[COPYRIGHT STORY.] REBECCA MOUNCE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 15, 13 April 1907, Page 28

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] REBECCA MOUNCE

By

S. BARING GOULD,

Author of 44 Mehalah,” Etc.

O LD John Mounce was a small, a very small yeoman and land owner. He had acquired acres in this manner. The road was turned in ISIS, and no sooner Was it turned than ho hedged in the old track and appropriated it. Formerly every highway had broad spaces of turf on each side for the accommodation of drovers, who could pasture their cattle on these stretches on their way to fair and market. Now John Mounce not only enclosed the old road with its side st n iches of turf, but he also took in a good deal of the land on the side of the new road, and no man forbade him. Indeed squatters other than he did the same. There was likewise an adjacent common, and John Wounce annexed unTcbuked a portion of this also. He had a- house, not a mere cottage, by the highway. But John Mounce got into dilliculties in his old age by entering into a law suit, and when he died he left, to his sole surviving child, Rebecca, his house and his debts, so that most of the land went to the creditors and his daughter had little or nothing left to her but the house, a tiny orhard, and p c abbage garden. 1 believe that Rebecca had an affaire de coeur with the son of a farmer near by. but when the young man found how Badly left she was, he broke off the engagement. Whether it was this disappointment. or her pecuniary losses, pr both together, or whether a vein of singularity were in her from birth, I cahnot say: but Rebecca thenceforth became a character of some note and much comment in the neighbourhood. She never had another attachment, ami lived on alone in her house till the catastrophe, which 1 shall relate by and Lye. How she lived, on what she lived, for something like thirty-five years, 1 am unable to say. for my connection with the neighbourhood was interrupted. When I returned she was more of a mystery than before. She did not go cut charring, she had no ostensible means of livelihood. Yet she always had some money, and once a week went to the village, and paid coin down for her bread. It was said, with how much truth I cannot say, as I was never invited to share in one of her meals, that she collected slugs and snails, and out of them produced an appetising soup in which she steeped her bread. At one time she kept a pig, but when 1 came to renew acquaintance with her after thirty-five years, she had none, for the roof of the pig-stye had fallen in. Iler apples ami cabbages certainly formed the staple of her diet. For t< a she was entirely indebted to tin- parson's wife, ami to other Find ladies who pitied her. She brewed poppy-wine, and would cdler it to anyone whom she favoured. Fhe brought it out once for me. very nady -tutl it appeared to be. but I put it to my lips, and had a sip. ‘‘There jiow.’’ -aid she, “you’re not proud as <d h< rs be. There was a young lady licir t’ other day as burst out laughing when I presented her with a glass of my wine, and I threw the contents in Jier face ami spoiled her bonnet. As for you I shall pray for you night and la-cause you tasted my poppyWinc.’’ I he reetoi - daughter was a favourite, Dnd to her one day -he brought out a bit of really beautiful lacc and present- *'* >t to l»<-r. But as the young lady Was retiring with the lace, Jtebecca.

called after her, “Come back, I want my hue” “But Becky, you gave it me.” “And I have given it to scores of others. I’ve nothing else to give, and I want the lace for a score of others.” One day, in a confidential mood, she talked of her early engngement to Joe Turniturve. “Ah!” said she, and her wild eyes flashed; “Joe thought I was not good enough for he. when the lawyers came and took away my land. After that he never throve. He had no stomach for his meat. He grew listless, ami couldn’t work on the farm. He had pains in his chest and side, and he wasted away and died—he died, he did.” A savage gleam came into her eyes, and her cheeks flushed. “Well, I’ll tell you a curious thing. But it's not so curious neither. Three nights after he had been buried, he came to my bedside, ami said to me. ‘Rebecca, where is that silk handkerchief 1 gave you?’ You must know* when he courted me, he did give me a fine red silk kerchief with yellow 7 and blue flowers on it. * It's in my drawer,’ 1 answered. ‘You must give it me. 1 must take it or you underground with me.’ Well I got out of bed and fetched the silk kerchief and handed it to him. and he went away with it. If 1 hadn't done that he'd have drawn me to the churchyard after him.” ! “Oh,” said I, “it was a dream.'’ “It was no dream at all,” answered Rebecca. “And the proof was that the kerchief was gone next morning, and I've nev-rr set eyes on it since. But it’s my lielief. if you’d dig into his grave, you'd have found his hand clutching it.*’ It is perhaps not to be wondered at that after the death of Joe Turniturve, it should be supposed that she had “illwished’’ him. and indeed she rather hinted that she had, and that it was this which brought him to his grave. After this, she was looked upon with awe. If anyone offended her, she would fix her very bright dark eyes on him. and say:—• “I knew so-and-so as spoke impudent-like to me. and he wasted away to a shadow’. Take care of yourself, I say.” This was enough io make the heart quail, and the offenders hastened to regain her favour by a present of a basket of eggs or a chicken. People from far ami near had recourse to her to bo charmed for various disorders, or receive her quack medicines. Here is one of her charms for toothache. “As our Blessed Lord Jesus Christ was walking in the Garden of Jerusalem, Jesus said to Peter, ‘Peter, why weepest thou?’ Peter answered and said, “I am grievously tormented with a pain in my tooth.’ Jesus said to Peter. ‘lf thou wilt believe in me, and my words abide in thee, thou wilt never more feel any more pain in thy tooth.’ Peter cried out. ‘Lord J believe, help thou mine unbelief.’ Grant that this man (or this woman) may have ease in tooth in the name of Peter, ami of the Father, etc.'’ Here is a recipe for spasms. 2oz. of oil of turpentine; 2oz. of swillowes; 2oz. of earthworms; 2oz. of oil of nerve; as much of spellidock, ami as much of Spanish flics.’’ Here is one for jaundice. “Take an old well-blackened clay tobacco pipe. Pound up the bowl, and swallow as much as will go on a sixpence.” II err is a charm for inflammation. “Out of the marrow and into the bone t

