Ann was determined to remain with him; she ‘really cannot account for my feelings, when I say, that I am unable to persuade myself to leave G.’ 

It is hardly surprising that tragedy would not be far away in such poor conditions. The Grants’ baby died: whether it was stillborn or not, Mary Ann didn’t say, but their daughter doesn’t appear in Weeley’s parish register, or that of any nearby village. Mary Ann nearly died in childbirth. Her isolation is painful; on writing to a friend in February 1804, she said ‘many a time, amid all my sufferings did we wish for the skilful attendance of my dear aunt, and the soothing attention of my amiable young friend, who I am certain would have made a very tender nurse; but situated as we were, it was impossible we could request either of you to come.’ Trying to recover her health was difficult, stressed with the fear of invasion: ‘it is thought this coast will be the point, where the effort of landing will be made; what a scene of destruction would such an event occasion.’ 

The Grants were still living in a barrack hut at Weeley in June, but conditions had improved – or at least, Mary Ann put a brave face on it. ‘You would smile to see the ways and means we fall upon, to make the unpolished furniture allotted us, look neat; the roads are nicely made, and we have the comfort of walking dry, and enjoying a little society; our agreeable parties have again commenced; you would be amused were you to hear our invitations to each other; they are always accompanied by a desire, that each person will bring their camp-stool, knife, glass, &c.; such is the order among those who occupy barracks.’ Her next letter was written from Lexden Camp, on the other side of Colchester, but she made no more mention of huts, so it seems that she had at last found lodgings.

The Grants were a married couple when they arrived at Weeley, but there were plenty of single men among the thousands of soldiers who arrived in the village. It’s clear from the many Scottish names in the marriage register that soldiers and possibly soldiers’ widows were marrying in Weeley’s church. Some of the soldiers married local girls – for instance, Patrick McCrummen married Mary Simpson Baker from St Osyth, and William MacAmman married Susan Bradbrook from Thorp. One can hear Lydia Bennett’s shriek of ‘The militia!’ 

The burial register is similarly busy with late residents of the barracks, including victims of an outbreak of disease, and also Alexander McDonald, who was murdered by locals at a fair in Little Clacton.

Once the threat of invasion had passed, the soldiers were moved on from Weeley. The barracks were dismantled, and all that’s left today is an empty field. It’s been said that if you pass through the field with a metal detector, you’ll find uniform buttons from obscure regiments of fencibles, which men joined before transferring to established army regiments. They just didn’t get around to changing their buttons, and at some point, the thread unravelled, and the button fell off their red jacket into the quagmire, lost for 200 years. 

And aside from the buttons that are periodically thrown up from the earth, there are all those names in the parish registers, to remind us of the thousands of people who once called the huts in Barrack Field home. 

Sources:

The Story of Jaywick Martello Tower, by Essex County Council

Weeley parish registers at the Essex Record Office

Grant, Mary Ann. Sketches of Life and Manners with Delineations of Scenery in England, Scotland, and Ireland: interspersed with Moral Tales and Anecdotes, in original Letters: in two volumes. Vol. II. Second Edition, 1811. Printed by Cox, Son, and Baylis, London.

Bio: 

Helen Barrell’s Victorian true crime book Poison Panic: Arsenic Deaths in 1840s Essex is published by Pen & Sword [http://www.pen-and-sword.co.uk/Poison-Panic-Paperback/p/11988/aid/1151] and is available from Waterstones [https://www.waterstones.com/book/poison-panic/helen-barrell/9781473852075], Amazon [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Poison-Panic-Arsenic-Deaths-1840s/dp/1473852072/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1455478552&sr=8-1&keywords=poison+panic], etc, in paperback and ebook. Fatal Evidence: Professor Alfred Swaine Taylor and the Dawn of Forensic Science will be published in July 2017. Helen has appeared on BBC Radio 4’s Punt PI, and has written for Fortean Times and Family Tree magazines. She guestblogs for Findmypast. 

Genealogy and the not-so ordinary lives of ordinary people at www.essexandsuffolksurnames.co.uk, and Helen’s personal writing blog at www.helenbarrell.co.uk 

The Kindness of Fairy Children

Today, we take our last visit to the pages of  The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, Volume 82 (1818). This time, the mysterious CTCS shares the tale of a sickening girl whose life was saved by the kindness of fairy children.

