Among other characteristics of [the Northamptonshire Bogie], was that of superior strength, a quality which he also holds in common with his German and Scandinavian brethren. It is to a being of this class that the village of Stowe, near Daventry, is said to derive its adjunct of ‘Nine-churches.’ In days of yore, say the villagers, a lord of the manor was desirous of raising a church in his native place, at that time known by the simple appellation of Stowe. A hill was chosen for the site, cunning workmen procured, and the foundation laid; but on the following morning, when the labour was to be resumed, no traces of the yesterday’s work were visible. Trenches stones, and tools had all vanished. After a long search they were discovered, some distance beyond, on the spot where the present church now stands. The lord, however, was stubborn, and was not to be so easily baffled. Nine times did he renew his attempt, and each time were they frustrated by the spirit, who I continued to remove in the night what the workmen had raised during the day. With great difficulty a man was induced to watch these midnight proceedings: and who does the reader imagine were the unseen opponents of the church builders? The tiny legions of Queen Mab, perhaps, as in the case of God’s Hill, in the Isle of Wight. But, alas for the poetry of our rustics, the watchman reported the aggressor as an object ‘summet bigger nor a hog’. After this the attempt was given up in despair, and the present church built on the site so marvellously selected. Sternberg, 139

Like the Irish elves, who were adepts at ball-play, our fairies greatly delighted in all kinds of diversion. A South Northamptonshire legend tells of a young fellow who was fortunate enough to witness one of their sportive encounters. Returning home one moonlight night from a neighbouring village, where he had been partaking in the festive revelry of the feast-day, he fell in with a ‘vast o’ fairy-folk,’ who, divided into two bodies, were fiercely contending at foot-ball. Undaunted at the strange scene, he joined their ranks, and mingled in the scuffle; but no sooner did he succeed in striking the ball than it burst with a loud sound, — the elves vanished, and himself fell stunned to the ground. When he awoke liis strange adventure appeared like a dream, but the scattered remains of the ‘bursten ball,’ thickly stuffed with golden coin, agreeably convinced him to the contrary. Sternberg, 137

The gifts of the fairy-folk are, however, illusive and unreal. Among the numerous legends: ‘And thousands such the village keeps alive; Beings that people superstitious earth; That e’er in rural manners will survive,/ As long as wild rusticity has birth,’ we [in Northamptonshire] have, in common with the Irish and Germans, the one in which the fairy money is represented as changing into paper. A more ludicrous instance is the following; puerile, no doubt, but still valuable as a connecting link in the curious mythic chain: A woodman went to the forest to fell some timber: just as he was applying the axe to the trunk of a huge old oak, out jumped a fairy, who beseeched him with the most supplicating gestures to spare the tree. Moved more by fright and astonishment than anything else, the man consented, and as a reward for his forbearance was promised the fulfilment of his three next wishes. Whether from natural forgetfulness, or fairy illusion, we know not, but certain it is, that long before evening all remembrance of his visitor had passed from his noddle. At night, when he and his dame were dozing before a blazing fire, the old fellow waxed hungry, and audibly wished for a link of hog’s pudding. No sooner had the words escaped his lips than a rustling was heard in the chimney, and down came a bunch of the wished-for delicacies, depositing themselves at the feet of the astounded woodman, who, thus reminded of his morning visitor, began to communicate the particulars to his wife. ‘Thou bist a fool, Jan,’ said she, incensed at her husband’s carelessness in neglecting to make the best of his good luck; ‘I wish era wer atte noase!’ whereupon, the legend goes on to state, they immediately attached: themselves to the member in question, and stuck so tight that the woodman, finding no amount of force would remove these unsightly appendapos from his proboscis, was obliged, reluctantly, to wish them off thus making the third wish, and at once ending his brilliant expectations. Sternberg, 135-136

She from her memory oft repeats

Witches’ dread powers and fairy feats:

How one has oft been known to prance

In cowcribs, like a coach, to France,

And ride on sheep-trays from the fold

A race-horse speed to Burton-hold;

To join the midnight mystery’s rout.

Where witches meet the yews about:

And how, when met with unawares.

They turn at once to cats or hares,

And race along with hellish flight.

Now here, now there, now out of sight!

And how the other tiny things

Will leave their moonlight meadow-rings.

And, unperceived, through key-holes creep.