Out of the bone and into the flesh, Out of the flesh and into the skin, Out of the skin and into the earth, In the Name, ete., Rebecca had a thick book, in which were written her charms and recipes. This book she promised to give me before her death, blit, alas, the catastrophe prevented that promise from being fulfilled. , Although, I have not the book I possess a score of her charms communicated to me at different periods. As a wise women ’ she was in request to staunch blood. A farmer, churchwarden of his parish, asked a workman to remove a wart from the udder of his cow with a razor. The man complied, but owing to the cow wincing or kicking he cut the leg of the poor beast so that, the blood spurted forth. “Run,” said the master, “run for Rebecca to staunch the blood.” 1 he man hastened for the old woman, and brought her to the stall, when she mumbled a charm; but the blood flowed as copiously as before. "I do not understand this, Mr. Hooker,” said she, “you must have done the cut in some unusual way.” “Oil,' said the farmer. “I did not cut the cow. it was Tom Whitelock did it.” “That accounts for my failure. I said the charm, thinking you had made the wound. Now I must charm again.’ She repeated the words and instantly the blood ceased to stream forth. This was told me by the man Whitelock himself. In a. parish five miles distant a man in the hayfield cut his leg with a scythe, and bled copiously. At once the farmer for whom he worked sent a horseman galloping, with a kerchief in his hand that was saturated with blood from the wound, and bade him not draw rein till he reached Rebecca Mounce, who would stanch the flow of blood. This she did by repeating words over the blood-drenched rag. I was assured that the flow ceased as nearly as could be judged at the very time that she uttered the blessing over the kerchief. Undoubtedly Rebecca received a consideration in money for such services; but she also accepted little donations of a bit of bacon, or some potatoes, or a pasty from cottagers who desired to stand well with her. That the old woman owed her influence and the power she exercised in the neighbourhood, and the confidence she inspired, to natural shrewdness is not to be doubted. Take this instance. A farmer, who had indeed but a small holding of sixty acres, had lost his wife in giving birth to her first child. He was a strapping man of thirty-four, florid broad-shouldered, frugal, ami not given to spending his money at the tavern. He consulted Rebecca about marrying again. “Certainly you must marry,” said she. “It’s the sincerest compliment you