Many, indeed, are the traditionary stories afloat in Clydesdale, which prove that the fairies are not to be looked upon as uniformly malignant, but rather that there are two orders, the members of the one distinguished for their goodness, generosity, and loving kindness towards man, while those of the other are no less remarkable for their irritableness, peevishness, and malignity. 

An old woman in the moors of Avondale, who lived with her only daughter, a lively lass of twenty-two, was entirely dependent upon the industry of her child for bread. A wasting seized the industrious girl, and, after consultations had been held with every medical gentleman in the neighbourhood, her case was given up as hopeless, and her aged and helpless parent was plunged into the utmost distress. In her extreme necessity she applied to the only never-failing source or consolation, and besought the Father of mercies “that he would not leave her when she was old and grey-headed, but that he would yet spare her beloved bairn to close her auld an’ feeble sen, whilk had lang sensyne been shut to all the vanities of this wearie world.” 

The prayers, says the story, of the waefu’ widow, are always accepted. A coagful of loaf and milk was placed at her door every morning, and a little phial, of a reddish liquid, and a small loaf, as white as snow, which she rightly conjectured were for her daughter. Upon this diet she lived sparely, but was contented and thankful, and her daughter recovered slowly, but surely. Anxious to behold the immediate hand that blessed her in so extraordinary a manner, the old woman watched one morning and saw two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, bring the food, and place it on the threshold, the girl carrying the medicine for the daughter, and the boy the provisions for the mother. Having carefully performed this operation, their eyes were thrown upwards for a moment, with an expression of great devotion. 

As they were turning to depart, the old woman, who, as the story goes, declared that “they war sae unco bonnie, an’ sweet-lukan, that she couldnae be fleyit,” could not help exclaiming, “fair fa’ ye, my bonnie bairns, may ye be as gude as ye’re bonnie, an’ as happy as ye’ve made me.” 

The boy looked on her with an evanescent frown, mixed with pity. “Was it not aneuch, wanweirdit woman, that ye sould hae been servit wi’ meat and drink, but ye boud alsae pry into things on whilk ye maun na turn your ee? Nevertheless, lest ye sould imagine an evil thocht agains the hand that feeds, I will tell you that we are Gude Fairies an’ live for ever mare in happiness an’ bliss.” The fairies instaritly vanished, and the old woman continued to receive her daily supply of provisions till her daughter recovered when it ceased. 

There are innumerable stories remaining in this country, illustrative of the peculiarities of the fairy mythology; but, as I have not Scott's Essay on that superstition by me, I am afraid to mention any more at present, lest I should perhaps transmit to you some which are already contained in that curious and valuable performance. 

I shall, therefore, in the meanwhile, conclude with saying, that, if this be deemed worthy of a place in your valuable Miscellany, I shall as soon as possible transmit you several more stories of the Scottish fairies hitherto unpublished, and likewise some account of the Clydesdale belief concerning Wraiths. 

I remain your obedient servant,

CTCS 

The Spirits of Auchenleck

Today, we return to The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, Volume 82 (1818). This time, the mysterious CTCS shares some tales of the spirits of Auchenleck and William Wallace.

Upper and Nether Auchenlecks are said to have been anciently the property of one of the relatives of Wallace, and to have been so denominated after the possessions of his family in Ayrshire. At Nether Auchenleck, or as it is usually called Nether Affleck, there is a very curious relic of antiquity called Wallace's Syles, which, as tradition reports, was made by that matchless man while he was staying with his kindred at Killbank and Nether Auchenleck. The Syles, which are of a very curious and complicated construction, and exceedingly strong, are made of oak, which, having stood for centuries in one of the smokiest hovels in Scotland, has long ago become quite saturated with soot, and rendered almost incombustible. The feet of the Syles are placed on the ground, with the sides built firmly into the wall; and though the house has been twice burned down to the ground, this venerable relic of Wallace has escaped unharmed. The people around, fond of the memory of their beloved chief, attribute this preservation to the interposition of some superior power; for they contend that Sir William Wallace was not only the greatest hero and most disinterested patriot that the world ever saw, but also an eminent Christian. 