When all around have sunk to sleep.

To feast on what the cotter leaves, —

Mice are not reckoned greater thieves.

They take away, as well as eat.

And still the housewife’s eye they cheat.

In spite of all the folks that swarm

In cottage small and larger farm;

They through each key-hole pop and pop,

like wasps into a grocer’s shop.

With all the things that they can win

From chance to put their plunder in;

As shells of walnuts, split in two

By crows, who with the kernels flew;

Or acorn-cups, by stock-doves plucked,

Or egg-shells by a cuckoo sucked;

With broad leaves of the sycamore

They clothe their stolen dainties oer:

And when in cellar they regale.

Bring hazel-nuts to hold their ale;

With bung-holes bored by squirrels well,

To get the kernel from the shell;

Or maggots a way out to win.

When all is gone that grew within;

And be the key-holes eer so high.

Rush poles a ladder’s help supply.

Where soft the climbers fearless tread.

On spindles made of spiders’ thread.

And foul, or fair, or dark the night.

Their wild-fire lamps are burning bright:

For which full many a daring crime

Is acted in the summer-time;

When glow-worm found in lanes remote

Is murdered for its shining coat.

And pot in flowers, that nature weaves

With hollow shapes and silken leaves.

Such as the Canterbury bell.

Serving for lamp or lantern well;

Or, following with unwearied watch

The flight of one they cannot match,

As silence sliveth upon sleep.

Or thieves hy dozing watch-dogs creep.

They steal from Jack-a-Lantern’s tails

A light, whose guidance never fails

To aid them in the darkest night

And guide their plundering steps aright.

RattUng away in printless tracks,

Some, housed on beetles’ glossy backs.

Go whisking on — and others hie

As fast as loaded moths can fly:

Some urge, the morning cock to shun.

The hardest gallop mice can run.

In chariots, lolling at their ease.

Made of whateer their fancies please;

Things that in childhood’s memory dwell

Scooped crow-pot-stone, or cockle-shell,

With wheels at hand of mallow seeds.

Where childish sport was stringing beads;

And thus equipped, they softly pass

Like shadov^ on the summer-grass.

And glide away in troops together

Just as the Spring-wind drives a feather.

As light as happy dreams they creep.

Nor break the feeblest link of sleep:

A midge, if in their road a bed,

Feds not the wheels run oer his head.

But sleeps till sunrise calls him up,

Unconscious of the passing troop,

Thus dame the winter-night regales

With wonder’s never-ceasing tales;

While in a corner, ill at ease.

Or crushing tween their father’s knees.

The children — silent all the while —

And een repressed the laugh or smile

Quake with the ague chills of fear,

And tremble though they love to hear;

Starting, while they the tales recall,

At their own shadows on the wall:

Till the old clock, that strikes unseen

Behind the picture -pasted screen

Where Eve and Adam still agree

To rob Life’s fatal apple-tree.

Counts over bed-time’s hour of rest,

And bids each be sleep’s fearful guest.

She then her half-told tales will leave

To finish on to-morrow’s eve; —

The children steal away to bed,

And up the ladder softly tread;

Scarce daring — from their fearful joys —

To look behind or make a noise;

Nor speak a word! but still as sleep

They secret to their pillows creep.

And whisper oer, in terror’s way.

The prayers they dare no louder say;

Then hide their heads beneath the clothes.

And try in vain to seek repose:

While yet, to fancy’s sleepless eye,

Witches on sheep-trays gallop by,

And fairies, like a rising spark.

Swarm twittering round them in the dark;

Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares.

And drops upon them unawares.

Editor’s Note: this story is sometimes told about demons, sometimes about fairies.

