Baron Edward Hugessen Knatchbull-Hugessen Brabourne

Things are very dull now-a-days in the country districts of England.

The country gentlemen have got into the habit of going to London a great deal more than they used to do before railroads were made as extensively as has been the case of late years. The farmers, too, move about more than they did in the olden days, and act very differently in many respects from their forefathers.

Nor are the labourers quite the same; they ask more wages, touch their hats to master, squire, and parson less than they did, and discuss matters of politics and the government of the country, which formerly never entered their heads.

I dare say it is all right: it is a wise and good frame of mind to cherish, which teaches one that whatever is, is right, although it is sometimes very difficult to think so.

For instance, when my tooth takes to aching without any obvious cause, and certainly very much against my will, the fact of its doing so is well established, but the existing state of things in my face is not recognised by me—not for one single moment—as right because it is the existing state. And when I have overdrawn my account at my banker's, and the state of things is that he will not let me do so any more, the circumstance that it is so does not reconcile me to the fact in the very slightest degree.

Still, as regards the progress which this country has made, and the condition at which we have now arrived, I am ready to bow my head meekly, and allow that as a general maxim, the general results may be admitted by me to be "all right."

There are the railroads, and (though the carriages are not always comfortable, and the trains generally late) they afford such facilities for the gentryfolk to go to town, that we cannot wonder at their doing so. If it is not right that they should, surely railroads would never have been permitted, cutting up the beautiful country as they do, and sending their screaming engines along through the green fields and thriving plough-lands, where all before was peaceful and quiet.

Then if the farmers are changed, it is also all for the best without doubt. Changed they are, beyond all question. They are a different class of men from the old species of farmer who existed fifty years ago, and who seldom went further than his market town.

Our farmers, now-a-days, have all visited London again and again, and instead of the homely talk over a market dinner which used to take place in old days, they have got "Chambers of Agriculture," in which they evince a remarkable ability in discussing anything which Parliament proposes to do about agricultural matters, and talk nearly as wisely, I am told, as the members of the House of Commons itself!

Still, however, I stick to my text, and say that, being as it is, it must be all right.

Of course it is, and so also with regard to the labourers. When I was a boy they did not know half as much as they do now, but they worked well for all that.

I have lodged in two rooms in this farmhouse in which I write for twenty-seven years come next Michaelmas, and I have often heard farmer Barrett say that his best labourers were generally those who could neither read nor write.

Most of them can do both now, and people used to say that it was a sin and a shame that every labourer should not be able to read his Bible and write his name in it.

"All right," again say I, only unfortunately (as I sometimes venture to think) it is not their Bibles they read, so much as the penny papers, and these sometimes teach them different lessons from the Bible, I fancy. Then there is a lot of cheap—well, trash I was going to say, and I think I must, too—a lot of cheap trash which is sent about all over the country, or which they pick up here and there, and which teaches them lessons altogether mischievous.

Moreover, they have societies, which are curious sort of concerns, I am told, and through which they are taught actually to demand an increase of wages, and various other things which were never thought of in old times.

All these things have made the country districts of England very different places from what they used to be when I first knew them. That is now a long time ago, but I know a great deal that happened before I knew anything from my own eyesight and observation—I mean before I was born.

I am an old man now, and having enough money to live upon and be comfortable, I have all my lifetime indulged my inclination for living in the country.

I used to make it my principal endeavour to avoid railways. I hired lodgings in rustic villages, and lived quietly therein, studying the ways and habits of the people, and picking up old legends, which was always my chief delight. But wherever I went, a railroad was sure to be immediately afterwards projected through that particular district.

The steam fiend seemed to have marked me out as an involuntary pioneer to herald his advance; and, move where I would, he and his myrmidons very shortly appeared in my wake.

This continued for five and twenty years—for I began my system of country-lodging when I was a tolerably young man—barely turned thirty. When I tell you, as I did just now, that I have been in my present abode for twenty-seven years, a little calculation will show you that I shall never again see my eighty-second birthday. You will therefore, I hope, excuse the garrulity of old age, and forgive me if I have somewhat wandered from the tale which in fact I have not yet begun, but which I have been leading up to all this time.

For you must know that the changes of which I have been speaking have had great effect upon other people besides gentry, farmers, and labourers. There are nothing like so many witches, wizards and curious creatures of that kind as there were, in country places, in the good old times.

I do not for one moment say that this is to be regretted. On the contrary, I say again, that being so, I have no doubt it is "all right."

But, right or wrong, it is undoubtedly true that the witches, warlocks and wise women have greatly diminished, if indeed they have not altogether vanished. I hope it will be understood that by "wise women" I do not allude to the ladies who give scientific lectures and talk about a variety of subjects upon which they evidently know much more than an old gentleman like I am could ever know, and, I must say, more than I should like to know about some things.

This is a different kind of wisdom altogether, and there are plenty of persons who possess it, or think they do, which serves their purpose quite as well. I mean "wise," in the sense of possessing an unusual and supernatural insight into things which are commonly hidden from mortal knowledge.

Of these people there are few, if any, left in the present day; or if there are such, they do not come to the front as they once did. There are, indeed, many persons in the world now, who actually disbelieve in witches and all creatures of that sort, and who not only disbelieve in their existence now, but who stoutly maintain that they never did exist.

I don't know how they get over the Witch of Endor, or the various other allusions to witches in the Bible, but I suppose they do somehow or other.

People are much too clever for me, nowadays, and get over any difficulty that comes in their way—or fancy that they do so, and trouble themselves no more about it. I have even heard people disbelieve in fairies, but that of course is sheer nonsense; and no one who wanders—as I have often done, at all seasons and at all hours—through the glorious English woodlands, can doubt the existence of the dear little elves.

Doubt their existence! I should as soon think of doubting my own! How do the fairy-rings come, I should like to know? Whence comes the name of "the Fairy Well"—not uncommon by any means? Oh, no! I do not believe that anybody disbelieves that fairies exist, though I know that there is a dreadful amount of unbelief in the world regarding warlocks and witches.

I am glad to say that good Farmer Barrett was never one of the unbelievers. He was near upon seventy when I first came to lodge under his roof, so that if he had lived till now he would have been ninety-seven. As he didn't, however, it is no use making the remark. He died some twelve years ago, when about eighty-five; cut off, as one may say, in the prime of life.

Ah, me! how our friends, young and old, fall around us, like grass. My godson, Jack Barrett, here remarks, with less of reverence than I could have wished, in speaking of his grandfather, that a man taken away at eighty-five would be better compared to hay than grass. Well, well, Jack is young; barely forty, and boys must have their jokes, as we all know.

I was going to say that good Farmer Barrett's death affected me very much. He was a very great comfort to me, was Farmer Barrett. It was not only that we agreed upon most points, and thought alike in a manner most satisfactory to both of us. That was a great comfort, living as we did under the same roof, and sitting together, either in his kitchen or my parlour, almost every evening, to enjoy a quiet gossip. But there were other comforts too, and the chief one—that which I may fairly consider the principal advantage which I reaped from the society of Farmer Barrett—was derived from his extraordinary knowledge of the legends and traditions of his native county concerning witches and wizards.

Many and many an evening have we sat talking upon such matters, till I have really felt quite nervous about going to bed. Not that I am a nervous man: not by any means; but I own that more than once, after discussing witches and their cats to a late hour, I have felt a curious sensation when the house cat came rubbing herself against my shins, and have looked with a species of creepy feeling over my left shoulder as I went upstairs to bed, almost thinking I should see something "uncanny" close behind me.

I never knew any man with such a collection of stories and legends as old Barrett. He had tales without end of the "Warlock of Coombe," the "Wizard of Bockhanger," and the "Witch of Brook Hollow." He could tell of the dark doings of the "Hag of Hothfield," and the fearful creature who so long inhabited the regions of Charing, and darkened the woods of Longbeach with her awesome shadow.

I do not believe that any witch or wizard ever existed in Kent whose story was not well known to Barrett. Of his own knowledge he could tell something. Once there happened a curious thing in his stables.

His two teams of horses, fed alike, housed equally well, and treated with precisely the same care, strangely varied in their appearance and condition. One team were always sleek and slim, "fat and well-liking," like Pharaoh's fat kine, and the admiration of all beholders. The other team were just the reverse. Nothing they took seemed to agree with them, they fell away, their bones started through their skins, and their appearance was a disgrace to the farm. This state of things greatly puzzled and annoyed the farmer and his men.

Barrett himself laid the blame upon the waggoner and his mate, and threatened to discharge both of them if things went on so, as he felt sure they petted one team of horses at the expense of the other. The men earnestly denied the charge, and were evidently much vexed at its having been made.

Things went on the same until at last the waggoner, who was a clever and withal a courageous man, determined to sit up all night and watch. He did so, being carefully hidden in the corner of the stable. The horses fed well, and lay down as usual. All was quiet until twelve o'clock struck. At that moment several little men, about a foot high, leaped down from the loft above the stables, and going to the favoured team, began to brush and comb them with great care and energy, rubbing them well all over and uttering no words to anybody as they did so, save to each other as they worked, as if to encourage themselves to greater exertions.

"I work—you work, I work—you work," they kept saying, and the coats of the horses rapidly became more smooth and glossy, until, when the little men had finished, they were perfect models of what horses should be.

They merely looked at the other team with funny faces, and then hastened up again to their loft. All this the waggoner duly told his master next morning, and, of course, with the natural incredulity of man, he at first refused to believe it.

But when, upon the man again and again assuring him of its truth, he determined to put the matter to the proof by hiding himself that same night, he saw precisely the same thing, and was of course convinced.

I forget how the story ended, but I know that, somehow or other, he managed to get some "wise" person in the neighbourhood to speak up for the poor, thin team, and prevent the little elves, or whatever they were, from "spiting" them any more.

Then the farmer had a tale which had been told him by a groom he had once in his service, who came from the hill above Charing. Up over the hill there was a reputed witch, Mrs. Dorland.

I questioned the groom about this woman myself, so I may as well give the story in his own words.

"She were a noted witch, she were," he said.