Nether Auchenleck has always been a peculiar haunt of the fairies and other spiritual beings. The late tenant, Alexander Waddel, having, in the course of his improvements, grubbed up a broomy brae where the fairies were wont to hold their revels, incurred the displeasure of these irritable spirits.

“They rade his horses in the night till they were quite blawn, shot his ky, an; did na even haud aff him sell. 

For ae nicht as he was sharpan his saw by the fire-en’, ben cam an elfshot-stane wi’ unco birr frae the door, an’ dang a tuith out o’ the saw. But nae doubt it was ettlet to break his arm, gif no to do him war skaith.”

At another time as he was felling some trees, he perceived an arm strike at him several times with a hatchet; “but the shaft o’ his ain axe was made o’ rowan-tree, sae they could nae harm him.” 

There is a deep glen at Nether Auchinleck, called Hellsgili, wherein a spirit has frequently appeared in the very extraordinary shape of a cart-wheel, or rather of the ring of a cart-wheel, trundling down the brae. It appears always rolling right against the beholder, and often has the eirie night-traveller been terrified that he would be overturned by this whimsical apparition: but after coming bounding from brae to brae, thundering to his very feet, all of a sudden it vanishes, and a loud unearthly laugh, or, as it is expressed in our country dialect, “an eldritch nicheran gaffaw” is heard in the bottom of the ravine.

The Fairy, the Child and the Red Worm

Today, we return to The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, Volume 82 (1818). This time, the mysterious CTCS shares the tale of a woman whose daughter was stolen by fairies, and returned by fairy magic!

But let us return to Thomas the Rhymer, - who appears, from the most authentic accounts, to be a very beneficent prince, and to have still a very great regard for the inhabitants of his native land, to take delight in promoting their interest, and in doing all in his power to release them from the thraldom of superhuman malicious powers. A worthy old woman who lived in a small cottage, (the remains of which were lately discernible on the banks of the Taigillin burn, a small streamlet in the parish of Lesmahag,)o and who had no other means of support than what she earned by spinning, and what she drew from a cow which the neighbouring fanners very kindly allowed her to pasture on the uncultivated braes, and by the waj, sides and hedges, - was harassed almost to death by loud and unearthly noises; so that what with terror and want of sleep she was nearly driven distracted. Her cow, which lowed continually, either produced no milk, or what she gave was sour as vinegar: and let her spin ever so diligently, she could make no progress; she had just as much thread when she began as when she stopped. 

Tibbie knew not what to do; her neighbours judging her uncannie, deserted her; and she was in the utmost distress. 

One day exactly at noon, having passed a most fearful nigh,t and when after much consideration, she had just determined to flee from the house and all that was in it, a gentle tap came to the door, and a mild voice inquired if any were within. The good woman rose and opened the door, but saw nothing. Imagining that she had been mistaken. she went and sat down. when she again heard the same tap with the same inquiry. A second time she went to the door, and a second time she saw nothing.  She had no sooner returned again to her seat, than the tapping and inquiry were repeated. Tibbie’s patience was inexhaustible. She went a third time to the door, and again seeing nobody, she stepped round the corner of her hut to see if any boys had been playing her a trick. Nought was there, and, not a little agitated, she returned into her house, when, to her amazement she found the floor occupied by a tall young man, clad in green, attended by seven blooming boys dressed in the same habiliments. 

The youth told her not to be alarmed: that, being out a hunting he had taken the liberty of calling for a drink, to which, as he was somewhat hungry, he would be much obliged to her if she would add a little bread and cheese, for which he would most willingly pay. He apologized for their conduct at the door, by saying, that his young attendants wished to give her a little surprise, but he should be sorry if it had occasioned her any alarm. 

“I am vext I canna gie ye a drink of ocht but water, my bonnie bairn, but that ye’s hae clear as the bell; for though I hae tholit muckle wearie ill, He has nae luiten them scaithe the siller well.” 

She bustled about, and set before them excellent bread and cheese, the last indeed which she had in the house, and, taking a white bowl, she filled it with crystal water, and, according to the invariable practice of the Scottish peasantry, after having wished them good health, and God's blessing, she took one sip and placed it before them.

