Witches over the Crouch By Bea Howe

When the Moon is high on a winter’s night
And the storm-clouds hang o'er Canewdon Hill.
Six witches they say are visible still
Riding the wind with the gale at its height.

Harold Adshead: The Essex Review, April, 1949.

ESSEX has long been a county of 'mysterious happenings. For in­stance, in 1402, the devil is supposed to have appeared at Danbury, near Chelmsford. on the feast of Corpus Christi in the garb of 'a grere friar.'

He stole a bell from the church tower. Two years, later, in 1409, as if in the spirit of competition, a dragon, vast in size with a tufted head and small, saw-like teeth materialised suddenly in the tiny hamlet of Bures near the Suffolk-Essex border. It killed many sheep and the bow-men of Sir Richard de Waldegrave, the local squire, rode out to shoot at the great reptile. But their arrows did not penetrate his crusty scales and only 'sprang back' with a curious clang, it was said, as if from plated armour. The dragon took fright, hid among the reeds of a mere and was seen no more.

Apart from dragons and devils, there have been many witches and wizards or. as they are more often called, 'cunning men' in Essex. One of the first cases of witchcraft recorded in Essex was during the 16th century when Jane Willis of Stebbins was accused of 'witchcrafts, enchantments, charmes and sorceries.'

Earlier, in 1579. Elleine Smith was accused of keeping three attendant spirits or 'familiars.' They were called Great Dick, who was housed in a wicker bottle. Little Dick, kept in a leather bottle, and Willet, kept in 'a woole packe.'

The great age of witchcraft in England was between 1568 and 1684 when Essex provided far more witch indictments and hangings than any other of the home counties. During this period there were 473 indictments in Essex, 82 of the people involved being hanged.

I HAVE a cottage overlooking the estuary of the Crouch and from my bedroom window 1 can see over the green saltings and rust-brown marshes to where, on the south bank of the river, on a gentle, undulating, low ridge, there stands up, like a giant finger pointed to the sky, the great, massive. 74-foot Norman Tower of St. Nicholas' church, Canewdon. I see it bathed in the soft, clear, warm sunlight of a lovely summer's morning. I see it when the moon shines down on it, black and eerie, surrounded by a clump of shadowy elm trees, I see it again wreathed in the damp mists and fogs creeping up from the river. And as I look at this dramatic old church tower, which dominates the whole landscape, I think of the Canewdon witches connected with it. For an old story goes that there are six witches always living in Canewdon. three dressed in silk and three in cotton. When one of them dies, a stone falls off the church-tower to mark her passing and another "owd girl' takes her place. As long as Canewdon church stands with its tower there will be a witch in the village!

The other day I was talking to an old retired gardener of 92 who was born at Canewdon and whose father kept the ferry that plied between Crick-sea and Canewdon for many years during the middle of the 19th century. Both this old man and his wife, a sprightly woman of 84, believed firmly in witches, particularly in their own Canewdon witches. Oh, yes, they told me, they had often seen them in the '60s and '70s, talking together. They knew them all right, only they couldn't tell me how they knew or why. But there had been more than six. There had been nine actually. 'And many more in silks and satins than in cotton,' muttered the old man. Parson's wife for instance, had been a witch and when there had been talk of calling them all up (the witches) and making them dance round the churchyard. Parson had put his foot down. He didn't want to be ashamed before the parish as his missus would have been there along with the others. There had been a wizard or 'cunning man,' too, full of power at Canewdon, I gathered. Power passed from father to son and mother to daughter.

Up river from my village, at Fambridge Ferry, there lived quite a well-known witch by the name of Hart, who had been 'swum' in the Crouch with her husband, reputed to be a wizard. But old man Hart was proved innocent as he very nearly drowned. His wife, though, being tied to a line behind a boat, floated and so was a witch after all. This ordeal by water was considered to be supremely efficacious. Witches were tied with 'their thumbes and great toes acrosse" and steadied by 'a roape tyed about their middles.' Then they were let down into the water of a running stream or village pond. If a witch 'swam' her guilt was proved, for as she had rejected the sacramental laver of Baptism so now the water refused to receive her into its bosom.

As late as 1865, at Castle Hedingham, two persons, a man and a woman, were charged with having assaulted a poor old French half-wit, known as Dummy, whom they suspected of sorcery, by throwing him into a brook while the rabble urged them on, yelling: ‘Swim him! Swim him on the mill-head!' The poor old man died within 24 hours of exposure and shock and his assaulters were committed to the Chelmsford assizes.

But to return to old Witch Hart of Fambridge. She grew all kinds of strange herbs and plants in her cottage garden particularly 'the large white-headed poppy, the juice of which, it was said, she preserved to treat her imps with every full moon.' All true witches had attendant imps in the shape of little dogs or cats or moles or just 'black things' called by queer names like those of Elleine Smith.

Another local witch, called, Hart too (or was she the same one I wonder?), stole the bell from tiny St. Michael's church, Latchingdon, which is one of the most ancient churches in our district, and tried to sail over the Crouch to Wallasea Island with it in her 'killer' or wash-tub. But she was drowned on her way to see her old friend, Mother Redcap (or Mrs. Smith), another Crouch witch, Evidently her magic wasn't powerful enough to save her from a watery grave.