"How do you know?" I asked, not because I myself doubted for a moment, but because I wanted to glean all the particulars I possibly could.

"Bless ye, sir," replied the youth, "I knows all about it because o' my grandfather. She wouldn't never let him alone. I expect he'd affronted her, one time or other. I recollect when I was a-staying along with him once, and the door locked and all—he looked over the stairs and there, sure enough, was old Dame Dorland on the mat at the bottom, and her eyes! oh they glounded in her head, they did!"

"But how did she get in?" I asked.

"That's just what I want to know," answered the boy. "The door was shut and fast locked; but there she was, anyhow. Another time my grandfather had to drive some bullocks down to Ashford market, and he overtook Dame Dorland. She had a basket on her arm, and she asked my grandfather to carry it for her. He wouldn't. I expect he didn't know what bad game might be up. Well, do you think he could keep his bullocks in the road, after that? Not he: they was over the hedge, first one side and then another, and then they was for running back. He couldn't do nothing with them, so he turns back and offers to carry the old girl's basket. Then the bullocks was all right directly, and he hadn't no trouble in getting them along all the way to Ashford."

Since Farmer Barrett had lived all his life in a county where such people as Dame Dorland were to be found, there can hardly be much surprise felt at his entire and implicit belief in witchcraft.

But the most wonderful tale that he ever told me was that which not only concerned the county, but the very district in which he dwelt. It is a story to which I listened with intense interest when first I heard it, and my interest was never lessened by its repetition.

Again and again I asked the old farmer to go over it once more, and I cross-examined him upon all the particulars of his tale in a manner which would really have offended some people of my acquaintance. He, however, was not only not offended, but pleased at the perseverance with which I questioned him.

He told me the story, in fact, so often, that I got to know it nearly by heart; and I think it is one which I ought to relate for the benefit of a world, in which, as far as I can see, belief of any kind, and certainly belief in witches and the like, will shortly be extinct.

The parish of Mersham has long been known as a favourite resort of queer people of the kind of whom I am speaking. It is a very long, narrow parish: much narrower, of course, at some parts than others.

Its north end runs into and beyond the park of Mersham Hatch—that is, the west side of the park, the east side being in the parishes of Brabourne and Smeeth. The south part of the parish joins Bilsington and Aldington, and on the south west you are very close upon the Ruckinge and Orlestone big woods—so close that I am not sure whether a portion of that vast tract of woodland does not actually lie within the boundaries of the parish of Mersham. Be that as it may, it is a wild part of the world, and just the very sort of place in which you would fancy witches and their confederates to abound. Whether you fancy it or not, however, beyond all doubt such was the case, in the good old times of which I speak.

No one ever dreamed of being out at night in those parts if he could possibly help it. The roads were wretchedly bad, full of deep ruts and big stones, with ditches inconveniently exposed on either side, and bushes jutting out from the adjoining woods in the most awkward manner for the traveller.

But it was not the badness of the roads which deterred people from moving about at night, or towards evening, but something much worse, namely the strange and terrible beings who frequented the locality.

All kinds of rumours were current with respect to witch meetings, and gatherings held by wicked creatures, upon which, if a mortal man of ordinary mould happened to come, he ran a terrible risk of some dreadful misfortune happening to him and his, shortly afterwards.

Cottages were few and far between: there was scarce a public house to be found in the neighbourhood, save one or two which had an evil reputation as the haunt of smugglers and outlawed men.

No gentleman's house was near, and Bilsington Priory had passed away with all its holy train of priests, and nothing was to be seen of their former glory, and no vestige of themselves either, unless it was true that a monk walked occasionally round the walls with ghostly tread, and moaned, deeply and sadly, as he compared the past with the present. In short, it was a wild, weird country, and wild, weird people dwelt there.

From Aldington Knoll, right away down to the other side of Ham-street, the thick woods contained a class of beings who, if they lived there nowadays, would be a horror to all Christian men, and an intolerable nuisance to the Kent County Constabulary. There were, however, honest men there, as everywhere else; and, although for the most part such people preferred to dwell nearer Mersham-street or immediately below the church, yet the scattered cottages further south were not altogether without inmates, who, having nowhere else to live, lived there.

John Gower was one of these, a respectable middle-aged man, who won his bread by the sweat of his brow, and was proud of the name of a Kentish labourer.

John had married early in life, lost his wife after the birth of their fourth child, and remained a widower ever since. Although he could neither read nor write, he was blessed with good common sense, and was able to give his children plain and sensible advice, which might serve them, he said, in as good stead as book-learning, if they would only lay it to heart and act upon it.

His eldest girl, Mary, was as good a girl as you would meet in a day's journey. She had her good looks (as most Mersham girls have), but she had that which is even better than good looks, an even temper and a good disposition. She was about seventeen when our story begins; her brother Jack, between fifteen and sixteen, was away at work "down in the sheers" (shires), as the neighbours called all other counties but their own; and two little ones, Jane, under fourteen, and Billy, just twelve, were at home, the former helping her sister as well as she could, and the latter doing such odd jobs as could be found for him, and doing no more mischief than a boy of his age could help.

The cottage in which they lived was very near the big woods—too near to be pleasant for anyone who feared witches or wizards—and it must be confessed that John Gower was not without his fears.

He had various horse-shoes nailed up about his premises to keep the evil creatures off, and he carefully barred his doors and windows every night, not knowing what might happen if any of them were left open. He could tell of strange cries heard in the woods at night, and if you suggested that they might proceed from owls, he shook his head sadly and gravely, as one who knew better, and grieved over your doubting spirit.

But in spite of his fears and precautions, and the strange locality in which he lived, Gower could not be called otherwise than a cheerful man. He worked all day, got home as soon as he could, was pleasant and happy with his children (of whom he was very fond), and was certainly of a contented disposition, and one who made the best of the world and took things as he found them.

Such was he and such was his family at the time that the occurrences took place which I am about to relate.

Some years before the date at which our story commences, there had lived at the extreme south of the parish of Mersham a woman of the name of Betty Bartlet. She was not only a reputed witch, but the fact of her being so was testified to by a great number of credible witnesses who had either suffered in their own persons from her evil power, or had seen and heard things which could not have been had she been an ordinary and Christian woman.

She lived to a very great age—nobody knew exactly how old she was when she died; and, although the rumours respecting her career caused the clergyman of the Parish to entertain serious doubts as to the course he should pursue, she was eventually carried to Mersham churchyard to be therein interred.

But if I am correctly informed—and I obtained my information from highly respectable people—there were strange and terrible doings at her funeral.

She was carried on a waggon, from the cottage in which she had breathed her last, as far as the bridge over the river Stour, which flows, as all the world knows, a few hundred yards south of the church. There, from some unknown cause, the horses would not cross the bridge; and it was told me that they seemed quite exhausted with the short journey—little over three miles—which they had performed.

So the people unharnessed them from the waggon, placed all that remained of old Betty on the shoulders of eight stout bearers, and marched forward towards the churchyard. But not only was their burden wondrously heavy, but it seemed to grow heavier as they went on, and they had the greatest difficulty in making their way up the short hill, and so round to the right towards the churchyard. And just before they got to the gate, why or wherefore nobody could tell, one of the bearers stumbled, and in doing so tripped up another, and down came the whole concern with a great crash upon the ground. Everything connected with their burden suddenly disappeared: a vast cloud of black dust arose and blew all over the place, and out of the dust flew a great black bird, with a strange and awful croak, with which it terribly frightened the bystanders and bearers, as it flew off directly in the contrary direction to the churchyard.

What happened immediately afterwards Farmer Barrett never heard, or, at least, he never told me, but nobody ever doubted that the old witch had flown off in the shape of the black, fearsome bird, being unable to enter the holy ground of the churchyard. Be this as it may, the ancient woman left behind her three daughters, who had all inherited their mother's wickedness, and were witches every one of them. Their actual names were Betty, Jane, and Sarah, but they were popularly known as Skinny, Bony, and Humpy, the two elder sisters being thin and gaunt, whilst the youngest was shorter, and had a species of hump between her shoulders.

Every one in Mersham, and, for the matter of that, in the adjoining parishes also, knew these three sisters by sight, and avoided them as much as possible. No conceivable misfortune ever happened in that neighbourhood that was not attributed to their influence, and all that went wrong was immediately laid at their door.

The sisters were well aware of the awe with which the neighbours regarded them, and took good care that it should not diminish, never losing an opportunity of frightening those simple people with whom they came in contact. They lived in a long, low cottage—scarcely worthy of the name of cottage—so miserable was it both as regards the outside building and the inside accommodation. The roof was of thatch, and the dwelling itself was at one end built of Kentish rag-stone, but badly constructed, and all the rest of it was composed entirely of wood, and apparently afforded but poor shelter against wind and rain.

The women lived mostly at the stone-built end of their house, for there was their kitchen, such as it was; but very little was known of the interior of this place, inasmuch as nobody came near it who could possibly go another way. It was situate, however, barely half a mile from John Gower's cottage, a fact which caused him and his no little annoyance, inasmuch as the three Crones of Mersham, as they were usually called, were not the best of neighbours, and never very particular as far as other people's property was concerned.

Now John Gower had a great number of relations; in fact there was and is an old proverb in his native parish, to the effect that "if you know the Gowers, you know all Mersham;" and certainly the knowledge would to this day make you acquainted with a large quantity of people.

They were none of them rich relations, certainly, unless you might have applied that adjective to the wife of a certain Farmer Long who lived a few miles off, and whose husband might certainly be said to be thriving.

Sally Long was a stout, comfortable-looking dame, who could not fairly have found fault if you had called her fat, but who, unlike most fat people, was not gifted with the best of tempers. If all reports were true, she led her husband rather a life of it, and scolded pretty equally all her household. She had no children, and her husband's son by a former wife being a trifle weak in the head, and for that reason generally known by the name of "Simple Steenie," there was no one to dispute her authority in house, yard or farm.