There was once a Tailor, a profane man, and a great drunkard, who having been to a Fair, and coming home drunk, met a certain man on horse back, who asked him if he were a Tailor? He said he was: the man on horse back asked him if he would make some clothes for him? He said  he would, and received a piece of cloath with a charge to be sure to be at home on such a day, and  such an hour, to take his measure: the Tailor said he would. Although he was drunk, he observed  this person’s feet were not like a man’s, but like  horse’s feet; and some other circumstances which  made him concerned; the more he considered it, his fear increased, thinking it was not a man, but  something belonging to the devil; he being in great  fear about the matter, went to Sir David [a dealer in the magic art] to ask his  opinion about it, from whom he received the fol lowing advice: to delay the measuring of him as  much as possible, and not to stand before but  behind him: he bid him be sure to be at home the  time appointed, and that he (Sir David) would  come to meet him that time. The supposed man  came, and the Tailor, in great fear, began to  measure him, at the same time fearing he was something not good; and according to the advice given  him, delayed measuring him, pretending that he  wanted this and that thing: at last the supposed man  said to him, thou art very long about it, and why  standest thou behind my back? why dost thou not  come before me? The Tailor being in greater fear,  thought every minute a long time, expecting Sir David  to come according to his promise; accordingly he  came, and having looked on the strange man who was  come to be measured, said to him, What is your  business here? Go away; and he went away.  This the Tailor told to all who enquired about it, and  it passed through the Country.    Jones* Cardiganshire

A fairy man came to a woman in the parish and asked her to attend his wife at her lying-in, she did so and went to fairyland and afterwards came home none the worse for her trip. But one Thursday at the market in Stowe, she saw the fairy man in a Butcher’s shop helping himself to some beef. On this she goes up and spoke to him. Whereupon much surprised, he bids her say nothing about it, and enquires with which eye she could see him, as in fairy land he had rubbed one of her eyes with some ointment. On pointing to the gifted eye he blew into it, and from that time she could never see a fairy again.

Hollingworth Hist of Stowmarket (1844) 248 [Guderon 36-37]

Onehome: A man was ploughing in a field, a fairy quite small and sandy-coloured came to him and asked him to mend his peel (a flat iron with a handle to take bread out of an oven) and that if he did he should have a hot cake. The ploughman soon put a new handle in it, and soon after a smoking hot cake made its appearance in the furrows near him, which he ate with infinite relish.

Hollingworth Hist of Stowmarket (1844) 248 [Guderon 36-37]

B

Editor’s Note: This story is a Suffolk classic. Here is possibly the earliest recorded version from 1877. The contributor writes ‘I have great pleasure in sending you the ‘legend’ ” on which I founded the story of ‘Brother Mike.’ I believe that my rendering of the dialect is perfectly correct, and may be depended upon, at least for the district round Bury St. Edmunds.’

There wus a farmer, right a long time ago, that wus, an he had a lot o’ wate, a good tidy lot o’ wate he had. An he huld all his wate in a barn, of a hape he did! but that hape that got lesser and lesser, an he kount sar how that kum no how. But at last he thout he’d go and see if he kount see suffun. So off of his bed he got, one moanlight night, an he hid hiself hind the oud lanetew, where he could see that’s barn’s doors; an when the clock struck twelve, if he dint see right a lot of little tiddy frairies. lork! how they did run — they was little bits o’ things, as big as mice; an they had little blue caoots and yaller breeches an little red caps on thar hids with long tassels hangin down behind. An they run right up to that barn’s door. An if that door dint open right wide of that self. An lopperty lop! over the throssold they all hulled themselves. Well, when the farmer see they wus all in, he kum nigher an nigher, an he looked inter the bam he did. An he see all they little frairies; they danced round an round, an then they all ketched up an air o’ wate, an kept it over their little shouders, they did. But at the last there come right a dear little frairie that wus soo small that could hardly lift that air o’ wate, and that kep saying as that walked —

Oh, how I du twait,

A carrying o’ this air o’ wate.

An when that kum to the throssold, that konnt git over no how, an that farmer he retched out his hand an he caught a houd o’ that poooare thing, an that shruck out, ‘Brother Mike! Brother Mike!’ as loud as that could. But the farmer he kopt that inter his hat, an he took that home for his children; he tied that to the kitchen winder. But that poooare little thing, that, wont ate nothin, an that poyned away and died. Cambridge. ‘Brother Mike.’ ‘Suffolk Notes and Queries,’ Ipswich Journal, 1877 [Gurdon Suffolk 34,35]

 

 

Ned Judge, of Sophys Bridge [County Antrim], was a weaver. Every night after he went to bed the weaving started of itself, and when he arose in the morning he would find the dressing which had been made ready for weaving so broken and entangled that it took him hours to put it right. Yet with all this drawback he got no poorer, because the fairies left him plenty of household necessaries, and whenever he sold a web of cloth he always received treble the amount bargained for.’