Stealing church bells seems to have been a favourite witch-practice for I have come across several cases. Did they think people would not go to church on Sundays if they heard no bell calling them or did they steal them just for fun? In the house of a friend of mine at Cricksea, a very old house dating from 1520, which was originally built to control the ferry, there was found buried in the doorstep a pair of opened scissors. This was supposed to avert the evil eye in olden days and to keep witches from passing into your house. By the same token, a knife or witch-jug filled with horse­shoe nails could be buried, too, to prevent their entry. If a witch came into a house where bread was being baked, the bread would be spoilt. This is another old wives' tale of the Crouch valley.

Little over 40 years ago, in 1908, an old crone living at Tiptree was accused at the police court at Witham of being a witch by her own husband, who said she had assaulted him. The case, so far as I can remember, was dismissed. This Essex gammer was not 'swum' in the nearest horse-pond like poor old Mrs. Hart was 'swum' in the crouch at Fambridge!

East Anglian Magazine, November 1952, published by East Anglian Magazine Ltd, Ipswich and printed by The East Anglian Daily Times Co. Ltd., Ipswich.

Canewdon and its Witches by Harold Adshead

Canewdon Church, in the centre of "the witch country." - From an engraving dated 1815 from a painting by G. Arnold, A.R.A., by courtesy of the Essex Record Office.

The district around Canewdon was known as "the witch country" in medieval times. A strong belief in witches persisted in south-east Essex as late as the last century, and there was a "witch-finder" at Hadleigh until his death just over ninety years ago.

A LITTLE off the beaten track, Canewdon lies some four miles North of Rochford, It was once a small market town with its five manors and its Guild of St. Anne, which used to maintain a light in the seventy-five-foot tower of the fifteenth-century parish church of St. Nicholas to serve as a beacon to seamen and fishing folk along the nearby Essex coast and in the Thames estuary.

Many explanations have been advanced as to the etymology of Canewdon.

Perhaps the most romantic is the suggestion that it is a corruption of Canute's Dune (or Hill), as it is generally accepted that Canute encamped here the night before his last great fight with his pursuing adversary, Edmund Ironside, on October 18, 1016, which was fought in the valley between Ashingdon and the hill on which Canewdon stands.

In medieval times, when witchcraft was prevalent, Essex seemed to have more than its share of witches, and the district around Canewdon was widely known as "the witch country."

Many legends have been woven around witches, but in point of fact they were often mental invalids, subject to hysterical delusions, and when on trial would often voluntarily confess to almost any crime.

They would admit responsibility for the deaths of neighbours by casting spells, hav­ing unholy communion with the Devil, and changing into animal shape.

The witches' meetings were called sabbaths and seemed to consist of revels, eating and drinking, dancing and licentious­ness. They were usually held at a distance from the village, and many witches claimed to fly on broomsticks to attend.

Modern analysis of statements made during trials reveals that many went on foot, but were in such a state of nervous stress bordering on somnabulism as to produce the delusion of flying.

An authentic account of a trial of a Canewdon witch may be found in the proceedings of the Essex Summer Sessions and general jail delivery held at Canewdon on July 25, 1580, which records:

"Rose Pye of Canneydon, spinster, on 30th June at Canneydon bewitched Joan Snow
aged 1 year, daughter of Richard Snow of Canneydon, who languished until 20th
August following, when she died at Canneydon."

In local folk-lore there is a saying that as long as Canewdon church steeple lasts there will always be six witches in Canewdon, three in silk and three in cot­ton, one being the parson's wife and one the butcher's wife. It was also believed that when a witch died a stone fell out of the church wall, and the witch was immediately replaced by another.

A story was told of a Canewdon girl who went to keep house for her uncle at Woodham Ferrers; but, she being one of the witches, the uncle knew no peace during her stay, as nothing in the house would keep still.

AS late as the nineteenth century; a strong belief in witches persisted in this locality and in south-east Essex generally, and many stories arc told of a local " witch-finder'' who became a famous, if somewhat terrifying, figure in these parts.

His name was James Murrell. but throughout Essex he was known as " Cun­ning'' Murrell. He was born at Rayleigh, but lived and died at Hadleigh.

By profession a shoemaker, he aug­mented his income by fortune-telling, locat­ing stolen property, discovering thieves, and detecting witches. He was supposed to be able to call out the Canewdon witches at will.

Practising as a herbalist, he used to administer drugs and potions extensively, and many people traveled far to consult him, though there was a great dread of his reputed occult powers.

If patients complained that they were making no progress, he used to say:

"Oh ! but she is a strong one [meaning the witch], but I can get the better of
her for another half-a-crown."

Murrell used much ingenuity in devising weird apparatus to practise his spells and to make witch-bottles to trap witches.

Despite his intensive incursions into necromancy, Murrell appeared to have been a man of strong religious convictions.

The Essex Countryside, Winter 53/54

The East Anglian Magazine 1955

East Anglian Magazine 1955

March, Pages 294-297

The wizard who couldn't sink



by CHAS. H. COOKE
Illustrated by Mary Jarvis

WITCHCRAFT reached the zenith of its satanical power in the 16th century, after which it gradually ceased to exist except in certain less-active forms in some districts. It had a substantial hold on popular imagination in its heyday and the cult attracted considerable numbers of followers, despite the strong measures taken to stamp it out.