These worthy people lived in the parish of Aldington, and although John Gower was no looker after dead men's shoes, and a man who would have scorned to bow down before any one for the sake of their wealth, he thought it was but right and fair towards his children to encourage them to maintain friendly relations with his distant cousin, Dame Long.

She had noticed the children more than once, when they were quite little things; and when a woman of a certain age, with no children of her own, notices the children of other people, who happen to be her own relations, there is no telling what may come of it. So the boys had orders to take their caps off and the girls to drop a respectful curtsey whenever they passed Mrs. Long, and any little act of civility which they could possibly perform was never forgotten.

Now it happened that someone, many years ago, had given to the Gower family a very particular cat. When I use the word "particular," I do not mean to imply a very strict or fastidious cat, but one that was particular in the sense of being different from the general run of cats, which was certainly true of this individual cat.

She was jet black, which you will say is not at all uncommon; but Farmer Barrett always maintained that no cats that he ever heard of were so jet and so glossy as the Gower cats. She was a magnificent animal: her whiskers unusually long, her tail splendidly bushy, her body beautifully and symmetrically made, and her head, in size, shape, and the intelligence which was displayed upon her face, little short of perfection.

This cat lived until a great age, and nobody exactly knew when or where it died. To tell the truth there was always a legend in the Gower family that it never did die, at least not in their cottage, but that it disappeared on the very day of old Betty Bartlet's death.

I do not know—for Farmer Barrett could not tell me, though I asked him more than once—how they connected the two events, but nevertheless they had this legend, if so I may call it.

But whatever happened to this cat, of one thing there is certainly no doubt, namely, that during her lifetime she several times went through the ceremony of kittening, and that her race seemed by no means likely to be extinct. Her kittens were always black, always very glossy and always remarkably clever and intelligent, and people were always glad to get a kitten of the Gower breed.

So when, upon a fine summer's morning, one of the descendants of the famous animal of which I have spoken was found by John Gower with a little family of four kittens around her, he and his children were not displeased at the addition to their household. And when, after a few days, one of these kittens appeared to be developing into an animal more comely and more sprightly than the rest, the worthy man thought it would be a proper and becoming compliment upon his part if he made a present of it to good Mrs. Long.

So he told Mary that she should take it up in a little basket the very next day, give his "duty" to "old aunt Sally" (for so they called her in the cottage when they spoke of her among themselves, though it was always "Mrs. Long" when they spoke to her) and ask her acceptance of the gift. Mary made her preparations accordingly. She could not go up to the farm in the morning, for she had the rooms to "do," the house to sweep, father's dinner to get ready and carry to him, and a number of little jobs to get done which it was necessary to finish before she could feel herself at liberty to go out.

At last, however, every duty seemed to have been discharged, as is always the case, at some time or other, if people will only set themselves at work to do resolutely that which they have before them to do, instead of sitting down with folded hands and sighing over the prospect of it.

It must have been between three and four o'clock in the afternoon when Mary found that she could get away with a clear conscience. Then she put on her little straw hat, donned her grey cloak, put the kitten in a little basket with a little hay for it to lie on, and called her brother Billy to come with her, wisely thinking this the most likely way to keep him out of mischief.

It was a truly glorious afternoon, such as an English summer's afternoon often is.

"Talk to me about foreign countries," as Farmer Barrett often used to say, snapping his fingers audibly, "that for your furrineerers; there an't no land like old England, to my mind;" and, being myself old and prejudiced, I confess that I am very much of the good old farmer's opinion.

It is very charming, no doubt, to roam through foreign lands, and there is doubtless much to admire. When I shut my eyes and muse over beautiful views that I have seen, many such come back to me with pleasing memories.

I see the sparkling Rhine with castle-crowned heights, and scenery world-worshipped for its varied beauty; I gaze with a delight tempered with awe upon the mighty snow-clad mountains of life-breathing Switzerland; I sit upon the shores of the sea of seas, the Mediterranean, and I cast my eyes upon its waters of eternal blue; and, most wonderful sight of all, I stand upon the plateau opposite the Cascatelle at Tivoli, and, with the waterfall and town on one side, Adrian's Villa nestling below on the left, and the hills behind, look out over the vast Campagna with its ever-changing lights, see Rome—grand, glorious Rome—in the far distance, and feel carried out of myself and away from all ideas of mere earth and earthly things as I lose all individuality of being in the absorbing contemplation of a beauty so divinely sublime.

And then—as the magic power of thought enables me to move faster than railroads, steamers, or electric telegraphs—I suddenly transport myself to a quiet, homely, English scene upon a summer's afternoon; and I think to myself that neither the Rhine, Switzerland, nor Italy can produce anything more pleasing to the eye, more soothing to the senses, or more entirely enjoyable to any person capable of enjoyment, and not given to despise the beauties of scenery merely because they can be seen at home without hurrying off to foreign lands.

MARY AND BILLY MEET THE CRONES.—P. 305

Such a summer's afternoon fell on this particular day of which we are now speaking. There was hardly a breath of air, but the woods having got their shady green dress on, kept off the heat of the sun from the traveller on the road which intersected them. It was very warm, though, and very still; and you might hear the voices of the woodland birds, singing in notes which seemed somewhat subdued, as if the heat forbade the songsters to exert themselves to their full strength.

But, warm as it was, there was a very pleasant feeling in the air. Nature seemed to be basking in the sun and thoroughly enjoying herself—the rabbits hopped across the road as quietly as if there were no such things as weasels in the world, and keepers had never existed: the old jay flitted heavily from tree to tree, her hard note softened down to a low guttural sound—all insect life was on the move, and every living being seemed to delight in the genial weather.

Of course, under these circumstances, Mary and Billy Gower did not walk very fast. On the contrary, they rather dawdled, for Billy saw now and then a butterfly, now and then a birds' nest, and was constantly tempted to leave the road and dive into the woods on either side, whilst his sister did not like to hurry on and leave him, and saw no reason for particular haste.

They passed along for some way without adventure, until Aldington Knoll came in sight, although they were still in the shady lanes of their own parish. Then, on turning a corner, they came suddenly upon two figures approaching them from the opposite direction, that is to say, as if they had come from Aldington Knoll. The children needed no second glance to tell them that they were in the presence of two of the Mersham crone. "Lanky" and "Skinny" were the lovely pair whom they had the good fortune thus to meet, and the children felt by no means comfortable when they saw them. Mary, indeed, being now seventeen, and hardly to be deemed a child any longer, felt no babyish fear at the sight of the old women. She was, as I have said, a good sort of girl, and one who tried to do her duty; and she had a feeling within her (as such people generally have) that as long as she did so, no great harm would be allowed to happen to her.

But, as for little Billy, who had occasionally been threatened, when naughty, that he should be given to the crones, he could by no means be restrained from great manifestations of fear. He trembled greatly as soon as he saw the two, clutched hold of his sister's gown, and begged her to turn back and run away, as they were still forty or fifty yards from the old women. This, however, would have been contrary to Mary's sense of right.

She had been sent by her father to perform a certain duty, and that duty, come what would, she meant to discharge, unless prevented by superior force. So she trudged on steadily along the road, and her brother accompanied her, probably because he thought it the least of two evils, and was too much terrified to run away. As they neared the two crones, they could not but feel that there was nothing either prepossessing or agreeable in the appearance of the latter.

Their clothes were untidy and ill-fitting: each had a kind of hood half drawn over her head; but not sufficiently so as to conceal her decidedly ugly features, whilst a certain wild, haggard look, which sat upon their faces, was anything but calculated to put the traveller at his ease. They walked, or rather crawled, along one side of the road, and close behind them followed a gaunt cat, which, if formerly black, was now gray with age, and which wore upon its face the same haggard look which was so plainly discernible upon those of the hags themselves.

Mary and Billy walked quietly on, and were just passing these strange beings, and really beginning to hope they might be allowed to do so without interruption, when they were suddenly pulled up by the harsh voice of the crone nearest to them, who called out "Stop!" in a voice harsher than the croak of a raven, but with such a tone of authority that no thought of disobeying her entered the head of either of those she addressed even for a single moment.

"Stop, young people!" she said a second time; "whither away so fast this afternoon?"

Mary civilly replied, "We are going up to Farmer Long's, ma'am; father sent us."

"Ah!" replied the crone; "going up to Farmer Long's for father, are ye, my chickens? Fine times, forsooth, when John Gower's children go visiting instead of minding their business at home. But pray, what have you got in that basket, my pretty Minnikin?"

"Only a kitten, ma'am, that father is going to give to Aunt Sal—I mean to Mrs. Long," replied the girl.

"Only a kitten!" cried the other crone, who had not yet spoken; "only a kitten, indeed! and how does John Gower the labourer have kittens to give away, I should like to know? Our poor old Grimalkin here has lost a kitten lately—I wonder whether this can be the same, strayed over to John Gower's house. If he had a kitten to give away, he might have thought of his poor neighbours, methinks, instead of the rich farmer's wife!"

When Mary heard these words she begin to tremble for the safety of her kitten, for as I have already remarked, the Crones of Mersham were not famous for distinguishing clearly between other people's property and their own.

So she made reply very quickly in these words: "Please, ma'am, this kitten can't be your cat's, because we've known it ever since it was born, and its mother too, and it has never been out of our charge yet."

"No matter, no matter," said the crone in a testy voice; "let me see it, and I shall soon know all about it."

Mary did not dare refuse, nor would it have been of much use if she had done so.

The crone stretched out her long, skinny hand, and lifting the basket-lid, saw the little black kitten; which, immediately that it saw her, crouched down in the corner of the basket and uttered a low moaning sound.

"Poor little thing!" said the old hag. "Poor little thing! I can hardly see it so. Look, sister Jane!" and the other crone came and peered also into the basket, whilst the kitten continued to crouch and moan.

"The very image of our grimalkin, I do declare!" cried the second crone after a moment. "It must be hers—there can be no doubt at all about it."

So saying, she put her hand down and stroked the back of the kitten, as if about to take it out of the basket.

As soon as she touched it, however, the little animal, young as it was, appeared to go into a paroxysm of fear and fury; it growled and spit, made as if it would spring out of the basket, and suddenly inflicted a severe scratch on the hand which was about to seize it.