They ate very heartily, though still the good woman's bread and cheese appeared to be growing no less; which she perceiving, after looking for some time, she could no longer contain herself, but in great anxiety exclaimed, “I doubt, Sirs, ye binnae cannie!” The eldest smiled, and told her not to be alarmed, that he was indeed no longer a man, but Thomas the Rhymer, King of the Fairies, and that these were seven of his pages. He further told her, that he perfectly knew her situation, and what it was that had long haunted her abode, but that, if she would take his advice, she should get quit of all her misluck, as well as of her nocturnal, visitors for he was well aware of her great kindness in setting before unknown strangers her only provisions. 

“Ony thing, ony thing, that tramps nae on Him that is abune us a’, an if ye’ll but say the Lord is gude an’ gude till a’, whate’er ye bid I’ll do.” His Majesty smiling, satisfied the good woman's fears, and told her to watch till eight o’clock exactly, when she would perceive the outer door to open apparently of its own accord, and a gentle whirlwind to enter thereat. This would move slowly forwards, till, having arrived at the middle of the floor, it would stand there whirling a few moments, when a red worm would come up between the stones. The instant that appeared, she was to throw a few drops of the liquid contained in the phial, which he now put into her hands, upon it, and say, “

“Gin God made ye sae, 

   Remain as ye are,

But if ye be in wae,

   Beturn to what ye war.”

Whatever she might see she was not to be afraid, and if at any time she grew alarmed, she was to sprinkle a few more drops on the object of her apprehensions and repeat the above words. If she grew terrified and forgot this advice, it was a thousand chances to one but both she and her house would be destroyed. The fairies, having said this, immediately vanished, leaving a large purse of money behind them, which the good dame would not touch till she had sained it, when finding that it did not turn into withered leaves, nor bits of “sclate stands, but bade still gude white siller,” she adventured to put it into the press. 

About eight o’clock she watched with great anxiety, and no sooner had the church clock of Abbey Green struck, than the door slowly opened. The whirlwind moved to the middle of the floor, where, according as “True Thomas: predicted, a red worm came crawling up from between two stones. Tibbie immediately threw some of the liquid upon it, repeating the incantation. A large black boar in a moment stood before her, gnashing its tusks, and apparently just going to fly at her. Some more of the phial was bestowed upon the boar, which was instantaneously changed into a most enormous serpent coiled around the room, and crawling towards her with glaring eyes and open mouth. Tibbie dashed some more of the liquid in its face, when suddenly a corpse was extended at her feet, with its cold and glassy eyes fixed sternly upon her. 

In great terror she dropped the phial at her feet, when the stiffened corpse began to relax, an; extended its arm to seize the bottle. Suddenly recollecting herself, she snatched up the phial, and dashed it, liquid and all, with her whole force, upon the corpse, roaring out, “His presence be about us! what will come neest!” 

The room grew dark as midnight,- a loud peal of thunder shook the house, and, by the momentary glare of the lightning, the goodwife could perceive a little ugly thing, somewhat resembling a man, but exceedingly hideous, come out of the mouth of the corpse, and fly away on the firefiaucht. All was light, and a young woman, whom Tibbie recognized to be her daughter, who had been lost when an infant, was lying on the floor in the manner of one recovering from a swoon. The child told her mother that one day when she had “gane out to blade some kail for the pat, a little man, no that doons braw,” came to her, and asked if she would go with him. “He shew me a wheen rings an’ braw flegairies. I replied, scorninwise, ‘Tweel I may gang wi’ you, for wow but ye are a bonnie strappan body!’ - ‘Chapse ye at your word! quo he; an’ wi’ that the grun’ claveaneth us, and we sank down till a frichtsome den, whar naething was to be seen but the cauld clattie sides o’ the cove, shawn by a blae wanyoch glare. Because I wadnae submit to be his sin, he dumit me to torment an’ fley my kind auld mither, an’ this I bude to do, whill I was winfreeit by a mare powerfu’ being nor himsell. Ilka nicht I was turnit intil a laithsome worm, an’ the ilkleetlie fuirie entered the house by a whirlwind, an’ forcit me, sair agains my will,  to talc an active han; in a; the trouble an; mischief whilk has happcnit to you sen ye war trystit wi’ this sare visitation.”