Even today we still read of occasional cases of dark and mysterious happenings and although witchcraft, as intellectually understood, has become a subject for students of the occult and those interested in the curious byways of anthropological history, it still lingers in out-of-the-way places and it must not he forgotten that many of our popular superstitions are relics of this, once-powerful cult of evil.

In the 'Times' for 19 July 1825 appeared a description based on a report in the "Suffolk Chronicle” of a case of supposed witchcraft in that county. A contemporary comment on this incident was that the case 'proves the deplorable ignorance of certain human beings in England. It is to be hoped that such persons are not allowed to bring up their sons in the same darkness. Little can be done towards civilizing adults of this description but their infants may be reared as intelligent members of society.'

The report in question stated that a man named Stebbings at Wickham Skeith was 'swum for a wizard' in July 1825.

This Isaac Stebbings was a small, thin man of about 67 years of age who earned a livelihood as a huckster. Near to his cottage there resided a thatcher whose wife was afflicted by a mental ailment. In the same parish, also, lived a farmer who was troubled by periodical attacks of mental derangement.

Some busy-body in the neighbourhood began to spread libelous stories that both these deranged persons were bewitched by the said Stebbings, who was spoken of, to all and sundry we suppose, as the instigator of all the mischief.

Rumour followed rumour and one story led to another, each one more fantastic and more lurid than the previous one. Accumulated hearsays were readily accepted as infallible proof of guilt.

Among the many stories circulated in the district was one that the friends of the afflicted woman had recourse to some means recorded in the annals of witchcraft for detecting the devil's agent and that whilst the operation was proceeding at night Stebbings came dancing up to the door. In his denial of this nocturnal 'crime' he admitted that he had once called at his neighbour's house with mackerel for sale at four o'clock in the morning before the family was up and this admission was accepted to be as much as he was likely to make.

Apart from this fact, the village shoemaker persisted that one morning, as Stebbings passed two or three times before his house, he was unable to 'make' his wax as the ingredients would neither melt nor mix.

On village hearsay and idle gossip, Stebbings stood accused of being a wizard, the masculine form of a witch. He was teased by his neighbours and so tormented by these accusations that he proposed to undergo the old-fashioned ordeal of "sink or swim," a method supposed to be infallible in discovering the guilt of witches and those suspected of subscribing to the black arts.

It was believed that water rejected servants of the devil and that if a suspected person floated and refused to sink when placed in water it was proof of guilt. Even as late as 1785 we find a newspaper report of a case of suspected witchcraft in Northamptonshire stating that if a witch was thrown into the water she would swim.

Stebbings' self-made offer was readily accepted, probably more with the idea of cheap entertainment than from any sincere desire on the part of the majority to have him proved or acquitted of satanic practises.

The trial by water was fixed for the following Saturday at two o'clock in the afternoon at a large pond called the Grimmer on Wickham Green. Four men walked into the water with the accused and the parish constable was engaged to keep the peace, for the banks of the pond were crowded with morbid spectators, men, women and children.

Stebbings wore his breeches and shirt and the men who had accompanied him into the water breast high lifted him up and laid him flat on his hack. Stebbings moved neither hand nor foot and continued in that position in the water for 10 minutes.

This was the first trial and the crowd called out: 'Give him another!'

It would appear, (in the face of it) that Stebbings was proven guilty by his refusal to sink.

But we must remember that this trial took place many years after witchcraft proper had died a natural death. This trial was merely a popular, superstitious, mock-affair and lacked the seriousness with which real witch trials were conducted. It is also correct to assume that the specta­tors were enjoying the proceedings, hence their desire to have the victim 'tried' again.

A further trial was accordingly performed for the same length of time and with the same result as before.

But the crowd were not satisfied and cried out: "Try him again and dip him under the water!”

This was duly carried out, one of the men pressing Stebbings' chest down with the result that his head went under and his feet came up. These trials kept the poor victim in the water for three-quarters of an hour and when at last he came out he was more dead than alive.

Yet, even so, some of the witnesses were still not satisfied with the entertainment and suggested that another man of equal age and weight should he swum with him. To this further proposal Stebbings willingly agreed, so anxious was he to rid himself, if at all possible, of the accusations levelled against him. His idea seems to have been that, if only he could sink, his innocence would be proved and even if he suffered the consequence of being half-drowned his accusers would have lost their case.

The next trial was fixed for the following Sunday and a man named Tom Wilden of Bacton was chosen as the accompanying swimmer. The story quickly got around the district and hundreds of people flocked from surrounding countryside to watch this further ordeal by water.

In the meantime, however, the clergyman and his two churchwardens intervened in the unfortunate affair and the swimmers were kept away, to the immense disappointment of the crowds.

It was seriously admitted that at the time Stebbings was being 'swum', the farmer mentioned earlier was unusually perturbed and cried out that he could see the imps all about him and tried to frighten them away with his voice. His shouts and his mental aberrations were explained as being due to the magical effects produced by Stebbings when he refused to sink!