The old woman's face immediately became distorted with rage, and as she hastily withdrew her hand, she fixed her eyes steadily upon the kitten, muttering at the same time some words which the children could not understand, but which sounded in their ears like anything but a prayer. Neither of the crones, however, tried further to interfere with the kitten, but begged of the children to give them money, saying that they were nearly starving.

Billy of course had nothing, and Mary only a penny, but she thought it best to give that for fear of being bewitched if she refused; so, sorrowfully enough, the poor child drew out her only coin and placed it in the hand of one of the hags, who grinned frightfully by way of thanks, and allowed the children to proceed on their way—although before they did so they could not help noticing the strange conduct of grimalkin, who threw herself on the side of the road, turned over and over, grinned like a Cheshire cat, and appeared to be convulsed with laughter at all that had occurred.

Mary and Billy, however, glad to have got away from the old women, hurried forward towards Farmer Long's dwelling.

But now the conduct of the kitten became inexplicable. Up to the time of their meeting the crones, it had behaved like a decent little animal of tender years, nestling quietly in its basket, and giving no trouble to anybody.

It now took quite a different course. It moaned and whined as if it wanted to get out—it pushed against the basket, first on one side and then on the other, as if trying to force its way through, and behaved in all respects as if it was a mad kitten,—although, as I never saw a mad kitten, I am not sure how they do behave exactly—but this was Farmer Barrett's expression, and a man of his years and experience was not likely to be wrong.

But more than this, although the kitten was young and small, and had therefore been very light and easy to carry, scarcely had the children passed the crones than its weight seemed to increase vastly, and it became four times as heavy as before, until poor Mary's arm quite ached with carrying it.

Billy, seeing her trouble, advised her to turn it out into the woods; but Mary would not do this, being determined to obey her father's orders, so she trudged steadily on until they came to the farm to which they had been sent.

There they asked if Mrs. Long was at home, and were presently ushered into the presence of that good lady, to whom they told the object of their visit. She received them very graciously, and expressed herself much pleased with John Gower's attention in sending her the kitten, saying that she had always desired to have one of that breed.

They opened the basket, and she was going to take the creature out, when it looked her straight in the face, and she drew back her hand at once.

"Lawkes! child!" she said to Mary; "how the thing's eyes do shine! Like live coals of fire, I do declare. I never seen such eyes in all my born days, that I never did!"

As she spoke, the kitten saved her the trouble of removing it from the basket by jumping out of its own accord on to the table, where it sat glowering at the party, and making a low noise between a purr and a growl, until Mrs. Long brought it some milk, with which it proceeded to regale itself, and the children, having had a slice of cake each, and been duly charged with the good lady's thanks to their father, took their departure, and reached the cottage without further adventure.

Now I verily believe that the doings of that kitten at Farmer Long's farm were of such a wonderful and unheard of character that a whole book, and a very amusing book, too, might be written about them. But people did not write many books in those days, and Farmer Barrett could not recollect many particulars about this part of his story. At all events, there can be no doubt (to use his own expression) that the animal's "tantrums" were extraordinary; the cream was constantly devoured, and the best cream-jug broken on one occasion, in order to get at it; the milk was for ever being upset; the marks of dirty paws were daily to be seen on clean table cloths, or on the counterpanes of beds just made, and, in short, just wherever they ought not to be.

Mrs. Long's best cap, having mysteriously disappeared one afternoon, was seen in the kitten's clutches upon the hearthrug, a perfect wreck of a cap, and useless for ever afterwards. Then the perverse little animal appeared to entertain a strong and marked partiality for young ducks and chickens, which she ruthlessly murdered whenever she could lay her paws upon them, neglecting to touch any of the rats upon which her energies might have been much more beneficially employed.

Day by day depredations were committed, all of which were attributed to the kitten, and most of which were probably perpetrated by her. From the moment of her arrival at the farm, nothing seemed to prosper with the Longs.

Everything turned out just the reverse way to that which they had hoped, and it really seemed as if some evil spell had been cast upon them. Looking calmly back upon the whole history, I have no doubt at all but that the crones had bewitched the kitten when they met the children on that memorable afternoon, and that to this must be attributed all that afterwards occurred.

However this may be, it was certainly an unlucky day for the Longs when that kitten came upon their premises, and that they very soon found out.

Still, people do not always put the saddle upon the right horse immediately, and they did not at first believe that the animal had anything to do with their ill-luck. Mrs. Long, however, who had an eye to business, could not stand the constant inroad upon her ducks and chickens, to say nothing of the cream-jug, and the loss of her cap very nearly brought matters to a climax.

She might perhaps, however, have borne it a little longer, had not an event occurred which was really beyond anybody's bearing. One morning, when the worthy couple were at breakfast, the kitten calmly jumped on to the table, seized a piece of bacon which the farmer was about to place upon his own plate, and deliberately carried it off.

After this it was quite evident that she must be got rid of. No man can stand being robbed of his breakfast in such a barefaced manner, and the good farmer spoke up pretty strongly on the subject. As the breed was supposed to be a particularly good one, he did not order the animal to be killed, nor indeed would he have ventured to do so unless his wife had especially wished it, but he expressed himself in forcible terms as to the desirability of its quitting his premises with as little delay as possible.

Mrs. Long had by this time become so entirely of the same opinion, that she resolved to take immediate steps to carry out the joint views of her husband and herself. She accordingly directed that the cart should be got ready the same afternoon, and that Tom the Bailiff should drive her down to Mersham, where she determined to restore the kitten to the Gowers with her own hands.

Accordingly, at the appointed time the cart was brought round, old Dapple, the steady pony, was in it, and Tom prepared to drive. Mrs. Long got in, and the kitten, who had shown an unwonted and marvellous docility in submitting to be placed once more in a basket, was safely deposited in her lap.

Off they went, out of the farmyard into the lane, and taking a turn which brought them near to Aldington Knoll, descended towards the woods through which runs the road from Mersham and Aldington to the canal, and so away across Romney Marsh to Dymchurch.

You must understand that Tom and his mistress were heading away from the canal, only they had come into that road in order to reach the lower part of Mersham, in which was situate John Gower's cottage. So when they came past Aldington Knoll, and descended the hill, the marsh road led back to the left, nearly parallel with that from which they came, whilst they pushed straight forward along the road through the woods.

As soon as they got well into the wood, or rather, into the road on each side of which the wood was wide and thick, old Dapple began to show visible signs of uneasiness. He swerved first on one side of the road, and then on the other, abandoning all the good, quiet habits of a respectable middle-aged pony, and behaving much more like a giddy young colt who had never been broken to harness.

Tom the Bailiff who was a simple country lout, did not know what to make of it, and was both confused and frightened when his mistress began to tell him that it was only his bad driving. But this was evidently not the case. Dapple wanted very little driving at all, and the best "whip" in the world could not have kept him straight when he was in the mood which seemed now to have possessed him. Another cause also disquieted good Mrs. Long.

The kitten began to fidget in her basket in a most unaccountable way, and to give vent to various discordant sounds, whilst the weight upon the good lady's knees, as the basket had been on Mary's arm, was really unpleasantly heavy.

They managed to get through the wood somehow or other, until they were well out of the parish of Aldington and had entered that of Mersham. Here all their troubles increased—the kitten's struggles were more violent than before, and Dapple became perfectly unmanageable, until all at once they perceived a large black cat upon one side of the road, which suddenly darted in front of the cart, and so startled the pony that he shied quite across the road, brought the wheel of the cart over the side of the ditch, and in another moment it was overset and its occupants were tumbled into the brambles and bushes with which the ditch was choked.

Had it been winter, or had there been much rain lately, poor Mrs. Long would probably have been drowned, or at best would only have escaped with a severe ducking. As it was, the principal risk of life or limb she ran was from the kicking of the pony and as Dapple was too fat to indulge in any great manifestations of this kind, she was tolerably safe from personal injury.

But a stout woman overturned into a ditch full of brambles, is, after all, a pitiable object, and is not likely to be improved either in temper or in appearance by the event. So as soon as the good lady could scramble up into a sitting position she began to abuse everybody and everything to the best of her ability, which was not inconsiderable when applied to such an attempt. She told Tom he should certainly "get the sack" as soon as they got home; she declared Dapple was old and worn out, and only fit to draw the dung-cart in future, and she abused the kitten in no measured terms.

But where was the kitten? In the tumble and scrimmage, the lid of the basket had come off, and the animal had disappeared. Disappeared, however, only for a moment, for Tom the bailiff suddenly exclaimed in a terrified voice,—

"Look'ee, missis, do look'ee now—there be our kitten sure-ly!" and casting up her eyes, Mrs. Long beheld—or at least so she always declared to her dying day—the kitten, seated upon the back of the large black cat which had been the cause of their disaster, and which was now careering full tilt down the road with this rider upon it.

The old lady, being brave as she was stout (which is saying a great deal) felt nothing but rage when she saw what had happened, not only at the impudence of the cat, but because this occurrence threw a light upon the past, and at once opened her eyes to the truth, and disclosed the reason of the kitten's abominable behaviour at the farm.

After a moment's pause she broke out in great wrath:

"It's them crones!" she cried in loud and excited tones. "It's them crones, or some like 'em! That kitten's been bewitched—that's what come to it, Tom, you may depend upon't. Drat them witches!" Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when she shrieked loudly—"Ah-a-ah!"

"What's the matter, missis?" said Tom.

"Why," replied she, "something scratched me;" and pointing to her arm, the sleeve around which had been pushed up high in her struggles to sit upright, there indeed was a long, red scratch as if inflicted by the nail of a hand or the claw of an angry cat.

To be sure, a lady who is seated in the middle of a bed of brambles cannot be expected to escape unscratched, and no supernatural agency need be invoked in order to produce such a misfortune. Still Mrs. Long always declared that this was no bramble scratch, and coming as it did at the very moment when she was speaking strongly against the witches, there could be very little doubt as to the source from which the injury really came. However, witches or no witches, it was impossible to sit all the livelong afternoon in a ditch full of brambles, so with much difficulty and many struggles, Mrs. Long contrived to get up, and Tom the Bailiff having looked to Dapple, found there was no very serious damage done either to him or to the cart. So they righted the latter, and having got into it, proceeded on their journey.