The old woman was also informed, by this communicative daughter, that she had lived fourteen years in the fairy's dungeon, during which time she had resolutely withstood all the dishonourable attempts of the elf who, by anointing the crown of her head, and the palms of both hands, with a very fragrant oil, “gart her grow woman-muckle in twathree days.” 

She also informed her mother that the real reason why the Fairy King did not enter her dwelling at the first, was because she had only opened her door a-jar, at which the dignity of the gude fairies would not permit them to enter, it being only evil spirits who come in at doors in this situation. 

The Fairy Hunters Ride Out

Today, we return to The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, Volume 82 (1818). This time, the mysterious CTCS tells the tale of the Fairy Court’s hunt. In rich dialect, he relate stye story of an elderly man who encountered the Wild Hunt when he was naught but a lad!

Hunting appears all along to have been a favourite amusement of the Seelie Court, and innumerable are the stories which are told concerning the magnificence and splendour of the royal retinue. Amidst all the numerous and gorgeous train, the sovereign was easily distinguished by his stature and majestic demeanour. Upon his right hand rode Her Majesty, and upon the left Kilmoulie, a personage of rather a suspicious character, being, according to some accounts, the resident envoy from the Court of Hell, while, according to others, he was a prime noble among the fairies themselves, of rather a mischievous disposition, and the principal instigator of all their roguish tricks. Be his character or office what it may, he was readily known from his riding a large and powerful black charger, while all the rest of the company in which he ranked were mounted upon very little milk-white horses. 

The Fairy Court always rode out in three bands, - the first mounted upon brown horses, the second upon grey, and the last, which contained the king and queen, with the chief nobles, mounted upon horses white as the driftit snaw. It was in this last company that Kilmoulie cut so great a figure, and I forgot to mention, in its proper place, that this high dignitary and his charger, contrary to all rules of optics, appeared to be full as big at a distance as near at hand. 

Just before my window, and within two or three minutes walk of the door, lies a beautiful sloping field, called Auchreoch, where a peasant who died not many years ago had the fortune to witness the magnificence of a fairy raid. I knew the man when I was a boy, a steady and sincere Christian, at the venerable age of ninety -two; whose mind was deeply imbued with the superstitions and freitty observances of his native land. With supreme interest have I often listened to the excellent man, while he, seated on an old high-backed chair, with his palsied head, which he supported by leaning his brow on a short staff, almost bowed down between his knees with age, narrated, with strong feeling, and in the picturesque language of former days, many a striking relation of the malignant kelpie, the boding wraith, the spiteful witch, and the mischievous but elegant fairy.

In one or two of the following little stories, I shall preserve as much as possible of the original language, in order to give your Scottish readers a specimen of the Clydesdale dialect. 

“In the afternune of a braw hairst day about sun-settin’, an’ as the mune was wadin’ up through an eastlan rowk, the haill bune saw a wee bit crynit lukin’ woman, nae heicher nor a waterstoup, and bussit in a gown o’ the auldest fasson, gang daunerin’ through amang the stouks. Sho cuist mont a lang look at the shearers, but we ne’er luit on that we saw her, though ony body wad, in a moment, hae seen that it was something wanearthlie. 

The shearers quat rather suner that nicht nor usual, my brither an’ I taiglit a while ahin’, ettlan to fetch hame a draucht o’ green com to the ky. The mune be this was shinan clearly abune a’ the ure, an’ ha’in buggen the draucht, my brither tuke the naig be the head, to lead him hame, whan, till our amazement, we perceived him to be a’ lashan wi’ sweat. Nowther fleechan nor whippan could mak him mudge a fit; but there he stude, quakan, lith an’ limb, like the leaf o’ the lin. While we war stannan upo’ stappan-stanes, switheran what to do, we war suprisit wi’ the soun’ of an onkennable numraer of sma’ bells a’ tinkle-tinkllan. 

In a doup, by cam thousan’so’ milk-white hunds, naebig ger nor whittrets, an’ souchan as gin they had been a flaucht o’ dows. Mony a wearie company o’ wee wee gerse green riders cam neest, stennan owcr the lea; their graith a’jinglan wi’ siller, an’ their clais skinklan i’ the wanyoch mune as though they had been just ae diamon’. 