This strange affair was completed by a respectable farmer in the district visiting a "cunning man” who convinced him, on payment of a certain sum of money, that Stebbings was indeed a wizard and ought to be 'killed by inches,' another relic of the old days of witchcraft.

The report in the 'Times' made no mention of the ultimate outcome of this local incident or what further steps, if any, were taken against Stebbings in view of the tests previously applied to him. We can be almost certain, however, that if nothing further was done to bring him to justice, his life must have been far from pleasant, for once public opinion had reached such depths of infamy and malice legal redress in those days was not so easy to obtain as it would be at the present time.

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East Anglian Magazine 1955

October, Pages 710-712

The Witches of St. Osyth

Based on an account which appeared in an old magazine kindly sent us by Mr. J. R. Read. 25 Forest View Road, Wulthamstow, London, E.17. Illustrated by Mary Tye

Three or four hundred years ago St. Osyth and its neighbourhood had an evil notoriety on account of the large number of reputed witches who dwelt there. In the library of the British Museum is a book, published in the year 1582 which bears on its title page the following quaint inscription: "A true and just record of the information, examination and confession of all the witches taken at St. Osyth in the countie of Essex whereof some were executed and other some estreated according to the determination of the lawe. Wherein all men may see what a pestilent people witches are and, how unworthy to lyve in a Christian common wealth."

This book contains a report of the evidence given before Brian Darcy. J.P., against a number of women who were suspected of witchcraft and it is astonishing to see on what sort of evidence many of these poor creatures were condemned. The book contains a long list of injuries, sicknesses and deaths which were said to have been wrought upon persons and cattle by witches but in many instances no attempt appears to have been made to connect these with the women who were brought before the magistrate and both he and the witnesses seem to have been satisfied with the bare fact that some person or domestic animal had been stricken with an unusual disease or sudden death without any remark being made as to how it came about.

In some cases the evidence of children of tender ages was taken against their own parents. For instance a boy of eight was brought before the magistrate and declared that his mother, Ursula Kemp, who was accused of having perpetrated many crimes by means of witchcraft, had four 'spirits' - "one like a grey cat, one like a white lamb, one black like a toad and one black like a cat".

Coming a little nearer to our own time we learn from another little volume that in the year 1645, although the great civil war between King and commons was then raging, a justice of the peace for the county of Essex could find time and opportunity to conduct a great witch hunt in the country east of Colchester. Out of 22 women mentioned in this volume as having been indicted for witchcraft 13 were executed, two died in gaol and one ex­pired on the way to the scaffold.

The names of those who belonged to St. Osyth were Rose Hallybread, Joyce Boanes, Susan Cock, Margaret Landish and Rebecca Jones. The first-named died in gaol and the other four were executed at Chelmsford. Strange to say, many of the accused confessed to evil doings by witchcraft. The only possible reason one can see for this is that they knew there was small chance of being acquitted and hoped to be pardoned upon confession. They were, however, sadly deceived in their expectation. Joyce Boanes stated that she had two imps “in the likenesse of mouses" and that she sent them 'to a farmhouse in St. Osyth, Cocket-wick, where one Richard Welch then lived and there, she said, her imps killed 10 or 12 lambs of the said Richard'. The record of her evidence proceeds as follows: 'And the said examinant also saith that she carried one of her said imps called Rug to the house of the said Rose Hallybread and that Rug, with three imps of the said Rose Hally­bread, Susan Cock and Margaret Lan­dish, each of them sending one, were carried by this examinant from the house of the said Rose Hallybread to the house of the said Robert Turner to kill the servant of the said Robert.'

The evidence of Robert Turner, of St. Osyth, carpenter, as to the death of his servant reads thus: "This information saith that about eight dayes since his servant was taken sick, shaking and shrieking and crying out of Rose Hallybread that she had bewitched him and this informant saith that some­times his said servant since hee was taken sick as aforesaid had crowed perfectly as a cock, sometimes barked like a dog, sometimes violently groaned beyond the ordinary course of nature and struggling with such strength (being but a youth) that four or five strong men were not able to hold him down in his bed and sometimes sung divers and sundry tunes and that this informant could not perceive his mouth to open or so much as his lips to stir all the time of his singing."

Witches and other foul fiends

By F. P. GENT
With drawings by Jennifer Kent. (Coming Soon!)

OUR forefathers were quite convinced of the existence of witches and other foul fiends of the air. At certain times there would be a gathering of the clans and the noise of their flight to the meeting place could be distinctly heard in the air.

When they were assembled, the arch-demon himself conducted the service— a parody of Christian rites and cere­monies. The ritual included the saying of the Lord's Prayer backwards and invocations to the devil in mockery of the prayers in the church service. It was also thought that human sacrifices were offered in the Black Mass but this is doubtful. Probably the victim was a white cock or a stolen lamb.

Many parts of England had their own particular hobgoblin and nights were made fearsome by the dread of it. Suf­folk was greatly afflicted with the pres­ence of these unwelcome visitors. In my boyhood's days, 60 odd years ago, an old lady near Bury St. Edmunds stuffed her chimneys with paper and rags in the summer. She did this so that
dim, a mischievous imp fond of living in chimneys, should find no way into her house.