True it was that there was now no kitten to take back to the Gowers, but the farmer's wife was determined to let them know the extraordinary manner in which the animal had conducted itself, and had a great dislike to turning back without reaching the place for which she had started. So she directed Tom to drive on along the cross road which leads from the Aldington woods to Bilsington, and comes out into the main road from Mersham to Romney Marsh. At that point, if you turn to the left you can go to the Marsh, or to Ruckinge and Orlestone by a road which lies a little further south, and if you turn to the right, you pass through the end of the great range of woods which occupy so much of that district, and presently come from Bilsington into Mersham.

Of course it was to the right that Mrs. Long turned, having made a kind of half-circle round Bilsington Priory, which was thus at her right hand all the time.

It is necessary to be thus particular, in order that no innocent parish may be wrongfully suspected of having harboured the strange and wicked creatures whose power was almost entirely confined to parts of Mersham, Bilsington and Aldington, and some parishes further west on the borders of the Marsh. A good name is a great possession, and the adjacent parishes of Sevington, Hinxhill, Smeeth and Sellinge have always been so free from the worst class of witches that, in writing of this neighbourhood, one wishes to be precise.

After they had turned to the right, as I say, a short mile brought our travellers to John Gower's cottage; but before they reached it, they had to pass within a hundred yards or so of the abode of the crones, to which a very little-frequented by-road led, branching off from the road on which they were driving. It showed courage in Mrs. Long to take this route, especially after what had happened, but she was naturally a bold woman, and perhaps she thought that the witches had probably done all that they cared to do in having overturned her cart once, and stolen her kitten.

Be this as it may, she reckoned without her host, for Dapple, who had been quiet enough since the accident, began to grow restive again as they neared the part of the road which I have mentioned, and, when within fifty yards of it, suddenly stopped and refused to move an inch.

Tom the Bailiff laid the whip over the pony's back with a will, but the only effect was to make him rear and back, so that they were in imminent danger of a disaster similar to the first. Then, to make matters worse, there arose a cloud of fog before them, which was so thick they could see nothing, and had a disagreeable smell of smoke about it. Whence or wherefore it came they could not tell, for the sun was still high in the heavens and the sky above their heads clear and blue.

It was evident that something evil was at hand and at work, and neither Mrs. Long nor her servant knew what to make of it.

Presently the good lady called out angrily, "How dare you pinch my arm, Tom?" and gave a short, sharp scream as she said so.

"Oh, don't, please don't, missis!" cried the man at the same moment, as a hand hit him a cruel box on the ear.

It need scarcely be said that neither of the occupants of the cart had touched the other; but the matter did not end there. Pinches, pushes, scratches, thumps, hair-pulling, and kicking began to a most extraordinary extent.

No one could be seen, but invisible hands assailed both Mrs. Long and Tom so fiercely and so vigorously, that they both shouted aloud with pain and terror, whilst, as if in answer to their cries, hoarse chuckles and deep bursts of laughter rang in their astonished ears, although no human being of any description was to be seen.

Never was there a more unpleasant experience than that which the worthy pair underwent, and how it would have ended I really cannot say, but for an unlooked-for and fortunate event.

All of a sudden the pinching and beating ceased, the laughter came to an end, and the fog or cloud disappeared, as it had come, by magic, as a cheery voice shouted out, close at hand,—

"Halloo! who is this making such a noise in the road. My good people, it is too bad that you should let drink get the better of you in this way!"

Glancing indignantly round, they beheld no less a person than the worthy rector of Mersham himself, riding upon a stout gray cob, and evidently coming home from some expedition to the further extremity of his parish.

Mrs. Long knew not what reply to make, but as soon as she recovered herself sufficiently, she answered the appeal.

"I am sure, sir, there is no call to say a word about drink, to which some folk lays everything that happens, be it what it will. But if you'd keep your parish clear of these here witches, you'd find things go a good deal better!"

The clergyman gravely shook his head.

"You must know, my good woman," he replied, "that there are no such beings as witches, and you ought not to wrong elderly and respectable females by using such terms. There is nobody here, and nothing to hinder your journey. I am quite ashamed to see you stopping your cart in the middle of the road and quarrelling as has evidently been the case. Take my advice, and get home as fast as you can." So saying, the good man passed the cart and began to trot gently on.

Dapple, as if his difficulties were suddenly over, and his objections to advance removed, immediately started after the rector's cob, and thus they passed the dreaded by-road without further trouble. But to her dying day, Mrs. Long always declared that she was sure they never would have got past if the rector hadn't come along just when he did. This shows the great and proper respect for the clergy which then existed, and is, moreover, a proof that Mrs. Long was a decent and respectable woman, whose word may be taken as establishing beyond doubt the truth of the events which I have undertaken to relate. But it lay heavy on her soul, for many a long day, that the reverend man should have thought she had been drinking, and made her more than ever angry with the crones whose wicked dealings had caused such an imputation to rest upon her.

The rector had trotted briskly on, and was before long out of sight, but the cart was soon close to John Gower's cottage, between which and the road was a bit of waste land; it might be as much as two or three perches in size, for in those days every strip of land was not enclosed as it is now-a-days, but there were plenty of green patches by the side of the roads, and in many places you could ride on grass for miles together.

It is very different now, and although it may be said on the one hand that we travel faster, witches are not heard of, and England is richer than in those days; yet I often say to Jack Barrett that I think there were a good many pleasant things in the old times, especially in country life, which we do not get now, and for my part I should not mind having them back again, even with a few witches here and there with them, provided we could get rid of some of the strange new-fangled ideas and curious goings on which we have got instead, and which are much worse for all of us, than a witch or two or even a stray wizard. Well, Mrs. Long told Tom the Bailiff to drive upon this bit of waste as near to the garden gate of John Gower's cottage as he could manage to get, and then down she scrambled and went into the house. John had not yet come home from his work, though he was expected every moment; but Mary received her guest with much civility, for she was a good-mannered girl, and knew how to behave to her betters.

So she did the honours of the house, whilst her sister and Billy sat still and listened. Mrs. Long was, as you may suppose, not exactly in the best of humours, nor was her dress in precisely that condition in which ladies like their dresses to be when they go out visiting. You cannot be overturned into a ditch, scratched, pinched, hustled, and pushed, without some little disarrangement of your attire, and Mrs. Long's dress consequently required a good deal of "putting tidy," in which Mary Gower assisted her to the best of her ability. Whilst doing so, she listened to the account of all that had occurred since the day upon which she and Billy had left the kitten at the farm, and, upon being questioned by Mrs. Long as to the possible cause of its behaviour, she told her of their having met the two crones as I have described.

The farmer's wife then said that, had she known the circumstances, she would have had nothing to do with the kitten; but that she did not blame Mary for not having told her, as of course she had not suspected that there was anything wrong with the animal. As she spoke, in came John Gower from his work, and to him the whole story was soon told.

John expressed his great regret at what had happened, and went so far as to offer the farmer's wife another kitten, but, under the circumstances, she deemed it better to decline the offer; and, presently afterwards departed, taking good care to avoid the road by which she had come, and turning up instead by the road, at the corner of which the "Good Intent" public-house now stands; by which means she kept to the north of the big woods, and got safely home. Her adventure, however, made no little talk in the neighbourhood, and people shook their heads, gravely and wisely, whenever the matter was mentioned. Mrs. Long herself was so angry at the disrespectful manner in which she had been treated, and the unjust suspicion that had been raised in the clergyman's breast, that she could by no means be satisfied to rest quiet.

Before taking any steps, however, to get matters set right, she determined to make an expedition to Brabourne, where lived a wise woman named Goody Flaskett, from whom she obtained sundry charms against witchcraft, with which she decorated herself, in order that she might be able to speak and act against witches with impunity. Thus armed, she never lost an opportunity of doing both the one and the other; and I suppose the charms must have had a certain power, because Farmer Barrett declared that the good woman, when she had them on, never felt any of those strange scratches from invisible hands which she had experienced when speaking against witches on the occasion already mentioned.

Still, say and do what she would, the power of the Mersham crones did not seem to be diminished. They seldom appeared all three together, but might be said, generally, to "hunt in couples," although sometimes they were met singly, but hardly ever without a great black cat.

The kitten was never again seen by its former owners, but in all probability had been taken by the crones to form one of the guardian cats by which they were thus attended.

Petty thefts abounded in the neighbourhood, and no one suffered from them more than Farmer Long, although his farm was at a considerable distance from the cottage of the crones.

At last things got so bad that the farmer really thought he could stand it no longer. So one day, after the disappearance of a fine lamb from one of his fields, when the crone Humpy had shortly before been seen in the immediate proximity of the flock, and one man went so far as to say he had seen her driving a lamb before her in the road, the farmer boldly applied to the nearest justice of the peace for a warrant to search the cottage.

There was some little difficulty in the matter, owing to the circumstance that old Finn, the Mersham constable, positively declined for some time to go near the place, but upon being encouraged by the parish constable of Smeeth, bold Joe Worrell, who offered to go with him, they proceeded to perform their duty, accompanied by the farmer.

Mrs. Long had gone to Dymchurch that day for a breath of sea air, so that he knew she would not be uneasy about him, and deemed it but right to back up the officers of justice, whom he met by appointment at the foot of Collier's Hill in Mersham, and they advanced together. But the road appeared to be endless, for although it could not be much more than two miles, if so much, to the cottage, it seemed as if they would never get there.