Muckle din an’ loud gilraivitch was amang them, gaffawan an’ lauchan. They rade furth in three wheens; the first muntit on black ponies, the neest on grey, an’ syne the last on bonnie wee beasties white as the driftit snaw. 

I could brawlie observe the king amang the lave, wi’ the queen on his richt, an’ coal black Kilmoulie on his left. Be this the fore-en’ was tint frae view, amang the brurnie knows o’ Daiberdillie, an’ we war glowran at the sicht, whan he on the richt o’ the king wheelit roun’ his beast, an’ rade straucht to whar we war stannan. He held his richt han’ ower us, crunan out some fleyfu’ words as he gade souchan by like the wind. 

We baith sank to the grun’ wi fricht, an’ I am far mistune, gin I did nae hear the eldritch creature gaftawan an’ lauchan at the pliskie he had playit us. - 

Whan we cam till oursells a’ was gane thegither, an’ the cart was stannan cowpit up on its hin’ trams, but no ae bit o’ the graith was lowsit. Aff we set, gey an’ sare fleyit, to seek the beast; and as we war gaun by a sauchen buss in Glenaskie, we thocht we sawsoinetliing white in the buss, an’ heard it gurr gurran like a dog shoran to bite. 

We gade ncrrer to see what it was, thinkan it micht be a hown’ worryan a lamb, whan out cam sic a smytrie o’ wee white dogs as ee ne’er saw. The hale o’ Dumtersie was perfectly cu’rit, an’ the lift rang again wi’ their gowlan. 

My ain bonnie grey cam by what he could flee frae Daiberdillie-wart, an’ stintit nae whill he wan to Nether Auchenleck, whar we fan’ him i’ the lone, wi’ the sweat gaun hailan aff at his very huves. The jags o’ the spurs war visible in his sides; an’ the puir thing was never its ain wordie mare, but frae that dwynit awa an; deeit.”

Thomas the Rhymer: King of the Fairies

In The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, Volume 82 (1818), a correspondent shares the tale of how the Fairy King was born… 

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF CLYDESDALE 

[The following communication, which is from the pen of a very respectable and worthy correspondent, will, we apprehend, be interesting to such of our readers as are gratified by the preservation of the fast-fading remains of the popular superstitions and peculiar dialect of our old Scottish peasantry. The author had prefixed a short introduction to his paper, in which he strenuously defends the almost exploded doctrine of “the visible interference of spirits” in human affairs, - professes himself a determined adherent to the ghostly creed of his venerable grandmother - and, moreover, gravely professes his actual belief in the “Fairy Mythology,” of which he has given such curious details; but as we are not quite sure that we rightly understand our author's meaning or real “mood of mind,” in this singular introduction, we have for the present withheld it from the public. We are happy, however, in the prospect of soon hearing from him again, in continuation. - Edit.]

MR EDITOR,

During my infancy, it was the custom, at rockings, to entertain each other with stories of apparitions and unearthly visitations; a numerous collection of fairy tales, also, formed part, and no inconsiderable part, of the general amusement; and he was esteemed the most acceptable rocker, whose memory was most plentifully stored with such thrilling narratives. But a very great change has taken place within these fifteen years, the date to which my recollection reaches. The inhabitants of Clydesdale, for I speak of that portion of Scotland only with which I am most intimately acquainted, in place of frequently meeting and entertaining each other with the romantic traditionary lore of former times, seldom have any merry meetings at all; and when one does happen to take place, the conversation even of the very youngest persons present is either about the shortest and surest way to riches, or else consists of puerile scandal concerning absent lads and lasses. With extreme interest and with delight, mingled with piercing terror, have I formerly listened, however, every night for weeks and months to these fearful tales; and as my memory is pretty deeply imbued with the mythology of at least my native county, if it be consistent with the plan of your Magazine, I shall tend you from time to time a short account of the Fairies, Brownies, Witches, Kelpies, &c. who still linger amongst our hills and glens, as loth to forsake that beloved land wherein they formerly reigned so long with unquestioned dominion.