Woodbridge and its neighbourhood was haunted by another unpleasant creature called the Galley Trot. It had the power of becoming like a dog or bullock. But the most fearsome of all was the Suffolk Shock which sometimes appeared as a dog with eyes as big as saucers. One courageous man attemp­ted to seize it but was severely bitten in the hand. The marks of its teeth on his thumb remained for life. So what greater proof of the reality of this un­earthly visitant could be offered!

THOUSANDS of reputed witches were put to death in Europe between 1484 and 1782. In England some brought punishment upon them­selves by declaring they had flown to the Witches' Sabbath on broomsticks. The last to suffer in this country was tried in 1722. Our laws against witchcraft were repealed in 1736, too late to save two Suffolk women accused of witchcraft in 1664.

At the Bury Assizes of that year it was related that one Rose Cullender had had part of her cottage accidentally knocked down by a farmer driving to his harvest field. She was naturally annoyed and said so in no uncertain terms. A quarrel followed and then some unfortunate things happened and the blame was laid on her shoulders. Three times, accord­ing to the farmer's evidence, the usually steady cart stuck in the gate through which there was ample room to pass. Some supernatural power seemed to be behind every effort to dislodge it. The strenuous labours of three stalwart farm­ workers brought on excessive nose bleeding. Another farmer gave evidence that, two years earlier, he too had knocked down a bit of Rose's cottage. No won­der she was angry at the second attack upon her premises. Terrible things happened as the result of her anger. His stock acted as though accursed. Pigs behaved in a most extraordinary manner, dancing and capering about until, big as they were, they died from exhaustion. Every horse he possessed was smitten with disease that ended fatally. His own body was over-run with lice and they were so numerous that he was forced to burn his clothes.

These astonishing charges were ac­cepted as truth by Sir Matthew Hale, the judge, who in many respects was much in advance of the thought of his time. He believed in the existence of witches and their power to do harm. 'Every nation punished their crimes.' So poor Rose was sentenced to death aid was executed two days later with another victim.

The other reputed witch was Amy Duny who had been looking after a neighbour's baby whilst the mother went to market. Despite the fact that she had been forbidden to suckle the infant, she had done so. When scolded, she had put a curse on both mother and child. Soon after, the baby developed fits and the doctor advised that the baby's blanket should be hung up in the chimney corner during the day. When at night it was taken down and wrapped round the baby a great toad fell out into the fire. There was a loud noise and it disappeared. Next day, Amy's face was seen to be scorched.

Further witnesses de­posed that Amy, upon some grievance, had cur­sed their children who promptly vomited bent pins and two penny nails. This form of sickness seemed to be the one usually associated with those bewitched. Though two lawyers present expressed dis­satisfaction with this absurd evidence, their protests were of no avail and Amy Duny suffered the punishment of death.

MAIDENS were believed to pine away as waxen images representing them slowly melted before a fire. Others against whom the reputed witch had a grudge were smitten with illness or suffered agonising pain in the body at the spot where pins were stuck in.

Even today in some remote villages there is still a half-acknowledged sus­picion of some quite innocent old ladies. Anyhow, it seems wise to keep on the right side of them. Offended, they might overlook with the evil eye anyone falling foul of them.

Is there any truth in these eerie stories of the past? Most people would utter a contemptuous 'no'. Yet at a recent con­ference of Modern Churchmen, an Oxford professor of logic declared his belief in haunted houses and apparitions. As an expert in matters psychical, he said: 'I think a lot of witchcraft was hocus-pocus but I suppose some of the witches had paranormal powers.'

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Shortly thereafter we see the following in the Letters to the Editor:

WITCHES AND OTHER FOUL FIENDS
Hardiman Scott, 5 Onslow Gardens, Muswell Hill, London, TV. 10
East Anglian (June 1956, Page 471)

I THINK that you in the title 'Witches and Other Foul Fiends' and Mr. Gent in the article itself (EAM March 56) have committed a most unfortunate libel against witches.

Mr. Gent doesn't always make his own position clear. He seems to doubt the truth or justice of allegations against Rose Cullender and Amy Duny but in his two opening paragraphs he says the familiar things for which there's little evidence.

That witches existed there's no doubt. They were often found among our aristocracy and educated classes. That they could develop paranormal powers there's little doubt. But that they persistently used these powers for evil there is every doubt. There must have been wicked witches, who used their powers for evil purposes, just as there were wicked people who were not witches. But there's certainly insufficient evidence to suggest that they should be bracketed with 'other foul fiends'. There's no real evidence that witch rites are a parody of Christian rites, that they included saying the Lord's Prayer backwards or that the Black Mass (whatever that is) was celebrated.

Witches exist today and hold their covens. But there's nothing to suggest that they're not perfectly respectable people. I know of no evidence that they cast evil spells. Their 'religion' is clearly pre-Christian. It has affinities with the Greek mysteries and there are rites which include various ritual dances. Dancing is used as a means of raising 'power'. A contemporary witch is on record as saying that witches worship the 'divine spirit of creation' and that their religion is a religion of love, pleasure and excitement'.