Then, although the weather had been fine, there came on a hailstorm which nearly blinded them, and, notwithstanding that Finn had been born in the parish and the others knew it well, they actually lost their way, and found themselves close to Kingsnorth Church, which everybody knows to be in quite an opposite direction. They hastily retraced their steps, but then it suddenly became dark. Finn and the farmer both had their hats plucked off their heads by invisible hands, and although Worrell was untouched (it being well-known that no witch dare lay hands on a Smeeth man) yet he felt far from comfortable. Determined, however, to do their duty, the men made another attempt, and going round towards Aldington, were about to try and approach that side, when, all darkness having cleared away, they saw at a distance a light in the sky which betokened a fire, and from the direction, it appeared to be burning somewhere very near to Farmer Long's house. This put out of his head altogether the business upon which he was out, and he immediately retraced his steps as fast as possible, accompanied by the constables. When he got near home the flames seemed to have died away, but a heavy smoke hung over the place, and as he approached still nearer a sad sight indeed met his eyes. His stables were utterly burned to the ground, and three valuable horses destroyed, despite every effort to save them. Farmer Long rushed hastily to the spot, but all he found was his poor half-witted son sitting calmly on the grass contemplating the smouldering embers with a vacant expression of countenance.

"What has happened, Stephen lad? Where's Tom? How did all this begin? Who has done it?" were the eager questions of the excited man; but to all of them the youth replied with the stolid indifference of idiocy, "Steenie not know."

Subsequent inquiries proved that two (as usual) of the crones had been seen in the vicinity of the farm that day. As a public road ran very near, this may perhaps be deemed by some to have been slight and inconclusive evidence of their guilt; but it was universally accepted at the time as beyond all doubt connecting them with the affair.

Some few there were who insinuated that the idiot boy had set the stables on fire for amusement, unconscious of the mischief he was doing; but these of course were some of those foolish and obstinate people who always like to differ from the rest of the world, and put forward their own views against those of everybody else. Of course it was the Mersham crones who had done the thing, else why should it have occurred at the very time when Farmer Long was engaged on an expedition, the object of which was to search their cottage? At all events, so entirely convinced upon the subject was the whole neighbourhood, that it was resolved that the matter could not rest there, but must be taken up seriously.

The question was, how to do it? Inquiry before the magistrates appeared useless, for if two constables, and one of them a Smeeth man, too, could not even approach the crones' dwelling, of what avail was it to invoke the authority of the law? The church might be tried, but the rector of Mersham was known to have steadily set his face against any belief in witches, and it was more than probable that no other clergyman would like to interfere in his parish without his knowledge and consent.

Long consultations were held, and wise heads laid together about the business, and at last it was determined to rouse the honest people of the neighbourhood round, most of whom had suffered more or less from the pilfering habits of the crones, and, covered with as many charms and magic tokens as they could obtain from old Goody Flaskett and one or two other wise women who lived near the place, to advance in great numbers against the enemy, in order to try what ducking in a horsepond would do for them. So on one fine afternoon, a great concourse of people, meeting in several parties, bore down from different quarters upon the cottage of the crones.

It was a mellow day in autumn, and hopping was just over at the time when this proceeding took place. John Gower had come home that day to dinner, and a memorable day it was in his family. Mary, Jane, and Billy were all at home and they had just sat down to their homely meal when a low, hurried knocking was heard at the door. At this very moment it so happened that the horse-shoe which was usually nailed over that door had fallen down, owing to one of the nails which supported it having given way, and consequently it lay on the grass near the door instead of hanging in its usual place. Farmer Barrett was always particular in mentioning this circumstance, else, he said, people might think that a horseshoe is not a real protection against witches, whereas it is the best and surest safeguard, only it must be nailed up against a wall or over a door. John bade his son open the door, and as soon as he had done so, they perceived a good-looking young woman leading two others, apparently older than herself, but perfectly blind, whilst on her arm each carried a basket. They were quite strangers to John and his family, and appeared to have walked some way.

"Might we ask to rest awhile in your cottage, good friend?" asked the young woman. "I and my two blind sisters have walked all the way from Ashford to-day, and are bound to Romney."

"Sartainly, ma'am," said John in reply. "But surely this be a long walk for such as ye?"

"Ah!" replied the other, "we should have thought so once, but a cruel landlord has turned us out of our house, these poor afflicted creatures and me, and having relations at Romney we are going there in the only way the poor can travel—on our feet, and we have nothing with us but our tame rabbits, poor creatures, which we always carry in our baskets. We should be very thankful if we might come in for a couple of hours or so."

"By all means," said worthy John, whose simple heart was at once touched by this tale. "Come in, come in by all means," and stepping forward, he helped one of the blind girls over the threshold and they all entered the cottage.

The moment they were inside, Mary's favourite cat, who had been seated by the fireside, intently watching the proceeding, jumped up and sprang through the open window without saying a word to anybody, which indeed, as a respectable but ordinary cat, she was not likely to have done under any circumstances. Mary observed this, and wondered at the animal being so shy of strangers; but nobody made any remark upon the incident, and seats being found for the new comers, they not only sat down, but condescended to share the family dinner, and that with such appetites, that the children of the house themselves came off but second best. John Gower asked several questions which were satisfactorily answered, but he always said afterwards that he never felt quite at home with his visitors, which he put down to their being better educated and of a position apparently somewhat above his own. As they sat and ate and talked, a distant shout was heard, and then another.

"Father, what's that?" asked Billy.

"Oh!" replied Gower, "I expect it's the people out after the crones. I forgot all about it, not being a busy man in such matters, or I ought to have helped my neighbours, perhaps, for those old women are no better than they should be—ah! oh! oh, dear!" and whilst the words were still in his mouth, John Gower jumped up and began to hop about the room upon one leg, having been suddenly seized, he said, with a violent fit of cramp therein.

"What are they going to do with the crones, father?" asked Billy.

"Duck 'em, I expect, boy," replied he; upon which the lad rejoined,—

"Oh, what fun! how I should like to see it!" and almost immediately afterwards burst out crying, saying that he had such a bad pain come in his inside.

Meanwhile more shouting was heard, and not very far off, and presently the door was thrown open, and in came a neighbour, James Firminger by name, and a noted enemy to witches, besides being so worthy and well-thought-of a man that he had more than once been spoken of as fit to be parish churchwarden.

"Neighbour Gower!" he shouted, as he came in, "why ar't not out with the rest of us after the crones? 'Twill be a grand day for Mersham if we get quit of them. But you've got company, I see—bless us, what a smell of sulphur!"

As he spoke, he turned his eyes on the young woman and her two blind companions, and started as he did so. Firminger never went about without some potent witch-charm upon him, which at once protected him from the malice of such creatures, and enabled him to detect them when disguised, and upon this occasion he had nothing less than a relic of the great Kentish saint, Thomas À Becket, being a small piece of the hair-shirt of that holy man, cut off shortly after his death by one of the monks of Canterbury, who happened to be a Firminger, and religiously preserved in the Firminger family ever afterwards.

Naturally, as Farmer Barrett observed, no witch could stand against that, and Firminger was a lucky man to possess it. It was doubtless in consequence, and by virtue of this relic, that as soon as the good man was well inside the cottage, he not only smelt the sulphur which had not been smelt by the family, but saw what was the real character of John Gower's visitors. He took no second look, but shouted aloud, "The crones! the crones!" and seizing the little case in which was his relic in his hands, displayed it openly before them.

The effect was instantaneous. All beauty disappeared from the face of the young woman, her form changed, her countenance shrivelled, and she stood confessed before the party as Humpy, the youngest of the three Crones of Mersham.

No less sudden and complete was the alteration in her two companions, who recovered their sight at once, but together therewith resumed the unpleasant forms and features of Skinny and Bony, the two other sisters of this disreputable family. There was a visible agitation at the same moment in the baskets which the sisters had carried upon their arms, and which they had deposited on the floor upon taking their seats.

The lids shook, the baskets quivered, and in another instant overturned, when out sprang three enormous black cats upon the floor of the room.

With a yell, which seemed to burst simultaneously from the throats of all the crones and all the cats, they rushed out at the door; flying from the charm which James Firminger kept earnestly shaking before their eyes. Out of the door, over the green space in front of the cottage, into the road, and as far and fast as they could get away from the object of their terror.

John Gower and his children sat stupified with mingled surprise and awe for some seconds; and then, jumping from their seats, they all rushed through the door after Firminger; who, having done so, stood still outside, eagerly gazing after the retreating crones. He knew well enough that, if nought had prevented them, the honest people who were out after the witches, would by this time have attacked and harried their home. Whither, then, would they fly?

If they had quitted their cottage ignorant of the coming of their enemies, and only bent on paying John Gower a visit—doubtless intending to do him some mischief or other; it might be that they would hurry home, and encounter the angry mob of people, in which case there would be wild work one way or the other. If, however, as was more probable (and as was generally believed to be the case when the matter was considered afterwards), the three crones had been well aware of the projected attack upon them, and had purposely left home—hoping that they might lie safely hid in the abode of so honest and quiet a man as Gower until the danger was over, then it became a serious question as to what other refuge they would seek, now that they had been so manfully driven from their intended place of safety. The doubts of the lookers-on, however, were soon solved.

A strange thing happened, which would never have been believed in those days, but that Firminger and Gower both solemnly declared it, and which perhaps actually will not be believed in these days of doubt and want of faith, but which I must nevertheless relate as Farmer Barrett told it to me. As soon as they were well on the other side of the road, each crone jumped upon her cat, and the animals, lightly springing over the hedge into the next field, set off full gallop in an easterly direction—or, in other words, heading as straight as a line to Aldington Knoll, well-known in those good old days as the great fortress of witches. That was their point, no doubt, and it looked very much as if they were going to give up Mersham as a bad job, and betake themselves to other and safer quarters.

As soon as Firminger saw the line which the crones took, he turned to Gower and said in a hasty tone, "Come on, mate, this must be seen to at once. Let us join the chaps who are gone to the old cottage as fast as we can, and tell them what we have seen, and all that has happened."

John Gower was too wise a man to hesitate. Had he done so, he knew well enough that he would be suspected of having knowingly harboured the crones, and of being in league with them, a suspicion which would have ruined him for ever in his native parish, and probably driven him from the county.