The first of my little essays shall be upon the Fairies; but I must be permitted to observe, that after the detailed and extremely interesting memoir on the fairy superstition introduced into the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, it would be a presumptuous work of supererogation in your humble correspondent, as well as a thankless labour, were he to attempt to give a fuller or more explicit account of this most elegant branch of our national mythology. But notwithstanding all the multifarious anecdotes which the indefatigable industry of Mr Scott has collected, several curious traditions have escaped his search, which tend in some degree to shew, that the opinions of the “people of the west” concerning the Fairy Folk, though in general agreeing with those of the romantic borderers, yet differ from them in various particulars.

 According to popular belief in most parts of Scotland, the fairies are under the dominion of a Queen, but in Clydesdale, at least in the Upper Ward, they have a King to rule over them, who is no less a personage than Thomas the Rhymer, who now for many centuries has swayed the Elfin sceptre with great splendour. He obtained the monarchy neither by conquest nor election, but by a transference of the queenly power, to which their ancient and legitimate sovereign was compelled by the great love which she bore for “True Thomas”. According to an old traditionary ballad, an indisputable authority in these matters, but which I cannot at present completely recover, Thomas, while a young man,

“-gade doun to the cashie wud 

   To pu; the roses braw,

An’ the blossoms that hing frar the rowan tree 

   As white as the driftit snaw.

The ouzel an’ the mavis grey 

   Rejoicit in their sang,

An’ the lustie cushat scoup’t through the shaw,

   An’ currooit the trees amang.

The eerie scaddows o’ the aiks,

   Fell black ower the skinklan grun’ 

As frae a heap o’ blude-reid cluds 

   Brast furth the mornin’ sun.

He faadnae call’d on the Halie Name 

   That scugs in the evil hour,

An; thraws a bield roun’ sinfu’ man, 

   Frae the blasts o’ fairy power, 

Whan he was aware of a lady fair 

   Come out of a birken bower.

Her rude was redder than rose on rice 

   On Caimie-castle lea 

Her teeth was the dew on the heather-bell,

   The diamon’ stane her ee; 

Her mantle greener nor the gerse 

   Soup’t doun alang the grun’. 

At the turn o’ her ee the branches swirl’t

   As muv’t by a whirlwin’.

To Thamas sho cam ridin’ up 

   Wi’ mickle state an’ pride,

An’ ye maun gang wi’ me. luve Thamas,

   I’ll be your winsome bride;

An’ we will lig in the brumie braes,

   Or daff in the birken shaw, 

An’ tak our till o’ drouerie,

   An’ nae man can it knaw.”

 Thomas rather ungallantly persists in refusing to comply with the request of the queen, though her Elfin Majesty presses her suit in terms which I beg leave not to be compelled to repeat. The virtue of Thomas is inflexible, till at last the princess offers him her hand, and along with it her crown, with perpetual sovereignty over Fairy Land.

“An’ I will gie to thee luve Thamas,

   My han’ but an’ my crown,

An’ thou shalt ring ower Fairy Lan’

   In joy an’ grit renown. 

An’ I will gie to thee, luve Thamas,

   To live for evermare,

Thine arm sail never feckless grow,

   Nor hoary wax thy hair:

Nae chaneran grief we ever thole,

   Nae wastan pine we dree, 

An endless life’s afore thee placed 

   O’ constant luve an; lee.”

These were no doubt alluring offers, and the temptation, as was to have been expected, proved too powerful for the virtue of the poor Rhymer, who from thenceforward became King of the Fairies.

Next week, we return to Clysedale for more tales of the fairies!

Ferguson's Grave: A Diary Entry

Ferguson's Grave: A Diary Entry

 

By Avellina Balestri

 

King's Mountain, South Carolina. July 21, 2014 

I see where you fell, Ferguson. They tell me you were struck by a dozen bullets and dragged down this hill with your leg caught in the stirrup. Easily said. Did you know what was happening then, or was it all a blur? Did you see your life flash before you, as the trees looming heavily faded away? 

Ferguson, did you ever resign to your defeat and death? Did you ever know what hit you, in the cloud of searing smoke that blinded your eyes like your pride? What do you think of it all now? Are you sorry for those who fought under you, your young Tory Troopers? Do you pity Virginia Sal, who shared your bed and your flaming hair? Did you ever really love her, or was she just for pleasure to pass the time? 