It is perhaps a pity that their past history of persecution still encourages them to maintain such great secrecy and, of course, it's not surprising that this secrecy creates suspicion. But whatever witches may or may not have done in the past, there's nothing to suggest that today they should not be afforded the liberal toleration that we accord to all minorities.

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WITCHES —Hardiman Scott, 5 Onslow Gardens, London, N.10.
East Anglian (December 1956, Page 119)

OF course Miss Stella Jones is right (EAM June & Aug. 56). [Unfortunately I don't have that Issue! - Scott] There is nothing respectable 'about a creed manifestly dedicated to evil and to the working of harm against all people'. But the witch cult is not dedicated to evil and does not try to work harm against any people. If Miss Jones thinks so, then she's been misinformed.

The history of witchcraft is well docu­mented and the authorities are readily available. I don't dispute that the black mass was said on the continent, any more than I dispute that, in the past, there must have been witches practising evil in this country. But evil wasn't their pre­rogative alone. And there is absolutely no doubt that countless innocent people, as well as witches practising their beliefs for good, perished among the thousands persecuted.

Furthermore, in judging wiches (good or bad) of the past some caution is needed because in the accounts of num­erous witch trials that still exist we have only the cases for the prosecution. The cases for the defence haven't been pre­served for the simple reason that they never existed. The accused weren't allowed a defence.

We may think witch beliefs are primitive but the fact that they are pre-Christian does not necessarily invalidate them. Today Miss Jones would be hard put to produce any evidence of evil practices by witch covens in this country. I won't deny that in recent times (and coinciding with the immigration of large numbers of West Indians) there may have been cases of certain evil practices—of so-called black magic and so-called witch rights—but it would be wrong to confuse these with genuine witch practices and they are as distasteful to witches as they are to Miss Jones and me.

I did remark in my first letter that it was a pity the past history of persecution still encouraged witches 'to maintain such great secrecy' but the tone of Miss Jones' letter makes me see why they do.

A Cure for Witches

By W. H. BARRETT (Illustrated by Jean Creswell)

In the far-off days of my youth a good story-teller was always welcome company in the riverside inns dotted about the fens. He would often entertain the company the whole evening—and need never go thirsty. The stories the fenmen told had a character all their own and have mostly, I suppose, now been forgotten. But here is one of them which I have put into writing.

IT was Saturday evening and the land-lord was reading aloud extracts from the weekly paper.

'Listen to this,' he said. ' "Three E hundred years ago a witch was boiled alive at King's Lynn." '

'They shouldn't have done that.' The words came from an old man who up to then had sat silent, nearly asleep.

'That worn't the proper way to treat a witch. I know a better one.'

A full, frothy pint was placed under his nose.

'Drink that up, grandfather, and tell us.'

The landlord retired to the cellar to fetch two gallon cans. These he placed on the table and then proceeded to collect the price of two pints from each of the expectant listeners. There were going to be no cash-and-carry interruptions while Old Dad was telling his story.

What I am going to tell you about (he began) happened just after the flood that drowned the fens in 1861. An old woman lived in a tumble-down shack down Sedge Fen drove. She was so old she remembered being at the Battle of Waterloo. How she got there was like this. She'd married a soldier and in those days a soldier's wife used to go along with him to cook his grub and look after his kit while he was righting. Her husband worn't killed in that battle but he wor in another one, so she came down here to live, taking up the job of a firster-and-laster, unpacking infants when they came into the world and packing up the old ones when they went out.

Then she got so old and dirty people wouldn't hev her. She used to go around the fen threatening people with her curses and if a farmer saw her looking at his pigs and one was a bit queer afterwards he didn't send for the vet—he sent for the butcher to turn it into pork before it got worse, being certain it had been bewitched.


The old gal was well aware of what people said she was, for children, after getting safely past her, would shout:

'Witch! Witch! Get home, you dirty old witch!'

She managed to exist and buy black shag for her short clay pipe on the few shillings she picked up by frightening people. One of her best-paying tricks was this. People opening their door first thing of a morning would find on their doorstones a heap of loam shaped like a grave mound. It would be of sandy loam and as all the soil round about was black peat it could only have come from a distance.

Then the old gal would come along and say it was put there by the devil to let them know it wouldn't be long before he came to fetch them. She often met him carrying a sack when she was out at nights, she would say. And being wise in the arts of that old black one, she could, for a shilling, remove the curse the devil had put on the house. After getting the money she would spit on the heap, then tell the people to let it lie there until the next new moon. They could then gather it up and put it on the garden for worms to play with.

Now up in the village lived Billy Brown. He never did any work unless obliged to. But he managed to get along quite well for there wasn’t a better poacher going.

One night—it was getting near Christ­mas—Billy had been out and the bag he was carrying was a bit heavy. As he neared home, which was down Church Lane, he heard the clock strike 12, then through the hedge he saw a light moving about in the churchyard. His eyesight was just as good among the tombstones as it was in the woods and he soon saw it was the old gal carrying a spade and a candle-lantern.

Peering through the hedge he saw her set down her light and kneel beside a newly made grave. So he nips home, dumps his bag, gets hold of his old muzzle-loading gun, rams a charge of powder into it, then pours a handful of saltpetre crystals that he used for curing rabbit-skins down the barrel, wadding it well home with paper. He worn't long getting back up the lane where he could see her shovelling soil off the grave into a sack. She had her back to him and her behind it was bobbing up and down as she got on with her job. It was a lovely target in the flickering light of the lantern.