So he bade Mary mind the house, and keep Jane and Billy at home, and then he set off at best pace with Firminger down the road in the direction of the cottage of the crones. They very soon reached it, and found it surrounded by a number of people, who were engaged in demolishing the premises altogether. They had not found much, probably because there was not much to find; and the owners of the place, as we know, had taken themselves off before the arrival of their unwelcome visitors. But they broke everything they could find, tore down the thatched roof to search for magic charms, none of which they found, but only a number of mice, and a great deal of dust. They pulled to pieces the wooden part of the cottage, and knocked down a great part of the stone corner, counting everything as fair game, as witches' property, and striving their utmost to destroy as much as they possibly could.

There were more than a couple of hundred people, all told, Farmer Barrett believed, and he gave me a great many names, but I forget most of them. There was Bully Robus, of the "Farriers' Arms," I know, and little Dick Broadfoot, the tailor, of Mersham Street, and Bill Parsons, all the way from Warehorne Green. There were Gowers, and Farrances, Sillibournes and Swaflers, Swinerds and Finns—in short, not a family in that or any of the other parishes which was not represented, and they all seemed to vie with each other, which should do the most mischief, and be foremost in pulling down and destroying that evil place.

It was several minutes before James Firminger and John Gower could command the attention of people so eagerly occupied about their business as these witch-seekers, and it would have been still longer, but for the position and character of Firminger, and his known hatred of all that pertained to witchcraft. He presently succeeded in making them listen to the wonders he had to relate, and when they knew for certain what had happened and the direction which the crones had taken, the whole current of their thoughts was turned into one eager desire to follow, and, if possible, to make an end of the inmates of that awful cottage as well as of the abode itself.

They lost no time, therefore, in finishing the work on which they were then engaged, and immediately afterwards the whole party swarmed up the road in the direction of Aldington Knoll, keeping up each other's courage by many brave words, and shouting uncomplimentary epithets with regard to the three crones. So they pushed on until they came to the spot where four roads met; one, that which our party had traversed in walking from the cottage, another bearing back to Bilsington and Ruckinge, a third to Newchurch and the Marsh, and the fourth to Aldington Knoll.

Down this last road the people turned, and then, immediately before them they had the mass of wood upon the side of the hill, which then, as now, encompassed the knoll itself upon the north, west, and south, the ground to the east being somewhat less woody. The knoll—apparently a grass hill, only that the grass being a good deal worn away, showed the bare rock at several places—peered over the woods, and the road to it lay right through the latter for some distance, until by turning into a gate upon your right hand, you entered the field out of which the knoll rose, and from the higher points of which were magnificent views over the Marsh and all the country east, west, and south, the hills behind shutting out the view to the north.

The people were now some three-quarters of a mile from this gate, and, if the truth could be known, I have no doubt whatever that some of them would very gladly have been a great deal further off.

The power of the crones themselves was so well known, and the reputation of Aldington Knoll was so bad, that no one felt sure that some terrible misfortune might not result from braving the one and attacking the other.

They had all heard strange tales of people bewitched, changed into animals, losing their senses, and all kinds of other disagreeable things, and of course such tales would recur to them at such a moment. But there were brave hearts—then as now—among the men of Kent, and although fears and doubts may have been there, they did not operate so as to turn any man back from the work he had undertaken. The people moved down the road towards Aldington, and reached the point at which the woods began. At that moment a loud clap of thunder pealed through the air, and vivid lightning flashed across the sky.

A shudder passed through many a stout frame, but the men pushed boldly on. Then came a severe hailstorm—so severe that the people took shelter beneath the trees, and waited until its violence seemed to be passed.

But none turned back. Then came a bitter, chilling wind, though it had been a lovely, soft, mellow day: the wind cut through the trees with a moaning sound, and pierced the people like a mid-winter blast.

Still they pressed on, knowing that witchcraft was at work, and that retreat would be ruin. They were half-way between the point at which the road entered the woods and the gate before mentioned, when a loud and terrible roaring was heard upon the right, from the woods which stretched up close to the knoll itself. So strange and so dreadful was this sound, that it made the blood of those who heard it run cold, and for a moment the foremost men of the throng paused.

But three men there were in that crowd who neither quailed nor paused for a moment, so resolutely determined were they to carry out the work they had commenced that day. These men were James Firminger, Farmer Long, and old David Finn, the parish clerk of Mersham. The last named knew but little of crones or witches, but tradition said that there always must be a Finn for parish clerk, and that Mersham would not be Mersham without one. This being the case, the old man felt it to be his duty to take such prominent part in an affair like the present as became one of an ancient family, filling an hereditary office.

Therefore, although he knew that the rector would most likely have disapproved of the step he was taking, he had started early that day, and in company with Bully Robus and sundry other notables of the parish, had taken an active part in the proceedings from the beginning.

These three men, then, were not deterred by the roaring, though it much resembled that of wild and savage beasts desiring their prey, and seeing it before their eyes. And when no beasts appeared, and it seemed to be nothing but sound, the rest of the people regained their courage, and all continued to push on towards the gate into the knoll-field. About a hundred yards before they reached it, however, they found that they had to encounter an unexpected obstacle in the shape of several enormous elms which lay stretched across the road in such a manner as to most effectually bar any further progress.

But to the astonishment of all, no sooner had Firminger, Long, and Finn (who were now recognised as the leaders of the expedition) approached close to the barrier, than it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and left the roadway free.

Encouraged by this result, as unexpected as it was satisfactory, the party advanced a few yards farther, to find a great ditch yawning in front of them, and evidently intended to stop their farther advance. On seeing this, Finn rushed to the front, and standing close to the edge of the abyss, pronounced in a loud voice the word "Amen," which he had long held to be the most sacred and powerful form of invocation known to the world, and one which never failed to repel any evil creature to whom it was addressed.

Whether from the effects of his utterance, or from any other reason, I cannot say, but certain it is that as the worthy clerk put one leg forward as if to step into the ditch, it closed up as if it had never been dug, which perhaps was the case. At all events, whether it was a real ditch or only a delusion of the eye, the chasm disappeared altogether, and once more the party proceeded, until they reached the gate of the field, and faced it, about to enter and approach the knoll, which now lay upon their right, the field in which it was situate stretching back into the woods.

On entering the gate, they were at once struck by the novel and curious appearance of the knoll. Smoke appeared to envelope it on all sides, and a deep rumbling proceeded from within it, as if a volcano were at work, and a volcano that meant mischief too. The party paused for a moment, looked at each other and then at the knoll, and began to wonder what they had better do next. Everybody thought that everybody else was stopping quite unnecessarily, but nobody seemed inclined to move on first.

Even the three bold men, Firminger, Long, and Finn, seemed less eager than hitherto, and whispered to each other in low, mysterious tones, that they fancied they saw dark and fearful figures moving about among the smoke in which the knoll was enveloped. It was well known to these men, and indeed to most or all of their companions, that Aldington knoll was reputed to be the abode and principal gathering-place of all the evil creatures in that part of the country.

By common consent men had for a long time past shunned it as a haunted and wicked spot, and it was no common evidence of courage that so many men had been found to approach it upon this occasion. After a few moments, the three men recollected the responsibility of their position, and the absolute certainty that if their party returned home defeated, the neighbourhood would thenceforward be worse off than ever. The crones would never forget the plunder and destruction of their cottage, and would doubtless exact a severe compensation from the perpetrators of that ruthless deed.

Moreover, for a couple of hundred people to have it said that they had been circumvented and beaten by three old women, was a thing not to be thought of; so, shame overcoming their reluctance, they boldly marched forward again, and encouraged their followers to charge up to the very foot of the knoll. They had got quite close to it when, either by accident, or because he pulled it too hard in his nervous fidgeting with it, the string by which James Firminger's relic was tied round his neck suddenly broke, and the charm itself fell to the ground.

Hardly had this occurred, when a yell, most discordant in its tone, but appearing to express a mingled feeling of joy, triumph, fury and revengeful longing all in one, broke from the interior of the mount. The next instant the knoll itself opened wide, just like the mouth of a man preparing for a tremendous yawn, and a whole volley of cinders and ashes came bursting over the approaching party in a most disconcerting and unpleasant manner. At the same time strange and uncouth figures suddenly appeared issuing from the knoll, some with goat's heads and horns, others with the bodies of men but a pig's head, snout and bristles, others like monkeys (but oh! such frightful monkeys as never were seen) and all with eyes that rolled fearfully in their heads and glittered like fire. Conspicuous among this awful band appeared the figures of the three crones, Bony, Skinny, and Humpy, each carrying a broomstick in her hand, and followed by her cat, which bounded forward as if to attack the invaders of the haunted hill. This was more than the latter could stand—they wavered—looked round—tottered a step or two backward, and then, as the cinders, hot cinders too, came upon them and the evil creatures almost touched them, they turned round with one accord, and fled down from the knoll as fast as their legs would carry them. Farmer Long was the first of the three leaders who gave way, for he afterwards declared that he recognized the lost kitten in a cat which seemed to select him as her particular object of attack, and as he ran, he vowed that he felt a scratch which penetrated, sharp and deep, in such a manner that he could not sit down comfortably for a fortnight, and felt perfectly sure that only the claws of that kitten could or would have dealt him such a wound. As for Finn, he so lost his head, that he ran off, bawling out "Amen" continuously at the top of his voice, but in a tone which conveyed so little of the real importance and dignity attaching to the word, that it is little wonder that it had no effect.

James Firminger—as became a man of his character and position—stood his ground longest, but his charm being gone, he felt less confidence, and when he, too, turned and ran, he felt himself belaboured by an invisible stick all the way down to the gate of the field.

Shouts, shrieks and yells of laughter, followed the retreating party, and there was scarcely a man in whose breast, amid all his fears, the thought did not arise that the result of this day's work had turned out to be one so utterly unfortunate for the people, and so triumphant for the crones, that the neighbourhood would have to submit to be witch-ridden for ever after.

