Queer Folk: Seven Stories

Preface

Well, and so they are Queer Folk, and I don’t care who says the contrary. There is a Warlock—a Witch—a society of Pig-faced Ladies—a quantity of Elves, and several other things and persons which any unprejudiced individual will at once allow to be queer enough to justify the name I have chosen. In fact, I think they are altogether as queer a collection of creatures as ever came together in a story-book; and if anyone objects to the title, I can only say that if he will write seven queerer stories, and find a better name for the book which contains them, I shall be very much obliged to him.

I hope, however, that the boys and girls, great and small, for whom I write, will find my creatures amusing as well as queer; and if so, anybody who pleases may find fault with the title of the book. After all, the title has more to do with the outside than the inside of a volume. One does not like an oyster any the less because his shell is hard and rough, nor is a golden plover a bit the worse bird if he happens to be written down as a quail on the bill of fare. So if the stories are amusing, a fig for the title; an if anybody does not like the latter, let him at once turn over the title page, and eat his oyster comfortably without thinking any more about the shell.

Chapter I.

The Warlock of Coombe.

THE great range of chalk hills known as the Backbone of Kent, starts boldly and abruptly from the good town of Dover, and cuts through the very heart of the ancient county. If you climb from the valley to the top of the hills, you find yourself, at many points, in a somewhat barren country, with plenty of Aint stones in the fields and scrubby oaks in the woods. These no doubt have their advantages; but, upon the whole, I prefer the valley, a glorious view of which you can enjoy after your climb, and which smiles before you as you look down upon it and the lovely fringe of blue sea which bounds your view. Somewhere above the town of Wye the range of hills politely stops, allowing space for the beautiful Valley of the Stour, beyond which it begins again and continues its course behind Eastwell Park into other parts of Kent, whither I have no time to follow it to-day. For my tale is of the Home range of Hills, which I have so often traversed, and the legends of which are so deeply impressed upon my memory. From Stowting to Wye the Hill is Fairyland to me. From the earliest periods of Fairyland history, this particular part of the Backbone is known to have been the favourite haunt of witches, wizards, and such like interesting individuals; and as, ever and anon, I come to know something of the history of one or other of these creatures, duty and inclination alike compel me to impart my knowledge to a wondering world.

In the old, old days in which the scene of my story is laid, the face of the country was of course very different from its present appearance. The land was not nearly so well or so generally cultivated; the houses were more rudely built, and many things which are deemed necessary to existence in the days we live in were not even known in those distant times. The habits of the people, too, were different-there was less cultivation and more politeness; labouring men touched their hats to squire and parson, and farmers' daughters learned to make puddings and manage poultry instead of playing on the pianoforte and cutting out the squire's lady altogether in the matter of apparel. In those benighted days it was that the Wise Man, or the Warlock (as he was sometimes called), of Coombe was the talk of the country round. Bra bourne Coombe a goodly farm in those days, and one which has ever maintained its character as such, was situated, then as now, between Coombe Wood and the great range of Chalk Hills, that part of which, immediately north of the farm, has been known from time immemorial as Brabourne Down. Nowadays the passing traveller sees only a wide expanse of down, studded with divers thorn-trees, and indented by a chalk-pit here and there, the chalk of which is counted sweet and wholesome to be carried down to the clay lands in the vale below. But the place was of rougher and wilder aspect at the time of my story. Thorn-trees there were by hundreds, and withal brakes and brambles, and tangled thickets of dense underwood, where mortal foot might scarce pass, and in which wild animals couched in comparative security. One great chalk-pit there was, well known to all the country-side, not only on account of its size and apparent depth (for few there were, if any, who had ever explored it at sufficiently close quarters to hazard a guess as to what that size and depth really were), but also because it was the usual home and abode of that dread and mysterious being, the Wise Man of Coombe. Who or what he was, whence he came, and to what country he originally belonged, were things known to no man. Neither could anyone exactly remember when he had first appeared in the neighbourhood of Coombe. All that can be said is that, somehow or other, he had acquired so great a reputation for wisdom, and had evinced such extraordinary powers of a magical nature, that he was held in the greatest awe by the whole neighbourhood. Even over his jolly flagon of ale the rustic trembled at the mention of the Wise Man; women gathered their cloaks around them and hurried by the chalk-pit of Brabourne Down, if their homeward way chanced to lie in that direction; and the very children at play, in their infantile disputes, threatened each other that the Wise Man should be told of them. It will therefore be no matter of surprise to my readers to learn that good Farmer Kellatt, of Coombe Farm, was a devout believer in, and a firm friend to, the Wise Man of Coombe. Indeed, to be the former was almost of necessity to be the latter, so far as the farmer was concerned. The farmhouse stood barely a quarter of a mile from the chalk-pit, and to have been at feud with its mysterious occupant would have been a deep and dire misfortune.