'That will larn her,' said Billy to himself as he pulled the trigger.

On hearing the explosion and feeling the impact of the saltpetre she let out a hell of a shriek and leapt up into the air, kicking over her light as she came down. People living nearby, having been wakened by the shot and shrieks, opened their bedroom windows, then dressed themselves and in a short period gathered on the road outside the churchyard gates listening to the unearthly din going on inside.

One of the waiting group was the sexton who on being told he got paid for looking after the churchyard and that it was up to him to go in and find out what was the matter replied:

‘That may be so but that's day-work, not night-shift, and the only one who ought to go and see about things is the parson as he gets more money out of the churchyard than I do.'

So he said he would go and fetch him. He arrived at the rectory and threw a handful of gravel up to the rector's bed­room window. The rector put his head out and wanted to know what was the matter.

'Matter!' said the sexton, 'You come along and see. The churchyard is full of shrieking devils and the smell of brim­stone and sulphur is enough to choke you.'

The rector came down and opened the door, then, seeing his sexton was shaking like a leaf, poured him out a drink of whisky and, not knowing what lay before him, had a double himself. Then, just in case his sexton was right, he put on his surplice, grabbed a big stick and, with a lighted oil lamp in his hand, joined the waiting people, suggesting some of them should go with him and help to turn the shrieking devils out. He soon found they were all of the opinion that it was a job he could best manage alone, being well up in the knowledge of what bell, book and candle could do.

Calling for his sexton was in vain, for that worthy, not knowing what demands might be made on his services, had returned to the rectory where the rector in his hurry had left the whisky bottle on the table. The sobbing of the frighten­ed women and the trembling of the windy men convinced the rector that if he did not get a move on he would soon be in the same nervous condition as they were. So he opened the gate and, firmly grasping his stick with the lamp out in front, he strode down the path, keeping his courage up by shouting: 'Get out, you swine!’

'"THEN by the light of his lamp he saw a woman in black holding on to a tombstone with one hand and rubbing her posterior with the other. She, on see­ing something in white coming towards her, let out a terrific yell and ran down the path as hard as she could go, falling head-over-heels into the dyke at the bot­tom. The rector tore after her, stumbled over a grave, gave his nose a nasty smack on the stone kerb and lay still. His lamp, after rolling a few yards, exploded, send­ing a sheet of flame into the dark sky.

Billy, thinking it was time he had a hand in things, had crept through the hedge, entered the unlocked church and, getting a bell rope in each hand, pulled away for all he was worth. The din the bells made was too much for the fright­ened jackdaws in the steeple. Out they flew and, attracted by the lanterns held by the people in the road, swished their wings a few feet above their heads as they circled in the darkness.

Billy, creeping back through a gap in the hedge, was just in time to see the old gal crawling up the dyke to the lane. Getting behind her, he gave out a yell which sent her running off again until, on reaching the road, the prickly heat was so bad she sat down in the grit and tried to get ease from the terrible itch by sliding backwards and forwards.

He then went up to the waiting people, wanting to know what sort of a game they were playing at that time of night and why they were not in bed. He was quickly told what had fetched them out was a lot of devils having a party in the churchyard. The rector had gone in to turn them out, they said. Then the doors of hell had opened and they had seen roaring flames gushing out. As the rector had not returned they reckoned by this time he was nothing else but cinders and that swishing noise above their heads was made by those devils who did not get back before the door was shut.

'Well, well,' said Billy. 'That must have been one of those devils with a hurt wing that I nearly fell over down the road. I'll go and fetch it.'

So he went and picked up the kicking and spitting old crone, setting her down among them saying:

'I've caught this one. Hold it and I'll go and see if I can find another.'

It was not long before he returned holding up the sexton who was so drunk he couldn't stand. So he sat down and wanted the people to repeat after him the words of the burial service which he knew off by heart.

Billy, finding that all those standing around were firmly convinced the rector had gone to that place he had warned them about on Sundays, borrowed a lantern from one of them, telling them it was the black sheep of the flock that was going in search of the shepherd, for when he had last met the rector they had parted on unfriendly terms. It was just after Billy had returned home after serv­ing three months' hard at Norwich Castle for poaching. The rector had told him he was a disgrace to his father and the village. Billy had assured him he knew he was a disgrace to his father in getting caught after all the lessons he had received from the old man on how to avoid it. As for the village, the parson might spend a whole month white-washing his parishioners but most of them would still be piebald.

Finding the rector lying between two graves and smothered in blood from his bleeding nose, Billy sat him up and told him how surprised he was to find him fighting drunk and in the churchyard at that and wanted to know what had hap­pened to the other chap, as he must have been in a terrible mess, too, with all that blood flying about. All the rector could do was to hold his aching head and promise Billy that if only he would help him to get home he would do anything for him within reason. A bargain was quickly made that in return for help the rector would buy from Billy a brace of pheasants every week while the game season lasted.