But, sometimes, in human affairs, whether those of an individual or a community, at the very moment when things seem to be at their worst, they begin to mend, and that amendment is not unfrequently brought about by some agent which, to the wise and knowing of mankind, would have appeared the most insignificant and the most unlikely to have effected the change. So it was in the present instance. The affrighted people came rushing through the gate, and, avoiding the road through the wood, which was their natural way home, turned in an easterly direction, and ran up the road leading away from the woods, and into the main road leading from Aldington Corner to Hythe. They had run but a very short distance when they came upon the "innocent," simple Steenie Long, sitting on the bank of the road side, apparently looking for flowers. He looked up with a vacant expression upon his face (which I am told was not unusual with idiots in those days) and seemed astonished to see so many people all running in such a hurry.

Several of the party hurried past the boy, too much occupied about providing for their own safety to think either of him or of anybody else. Presently, however, Farmer Long came running by, already somewhat out of breath, and burning with rage and shame at having been unable to resist the impulse which had made him fly before the power of the evil creatures of the knoll. When he came to the place where his son was sitting, he stopped short in his flight, and seizing the boy by the arm, hastily exclaimed, "Come along, lad, come along; this is no place for the likes of you!" endeavouring at the same time to hurry the youth away with him.

But "Simple Steenie" was by no means of the same opinion. He drew himself away from his father's hold, opened his large blue eyes to their fullest extent, and observed in a calm but very decided tone. "Steenie not."

"Not what, boy?" said the farmer eagerly. "You'd better not stop here, anyhow; leastways if you do, the witches will have you." But the boy, who had by this time risen to his feet, only smiled pleasantly upon his father, with the simple smile of the weak of intellect, and answered in a gentle tone. "Steenie not 'fraid. People run. Steenie not run."

At this moment up came James Firminger, already bitterly repenting the flight which seemed certain to lead to such disastrous consequences. Overhearing the words of the boy, the thought instantly struck him that they might be turned to good account.

Well did stout Firminger know that whatever be the power of witches and warlocks, it has no effect upon those whom Heaven has deprived of their full share of reason and intellect, and it occurred to him (and perhaps it was true) that this unexpected meeting with "Simple Steenie" was not accidental, but that it was possibly so ordered, that the victory of the evil ones might be prevented.

He stopped instantly, and shouted aloud to the rest of the party. "Mates!" he cried. "Are we not shamed by the words of this innocent? He will not run, he—why then should we do so? The power which protects him can protect us. Let us turn once more, and never give way like this to the evil ones."

The words of Firminger produced a great effect upon those who heard him. Some indeed there were who had already made their way so far that they neither saw nor heard anything that followed, but fully two-thirds of the party checked their flight, and waited to see what would follow.

They were much reassured by that which immediately occurred. James Firminger went up to the boy and spoke to him kindly to the following effect. "Steenie boy, that's right! You won't run, will you, lad? You ban't afraid of no witches nor crones neither, be you?"

Thus addressed, Steenie drew himself up to his full height, smiled upon his questioner as he had upon his father, and said very gravely. "No. Steenie not 'fraid. Good people help Steenie."

As this was immediately interpreted by all who heard him to mean that the half-witted lad was assured of supernatural assistance in any encounter which might ensue, it had a wonderfully comforting effect upon the whole party.

The courage which, in the case of most of them, had been "oozing out at their fingers' ends," suddenly and miraculously returned to its natural home in their hearts, and they began to encourage each other by speech and gesture, and to ask what there was to be afraid of.

Seeing his opportunity, Firminger used all his arts of persuasion, and the result was that those of the party who had not got beyond hearing when the above mentioned incident took place, wheeled boldly and bodily round, and retraced their steps towards the knoll-field, Firminger and Long leading the way, preceded by "Simple Steenie," who declined to walk with any of them, but trotted on ahead. As for Finn, he had disappeared and was no more seen that day, having been so completely overcome by the total failure of the great invocation to which he had pinned his faith, that he was incapable of further action for the time, and was indeed never quite the same man afterwards.

When the party got near the gate, there was no sign of anything unusual, but as soon as they set foot within the field, the same roaring arose which they had heard before, and the same smoke began to puff out from the knoll and to enwrap it once more in dark wreaths. At this moment Firminger, Long, and their followers suddenly started with surprise.

"Simple Steenie" was indeed walking before them, having left the trotting pace at which he had started, but he was no longer alone! A short, thick-set man, clad entirely in gray from head to foot, was leading the boy by the hand as they advanced together. In his hand he held a long staff, but otherwise appeared to be entirely unarmed. Whence he had sprung from no one could tell; they had not seen any of their own party rush forward, and certainly no one had descended from the knoll. However, there was the Gray Man, sure enough, and on he marched by "Simple Steenie's" side, as if they were the best friends in the world, and had long ago arranged the enterprise on which they were jointly bound. The others followed at a respectful distance, more and more astonished as matters went on.

The roaring continued and presently the same process was repeated as that which the people had previously witnessed and undergone. Figures moved rapidly amid the thick smoke, and ever and anon a lurid flame flashed from one side of the knoll to the other, affording a momentary glimpse of awful forms with threatening gestures directed towards those who appeared desirous to invade their territory.

Still "Simple Steenie" and his companion walked calmly on until they were within a very short distance of the knoll, when, as before, it opened, and a volume of cinders and ashes was again poured forth. But, at the same instant, the Gray Man raised his staff high above his head and shook it in the air. Suddenly, without a cloud in the sky or any appearance whatever of rain, a perfect torrent of water descended from the heavens upon the knoll, the effect of which was to produce just such a "fiz" as when you throw a tumbler of water upon the fire, only this sound was as if several hundred thousand tumblers had been thrown upon the same number of fires all at once, producing the loudest and most wonderful "fiz" that you can imagine. At the same moment a prolonged and terrible howl arose from inside the hill, as if the effects of the water had caused great discomfort therein.

Next happened a remarkable incident. The mouth of the knoll opened with the same kind of yawning action as has been already described, as if the same onslaught as before was about to be repeated. But instead of waiting for this, "Steenie" and the "Gray Man" both raised a loud shout, the latter brandished his staff once more over his head, and both of them rushed boldly forward into the mound, which immediately closed behind them. The bystanders were struck with horror and amazement.

Was the Gray Man in league with the enemy, and had he thus lured poor Steenie to his destruction? If so—why and whence the torrent of water, which had evidently not been relished by the inhabitants of the knoll? What on earth did it all mean?

For a few moments the whole party stood fearful and irresolute. Soon it became evident that warm work was going on inside the knoll. Shouts, yells, rumblings, howls, and the most discordant noises were heard within, whilst there were those among the people, and notably James Firminger and Bully Robus, who always declared that they heard, in and above the outcry, the word, "Dunstan! Dunstan!" repeated ever and anon, and the same thought crossed the minds of both of them at the same time, namely, that the appearance of the Gray Man greatly resembled the description of the great Saint Dunstan, so famous for the manner in which he tackled the arch-enemy upon one occasion with a pair of tongs, and whose name was said to be especially dreaded by all evil creatures.

Be this as it may, the noise had not continued above a minute or two, before the spirit of James Firminger became too much excited to allow of his remaining quiet any longer.

Calling to his companions to come on and help poor Steenie, he rushed boldly forward, and was followed by most of the others. But they were still several yards away from the scene of action, when they were stopped by an occurrence so extraordinary that no one who witnessed it ran the smallest chance of ever forgetting it.

The knoll burst open in at least twenty different places, and from it there issued the same sort of creatures as those who had previously attacked and routed the Mersham forces. But their aspect was now as completely changed as their behaviour. Cowering, shrieking, huddling together as if to escape some terrible pursuer, they rushed frantically away on all sides, with heart-rending cries of despair and anguish.

Then, in the very middle of the knoll, rushing after the retreating foe, appeared no less a personage than the Gray Man, flourishing his staff, and closely followed by "Simple Steenie," whose features were glowing with excitement, and whom they distinctly saw in the act of administering a violent kick to a repulsive-looking creature with a serpent's head and man's body, who was beyond all question an evil one of the worst description, but whose departure was much quickened by the action of the "innocent."

As everybody among the lookers-on was greatly confused and alarmed at the extraordinary spectacle suddenly presented to their view, one hardly knows how far it would be safe to rely upon the many different accounts which were afterwards given of the details of the transaction of which I am writing, and good Farmer Barrett always used to warn me against believing as gospel every particular of this part of the story.

However, there were many worthy people out upon this day who declared solemnly that among the strange and horrible creatures who were turned out of Aldington Knoll that day, they recognised the faces and features of several of their neighbours, dead and gone, who had been reputed witches in their life-times. And little Dick Broadfoot, the tailor of Mersham Street, an acute man as well as an honest, and one that would not willingly either lie or exaggerate, always took his bible oath that he saw, as plainly as he ever saw anything in his life, three awful creatures, with cats' heads and bodies, but with horns and wings, and with claws longer than any possessed by mortal cat, fly out of the mount and down the woods, each having fast hold of and carrying with it a form which writhed and struggled as if in fearful agony, but writhed and struggled in vain. And furthermore, Dick avowed that he saw—though how he had time to see it I don't know—he saw, I say, and knew it for a certain fact, that these three unhappy wretches were the three crones of Mersham, doubtless being carried off to their own place by the three evil ones who had hitherto served them under the form of cats.

Whether to believe the little tailor or not I hardly know, but Bully Robus backed him up in the story, and as the three crones never again appeared in that part of the world, it may have been quite true.

Certain it is that all those creatures who issued from the knoll in the way I have described were evidently driven out against their will, utterly defeated and brought to tribulation by a superior power. In a very short time they had utterly disappeared, a strong smell of sulphur being the only remaining token that they had ever been there, whilst upon the knoll, which had closed up behind them, "Simple Steenie" and his companion remained, standing alone in triumph.

The people saw the Gray Man lay his hand upon the lad's head for an instant, as if calling down a blessing upon him; then there came a mist or cloud over the knoll, and when they looked again, Steenie was standing alone. They hurried towards him, instinctively knowing that there was no more danger to be apprehended from the place, and he turned smilingly to meet them with an air of triumph.

"Steenie not 'fraid," he said. "Naughty people run 'way! All gone!"

SIMPLE STEENIE AND THE GRAY MAN ON THE KNOLL—P. 344