Do the scenes of your final hours play over and over again for you? Are you swinging your sword again, blowing your silver whistle, riding high? Do you know how it all ends? Does it tear your heart like the bullets? Or is it hate that keeps you from sadness? Have you forgiven those whom you fought, and those who killed and mutilated you? Are you lying in heaven or hell tonight, or are you some ghost betwixt or between, or locked in a cell of purging fire? Did you ever make your peace with God?

Ferguson, what if we had met before the war, at some gala in Edinburgh or exhibition in London? Would I have enjoyed your company? Would I have had the opportunity of hearing you play the fiddle, or test your skill at arms? I wonder, would we have written letters back and forth? Would I have commented how fine your script was before the bullet smashed your right arm? Would we have fought the battle of wits I have fought with other young men? Would I have been charmed? 

What if we had met during the war? What if my family had been rebels? Would you have burned us out, razing the house and barns, and turned my green valley to brown? Would my father have been killed in your Egg Harbor attack, when your troops bayoneted sleeping men? Would my glistening tears have fallen on the scorched ground like sparks, blazing with hatred for you? Would I have rejoiced on the day of your death? Or would I have found it in my heart to forgive you?

What if I had been a Tory, who saw you as the savior of of a harried people? Would have followed your band your King and Country? Would I have been on the mountainside on the last long night? Would I have sung you that final song, or plaited your long red hair? Would I have unbound your tattered plaid, and wrapped you in rawhide? Would I have been among the women who buried their men in shallow graves, and wailed as the crows cawed?

Can you feel the rocks being thrown on your grave for shaking a fist at the King of Heaven and losing your bet to the Rebels of Hell? Do you laugh as the stones pile up, or do they fuel your anger...or cause fresh pain? What about your monument, with the lion and the unicorn? Surely that makes you happy. Take it, Ferguson, as a sign we wish you well. Your old enemies still dread your fierceness, the tip of your bayonet, the flame of your torch. But you spared Washington on a point of a huntsman’s honor. And you said you didn’t regret it. 

Do you miss the misty moors where you hunted in "The Land of Cakes"? Do you yearn for the voice of the fiddle? Do you long for the feel of the sword and the rifle in your hand? Do you miss the grand parties where you were the toast of the table, and the beautiful ladies you wooed? Can you feel the rain seeping through ground, like the tears your mother shed for her “Gentle Pattie”? Do you miss her, and the family you loved so well? Do the bones of Sal, mingled with your own, keep you company? Or are you lonely now with nothing but your fame and infamy to comfort you in a strange land?

I’ll toss a stone on your grave, Ferguson, like all the others do. Then I’ll mutter a prayer under my breath and sing you a song from your home. Did you ever learn Gaelic on your Highland estate? Whether you did or not, it is the language of the lament, and you loved fine music. Mostly Scots fought up here, fought against each other for differing ideals, drawn together by a single destiny. Surely it would be fitting to sing in the old tongue, would it not? I hope you’ll take it as a sign of friendship from me. In some ways, we were not so very different, you and I. The artist in us is the same, and the necessity of drawing courage from defeat. Perhaps we might see each other someday?

I wonder, has anyone thought to say a prayer or sing a song here, or have they just gawked at the rock-pile and told the old story, that you were struck by a dozen bullets and dragged down this hill with your leg caught in the stirrup…? 

About the Author

Avellina Balestri is a blessed-to-be-Catholic homeschool graduate from Maryland, USA. She has long had a fascination with British history and culture, originating with her interest in Robin Hood and devotion to the Catholic English Martyrs. She reads and writes extensively on the subject, and has established various international contacts via email correspondence, phone calls, and snail-mail parcel swapping. She also did a stint of political activism for the Unionists during the Scottish Independence Referendum. Her other sources of enjoyment include reading musty historical tomes, listening to Celtic artists such as Loreena McKennitt, and watching classic films such as A Man for All Seasons and TV shows such as Kung Fu. She also sings, composes, and plays the penny whistle and bodhran drum. Avellina is proud to be among the founding "Three Musketeers" of the online magazine The Fellowship of the King (under the alias “Rosaria Marie”) and work as its editor-in-chief.

Written content of this post copyright © Avellina Balestri, 2016.