Now, Farmer Kellatt was one of those men who were once the types of English agriculturists, but whom the udvancement of agricultural science has rendered the exception rather than the rule. He was a firm believer in all that his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had believed before him, and shrank from new ideas and new theories with a thorough old-fashioned John Bull prejudice. Having ploughed with four horses all his life, nothing would have persuaded him that the process could be satisfactorily carried on, even on light lands, by a lesser number. To get rid of rushes by draining, to look upon weeds as mortal enemies, and to expend money in trimming hedges, levelling molehills, and enclosing waste ground, were things which never entered into his imagination. If the wetness of the land caused the rushes to grow, was it not intended by nature that the land in that part of the farm should be wet? Would the ground be rough and overgrown with weeds if it had not been so ordered? And if he could grow plenty of corn and other produce on the land immediately under cultivation, why throw away money in trying to get a little more, or in affecting to make his farm smarter than that of his neighbours? No, no; a plodding, honest, worthy man was Farmer Kellatt, , paying his way as he went, and owing no man anything; but as for changes and so-called improvements, he would have nothing to say to them. For the rest, the worthy farmer had all the characteristics of an agricultural Englishman. He rose early, was out in the open air the greater part of the day, dined (except on market days) punctually at two o'clock, and became particularly fidgety if he had to wait five minutes for his dinner.

But do not suppose I should have entered into this description of the occupier of Brabourne Coombe had he been the only individual resident in the old farmhouse. There was another person of far greater importance in the eyes of not a few of the surrounding neighbours. Grace Kellatt was the only child of the farmer, and a child of whom any father might well have been proud. She was fair-very fair--with the blue eyes which are supposed to betoken Saxon origin, and that sweet expression of countenance which is a sure sign of a kind and true heart. She was a general favourite wherever she went, and the darling of her father's heart. Her great delight was to be out in the open air, the longer and oftener the better, and one of her principal enjoyments was to ride a certain grey pony, which bore the name of Kitty, and was as fond of its young mistress as she could desire. On this pony Grace would roam far and wide, over the Downs and deep into the woods, and many a happy hour did she thus spend amid the lovely scenery of her home. Grace, however, being a farmer's daughter of the olden time, did not neglect those domestic duties to which it was the fashion to attend at the time of which I write. She could bake, make pies and custards, milk the cows, and do a number of things which in the present day would be thought sadly beneath the elevated position of a person in her rank of life. As to chickens, she was famous for the success she always had in the management of those interesting birds, and Grace Kellatt's poultry were well known through all the district.

With such a daughter it is not surprising that Fariner Kellatt had a happy home and was happy man. I mentioned, however, that on market-days the good farmer did not dine at home at his usual hour. The fact is, that it had been his custom for many years to attend the markets held at the neighbouring town of Ashford, which was some four miles from Brabourne Coombe as. the crow flies, or rather (as no road ever follows the habit of the crow in flying straight) some six miles to drive by the road. After the market there was always a pleasant dinner, at which the farmers of the neighbourhood met each other, ate ravenously, discussed their liquor cheerfully, and enjoyed themselves after their own hearts. Farmer Kellatt was always one of this party, and it was at one of their festive gatherings that the incident occurred from which commenced the veneration of the farmer for the Warlock of Coombe.

It had been a good market—a very good market—and the agriculturists had every reason to be satisfied with their day. It is not, however, in the nature of an agriculturist to be too well satisfied, and of course there were some little things, connected with the weather and the crops, which afforded sufficient excuse for some of that wholesome grumbling without which your true Englishman is never thoroughly happy. But there was only just enough grumbling to be comfortable, and the party assembled were as merry as need be. They ate and drank heartily, and after dinner were rather more lively than before. That which somewhat added to their hilarity was the unwonted presence of a stranger. No one knew his name, but he had appeared in the market that day, had made himself generally pleasant, and, having announced that he was doing business for a London house, had shown a capacity and knowledge in dealing with agricultural matters which had procured him the respect of the farming community who were that day at market. He was a man of middle height, rather inclined to be stout, with dark hair, and a keen look about the eyes which made you feel that you were not likely to get the better of him in a bargain. This man, evidently possessed of abilities above the common order, had so pleased the farmers that they invited him to join their party at dinner, and found no reason to regret their invitation. He laughed and talked, ate and drank with the best of them, and proved in fact the life and soul of the party. And after a while, when the conversation flagged, the stranger suggested singing, and, after some little joking had passed upon the subject, volunteered a song himself; and, on silence being obtained, struck up the following :

I.