By the time they reached the road there was nobody there. The old gal had told them that while she was kneeling gathering midnight dew from a new-made grave to cure her warts there was a big thunderclap and lightning had struck the path, spat­tering the place she used when sitting and making a real gravel rash of the whole seat. They were so wild on hearing this that they carried her to the horse pond and threw her in and as the sexton was now well away praying for those at sea they gave him the same treatment.

Then they all went home. The sexton soon sobered up and went, too, but the old gal was still sitting in the cooling water at noon next day when the parish beadle came along and pulled her out to take her to the workhouse.

So you see (concluded the old man, taking a long drink) there's no need to boil a witch. Just pickle their hams like Billy did. That will cure them, especially if you do it with saltpetre.

East Anglian Magazine, March1958

Witch lore of Canewdon By Eric Maple (Part 2)

LAST LEGENDS OF ESSEX WITCHES - Witch lore of Canewdon
By Eric Maple (Part 2)

(No unfortunately I don't have Part One! - If you know someone who does grab me a copy!)

CANEWDON, on the River Crouch, is perhaps the only village of modern time to have had an investigation into its witches. As a collector of folk-lore I spent over a year gathering the Canewdon witch tales, which combine horror and humour in about equal proportions.

It is well known that there will be six witches in Canewdon just as long as the church tower stands, and that every time a stone falls from the tower one witch will die and another will take her place. This means that by some mysterious process power is passed on from one witch to her successor— but how ? This was the mystery I set out to solve. It involved the collection and evaluation of many ancient legends, but at last I discovered a legend that provided me with the clue.

It is well known that long ago witches were accused of possessing imps, usually small animals, and for this many were hanged. These imps were the means of a witch passing on her powers, as the following curious story reveals.

The old smith of Ballards Gore, on the outskirts of Canewdon, was believed to have sold his soul to the Devil, which was probably the reason why he always looked over his shoulder wherever he went. Naturally he had few friends, and these were not over-pleased when they were asked to visit him as he lay dying. They entered his room and saw that he was near the end, but his eyes were very much alive, for they travelled round and round the room as if following something that only he could see.

Suddenly a great circular scorch mark spread slowly over the bed, then a small white mouse ran into the centre of the circle. It sat there looking at the smith, who said : " I can't die while the imp is there." Then, to the horror of the watchers, he begged his wife to take it, but she said : " No, no, I don't want the power."

He then begged his daughter to take it, telling her that until she did so he could not die. Weeping, she took the animal from him and crept into another room. As she left the bedside the smith fell back dead and the watchers knew that his daughter was now a witch.

What it meant to live in a village where witchcraft was an active belief was described to me by an old man in his seventies who remembered the stories told to him by his grandfather. People from other villages shunned Canewdon like the plague, and most Canewdon residents regarded each other as witches or potential witches. Because of this, scissors and knives were regularly placed under doormats in the belief that no witch would dare to step over iron or steel.

One old lady who turned back from a doorway at the last minute, having forgotten something, was for ever afterwards branded as a witch, but not in her hearing, of course.

The Master of Witches was George Pickingill, who kept not only the witches but the villagers as well in a state of sheer terror. Mr. Whitwell, whose family has lived in Canewdon for centuries, remembered the fear which this man inspired. When George Pickingill wantsd water drawn for him from the pump he did not have to ask twice, for the penalty for disobedience was a curse. The victim was often taken seriously ill as a result, and would remain in that condition until Pickingill lifted the spell.

Old Picky, as he was called, died in 1909 at the age of ninety-three. His last and greatest act of magic was performed at his own funeral. As he lay dying he had declared that he would demonstrate his powers in a way that Canewdon would never forget.

On the day of his funeral the hearse drew up to the churchyard and suddenly the horse stepped out of the shafts and trotted off down the road, to the great alarm of the mourners. Old Picky was having the last word, as usual.

These are the modern legends of the Canewdon witches, but each generation has made its contributions to the great store of Canewdon witch lore. Back in the 1840’s the parson's wife was said to be a witch, and her sister, old Lady Lodwick, once bewitched a housemaid who disobeyed her. Earlier still the parson himself was chased from his pulpit by the Devil, but, because of his greater guile, he got away. In the sixteenth century Ruth Poysey was charged with witchcraft and acquitted. If she had been found guilty and executed it might have provided an explanation of the witch ghost of Canewdon who flys over fields and rivers at night in silken gown minus her head. Local people today still tremble at the mem­ory of meeting her on lonely roads in the old days.

It might be well to conclude with a story told by an actual victim of a witch's spell. The late Mr. Cottis told me that on his first day at work some eighty years ago he was asked by an old woman for whom he usually collected shopping if he would do so again. " Too busy," he said, and ran off to work.

The old lady shouted at him : " You'll be busy enough before you've finished today's work" and went back angrily into her cottage.

Sure enough, when young Cottis tried to lift his scythe he found it as heavy as lead, and although he toiled all day he could not finish his work. The next day he met the old woman, who said mockingly : " How did you like your day's work, boy ? Now will you get my shopping ? "

" I didn't argue " said Mr. Cottis, " and after that everything was all right again."

And thinking about it, I would not have argued either if I had lived in a village where six witches and a wizard all worked in secret in the shadow of the old church tower.

The Essex Countryside Volume 10, No 58, November 1961 - Page 44