Here's to the farmer who's got a good holding,

Deep land for ploughing and light land for folding ;

Hay for the mowing and corn for the reaping :

His riches are growing the time he is sleeping!

          Ho! Ha! bumpers of ale!

          Drink we success to the scythe and the fail !

II.

Here's to the farmer whom Fortune embraces ;

Here's to the farmer who goes to the races ;

Here's to the farmer who bets when he chooses;

Here's to the farmer who laughs when he loses !

          Ho! Ha! bumpers of ale !

          Drink we success to the scythe and the Jail!

III.

Here's to the farmer who hunts, shoots, and fishes;

Here's to the farmer who lives as he wishes;

Here's to the farmer whom sorrow ne'er reaches;

Here's to the farmer in top-boots and breeches!

          Ho! Ha! bumpers of ale!

          Drink we success to the scythe and the flail!

IV.

Here's to the farmer of stalwart dimensions ;

Here's to the farmer who hates new inventions;

Here's to the man who lets none of them bore him,

Living as lived his forefathers before him!

          Ho! Ha! bumpers of ale!

          Drink we success to the scythe and the flail!

V.

Drink, every man, to the party around him:

He who refuses the toast—why, confound him!

Here's all good-luck to our traffic and barter,

And long be white wheat eighty shillings a quarter!

          Ho! Ha! humpers of ale!

          Drink we success to the scythe and the fail!

This song having been received with shouts of laughter and applause, no long interval was allowed to elapse before the singer was again called upon to entertain the company.

No, no, said he ; fair play’s a jewel. I’ve sung you my song, and now it’s my right to call upon somebody else. I see lots of singing faces here, if I could only hit upon the right one.

So saying, he looked around; and presently, after a whisper from some one of the party, he pitched upon good Farmer Kellatt and asked him for a song. Now, it so happened that Farmer Kellatt had one or two songs for which he was celebrated among his brother farmers, and a more popular choice could hardly have been made. So, as soon as the stranger pronounced his name, a shout of satisfaction arose from all the party.

Noble call! noble call! they cried; and our friend from Coombe found that he had nothing for it but to obey the order. So, after going through the usual ceremony of saying, first that he had given up singing long ago, next that he had a cold and was so hoarse that he couldn’t sing a note, and then that he was really afraid he had forgotten the words, he commenced his favourite song as follows:

I.

To New-mar-ket one season came

A noble-man of great honour and fame;

Ay, and he had a kinsman kept a grey mare-

Was called Little Dun with her close-cropped ear.

          With a loddy, toddy, tol de rol loddy ti do.

II.

To the noble-man this kinsman cries,

"I’ve made up my mind for to win a prize ;

I’ve matched little Dun this very day

To run against the lively Bay."

          With a loddy, &c. &c.

III.

O kinsman! O kinsman! the noble says he,

"The lively Bay will surely beat thee;

Tho' I know little Dun to be swift and clear,

She’s had nought but grass this three or four year."

          With my loddy, &c. &c.

IV.

The day came on for the pair to run :

The gentry flocked in, and they betted like fun;

They hustled the gold that they'd got in store ;

They down with that, and they bet as much more,

          With their loddy, &c. &c.

V.

"'Twas nine and ten to one on the Bay,

But a lad that was there did a bold word say:

"I've forty bright guineas my uncle give me,

And I'll venture them all on Little Dun'ee."

          With my loddy, &c. &c.

VI.

At the very first start it seemed he was wrong ;

The lively Bay she was so strong,

That she left little Dun by the eighth of a mile,

Which caused the gentlemen all for to smile.

          With their loddy, &c. &c.

VII.

The jockey began to crack his whip,

Which made little Dun to dance and skip ;

Ay, and as they came galloping over the moor,

The little Dun mare came tripping before,

          With a loddy, &c. &c.

VIII.

So now little Dun has won the race,

No longer she must stop in the place :

She's won enough this very day

To make her master carry the sway,

          With a loddy, toddy, tol de rol loddy ti do.

Whilst Farmer Kellatt was singing his song, the stranger kept his eyes fixed earnestly upon him, and, when he had concluded, warmly and loudly joined in the applause with which it was received. Drawing his chair nearer to that of the worthy farmer, he professed a great desire to become better acquainted with a man who could sing such a good song, and was evidently such a pleasant companion. The farmer was by no means indisposed to receive these advances favourably. He was a simple-minded old fellow, always ready to make friends, and well-disposed to meet anyone half-way in that respect. So the two chatted together about one thing and another until the company had begun to disperse, and there were few persons left in the room beside themselves. Then the stranger asked how far from Ashford was Kellatt's farm, and what sort of a place it was, and from one question to another he went on until the farmer proposed that he should come and see for himself.

Nothing I should like better, replied the man, but I have neither horse nor gig, nor do I know anyone in these parts from whom I could borrow either.

"Don’t let that be a hindrance, returned the farmer. Walters of the Turk's Head' has known me and mine these fifty years and more, and he'll let you have a horse to ride back along with me this very evening."

The matter was thus easily arranged, and within half an hour from the time at which this conversation was held, Farmer Kellatt on his stout brown cob, and the stranger on a chestnut mare supplied by the landlord of the Turk’s Head, might have been seen riding side by side down the hill out of Ashford town. They crossed the bridge over the river Stour at the foot of the hill, rode on through Willesborough, and then took the turn to the left, as the farmer thought his new friend would like to see a little more of the country than he would have done by keeping the main road. So they turned and rode through the pleasant village of Hinxhill, and paused on the hill near the church to look eastward, where within a mile or so the dark shades of ancient Bockhanger shut out the view of Hatch beyond. The farmer stayed but an instant to point out to the stranger that abode of the mighty wizard of Bockhanger, so celebrated for many a long year, and believed to be the most powerful magician in the world; and then resuming his journey, he brought his companion to Plumpton corner, and so through to Naccult, and, passing Foreland Green, headed straight for Coombe Wood. Coombe Wood was very different then from what it is now. It extended far over ground which has now for a long time been cleared of trees and brought into cultivation. It reached down to that which is now Bircholt Wood towards the south-west, and was really a small forest, in which the lawless men of Brabourne Leese found frequent refuge from the pursuit of the guardians of the law. But although Coombe Wood was dense and difficult of passage in some parts, and especially so in the part called Coombe Rough, it was easy to ride through the outskirts, and indeed there were sundry tracks through even the thickest part which were well known to Farmer Kellatt. The worthy farmer and his companion, on entering the wood from the Bircholt end, had no difficulty in making their way over the mossy turf, beneath lofty trees which stood at a sufficient distance apart to allow of the passage of horsemen. As they proceeded, however, the trees stood more nearly together. and after a few hundred yards they could only proceed at a foot's space. They had been conversing hitherto upon various subjects connected with the proceedings of the day, the prospects of agriculture, and the beauty of the country. Now, however, the old farmer began to speak of the difficulty of finding the road through Coombe Wood, and how that few save he could with certainty strike the track after passing the fringe of scattered trees which they were leaving behind.

It is a lonely place, sir, he said, and one which many folk would not care to travel.

Is it so? carelessly asked the stranger.

"Ay, that it is, rejoined the other. If robbers were as plentiful here as they are said to be nigher London town, 'twould hardly be safe to travel here unarmed. But, barring the Brabourne Lecse poachers, we're not troubled terribly with them gentry."

I suppose, remarked the stranger, there are no houses near where we are now, and no labourers handy.

You may well say that, returned the farmer; there is no house nigher than Coombe itself, which is hard upon a mile as the path goes; and as for labourers—bless you! a man might bawl his tongue out of his mouth before anyone could hear him where we are now.

So I suppose, answered the stranger, and suddenly drawing a pistol from his breast, he continued : This is about the place I have been looking for. Hand over your watch and purse at once, or you are a dead man!

You may imagine Farmer Kellatt's astonishment at this proceeding. Though no coward by nature, he was so utterly taken aback by his companion's conduct, that for a few seconds he could only stare at him in blank amazement. Then, as the truth dawned upon him, he uttered a groan of mingled surprise and disgust, and found vent for his disturbed feelings in these words:—

Lack-a-daisy me, man, why you beant never in earnest?

Earnest enough, Farmer, returned the stranger with a stern look, as you will presently find. I am Bill Martin of Hounslow Heath, and should think as little of sending a brace of balls through your head as of shooting a dog. Come, fork out!"

And, so saying, he pushed up close to the farmer, and held his pistol in alarming proximity to his head. Thus admonished, the worthy man, being only armed with a slight hazel stick, which had served the purposes of a whip, could make no resistance to the demand urged upon him in such a forcible manner. Moreover, he had heard both of Hounslow Heath and of Bill Martin, the reputation of whose highway robberies had reached even that remote district, and he felt pretty certain that the robber was capable of carrying out his threat. With a deep sigh, therefore, he plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a leather bag, well filled with the proceeds of a sale that very day; then he lugged at the great old-fashioned golden chain to which was attached his watch, and was in the very act of handing them over to his treacherous companion, when an incident occurred which changed the whole order of events.

From behind an aged oak which stood hard by, raising its gigantic head above its fellows, and spreading out its mighty branches on all sides, there suddenly stepped forth a figure and stood before the travellers. It was the figure of a man, tall and gaunt, with long white beard falling over his breast, and apparently clad entirely in garments made of the skins of wild animals; in his right hand, which he stretched forth as he stood, he held a curiously twisted stick made of the holly-tree, and his left arm was folded across his breast.

Hold! he cried in a commanding voice, and then, after a moment's pause, continued—

"Who robs or slays in Brabourne Coombe,

Shall shortly meet a Felon’s doom!"

Up to this moment, the sudden apparition had so startled the highwayman as well as the farmer, that neither of them had uttered a word. But the robber being a man of courage, and seeing only one old man before him, now found his tongue, and with a loud voice he cried—

Come, come, old chap, none of your humbug here. You won't interrupt Bill Martin very easily, I can tell you. Now, Farmer, hand over the cash!.

Doubtful of the ability of his new friend to assist him, or at all events alarmed' by the probability that the pistol might do its work before any assistance could be effectual, the farmer was about to comply, when, in a voice singularly clear and powerful, the venerable man pronounced these words—

"Sons of Coombe! ‘gainst lawless might

Succour! and protect the right!"

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth than there occurred one of the most extraordinary scenes ever witnessed by mortal eyes. From all the bushes and brakes around, there suddenly issued an innumerable quantity of hares and rabbits, who, without a moment’s hesitation, rushed upon the astonished highwayman.



Figure 1: The Warlock of Coombe

At the same instant, the venerable man who had summoned those creatures to his aid stooped down, and, picking up something from the ground, hurled it at his enemy with unerring aim. It was nothing more or less than a hedgehog which was thus thrown, and which, curled up as it was in a prickly ball, struck the robber right in the face, and elicited from him a roar of pain and fury as the blood started from the numerous wounds inflicted upon his unfortunate visage. Never was man so utterly astonished, bewildered, and confused. The hares and rabbits jumped with supernatural strength upon his saddle: the more he beat them off and killed them, as he imagined, the more they crowded upon him; and he found himself in great danger of being scratched to death by their sharp claws, or smothered with the heap of fur which overwhelmed. him. His horse, moreover, being clawed and scratched by the assaulting animals in a most disagreeable manner, became perfectly unmanageable, and after rearing, kicking, and plunging in a fashion which would have dismounted any ordinary horseman, took the bit in his mouth and fairly darted off homewards, shaking off the hares and rabbits as he went. His unfortunate rider was in imminent peril of being knocked off by the overhanging branches, but managed nevertheless to maintain his seat until he was clear of the wood. Then, with bleeding face and hands, and his clothes half torn off his back by the infuriated animals, he was carried by his steed along the road they had come before, and after vainly endeavouring to stop the animal, found himself brought up again in the Turk's Head yard, whence he had started with the farmer.

The highwayman invented some story of having been run away with, which satisfied the ostler who took the horse; and having paid for the hire of the animal, he slipped out of the yard with a determination to visit no more a neighbourhood where the very hares and rabbits played the part of policemen.

Meanwhile Farmer Kellatt, during the strange conflict which had saved his watch and money, had stood transfixed with astonishment. Such a scene he had never witnessed before, nor could he have believed