ean offer to her as is gone before. It shows how comfortable you were with her.” “And there’s the baby,” said the farmer. "Aye, >f you’re a kind-hearted man you won’t let that poor mite go without a mother. What’s the best gift you could give to a child but a mother.” “There’s something in what you say,” obsotved the man meditatively. “It’s very much as I’ve been putting the matter to myself. But, Rebecca, whom am I to marry, that’s what I’d like to know.” "These things be ordained,” said she; “marriages be made in heaven.” “I daresay, but as I han’t got a ladder tall enough to get up, to heaven to make enquiries there, I’m in a mess. I don’t know whom to choose. You see, Rebecca, it would hurt my feelings, just as if I had corns and someone trod on them, if I was to ask a girl and she refused me.” “Then you mustn’t ask the wrong one.” “But how am I to know which is the right one?” "Cross my hand with silver, and I’ll :t< 11 you right enough.” Accordingly half a crown was produced, and drawn to right and left, then up and down over her palm, and the coin allowed to remain in it. when she closed her lingers upon it. “Now then, Mr. Tooke, I’ll tell you. As you be going home, should you pass a comely, weneh, let her go by, then turn round and look after her. If she also turais to have a look at you—that’s the right one and no mistake.” 'thus as Mr. Tooke was returning through the village, there was a buxom damsel in the way, in fact, I strongly surmise, that she was going to visit Rebecca Mounce, on some subject of her own, and that the old woman wag aware that she was coming. As Air. Tooke passed the girl, he studied her out of the corners of his eyes, and he had not taken many steps forward before. he turned about, and nearly at the same moment Sally Dawe turned to look after the handsome and prosperous farmer. “That's the right one,” said Air. Tooke, and instead of proceeding on hi., way, he followed and eaught up Sally, ami then and there proposed to her. She did not say him nay, and he observed : “I think, Sally, we’ll go on together to Mother Alounce, and let her know as how we’ve each of us found the right one.” But I am sure that all her advice tended to such good results as the above, for in the above the advice did lead to excellent results. Sally Dawe became Mrs. Tooke, and as hard-work-ing. cleanly, obliging farmer’s wife as is to be found for twenty miles round. Now in the case I am about to relate, and which is perfectly true, I can-

not state for certain that the advice was tendered by Rebecca; it may have been given by another “white witch,” but owing to serious consequences that ensued, neither of the two parties, concerned in the consultation breathed a word relative to the matter.

A man, whom we will call Sandridge, had a daughter, who, having had influenza, fell into deep depression, which she was unable to shake off, and indeed made no effort to do so. Sandridge was warmly attached to the girl, and he went to consult a “wise woman”—which wise woman never transpired. This woman told him that the young woman had been "overlooked,” and that he would see the person who had bewitched her shortly. That person had killed a pig, and would go to him and ask if he would take a portion. Now, unfortunately, a neighbour, Dennis, had killed a pig, and Mrs. Dennis did look in and ask this very question. The cottage of the Dennis’ was low and thatched. In the night Dennis awoke, hearing a sound which he thought at first was produced by rats in the thatching, but shortly afterwards ho noticed a light, sprang out of bed, and found that his thatch was on fire. He had but barely time to rouse his wife and children, and get them out into the road, before the roof fell in and his everything was destroyed. It was sl’cwn conclusively that the thatch had been deliberately set on fire by an incendiary, for the matches were found ou a hedge that rose to the level of the eaves, and there were marks of where a man had scrambled on to the hedge, also a postage stamp that had fallen from his poeket when he drew out the matches. But no evidence could be found to fix who had set the house on fire, though the neighbourhood knew pretty well who was the culprit, and what was the motive which urged him to an act which might have destroyed a whole family. But actually the responsibility for the crime goes back to the woman who was consulted, and pointed out the object for revenge.

After- having occupied the cottage for Tong years without doing any repairs, the thatch of Rebecea-s house fell in, in

sodden masses, and thus in time the rafters rotted and gave way. Then she took to living in an upstair bedroom, under the portion of the thatch still in place. “There be two angels in white sit on the stairs all night waveinng,” she assured me, “and I can see them whenever I open the door. And if I want to pass, I make my respects to them, and they let me go by.” Then the thatch over her bedroom leaked, and she was constrained to sleep

with her head under the chimney, with a sack of straw- stuffed up it, as the only place where she could keep dry. Next in fell the roof, most happily not during the night whilst she was there, but when she was engaged in cutting a cabbage in her garden.

She was now driven to take refuge in one of the lower rooms, sheltered solely by the floor that had fallen in a slan.t.ig position, one end of the beams hokrng place in the wall, the other end having rotted away had fallen. This slanting roof of floorboards in a measure sheltered her, as it let the rain slide off, but it had this disadvantage, that it cut off the doorway and obstructed the fireplace. As she could not find ingress and egress by any door, she crawled in and out through the casement of the window. But of the window the majority of the panes were broken, and were supplemented with rags. In this compartment she could do no cooking as the fireplace was outside. Consequently what cooking she had to perform was done in the open air. In the bitterest winter she eould not have any fire in her cabin, but occasionally she lit a fire on the mud floor to boil water for tea; on such occasions she was nearly smothered by the smoke that could escape only by the window. In this lodging she had an old oak chest, and this she lined with such betiding as she had preserved, and at night crawled into it for sleep, propping the lid up with a couple of bricks. The window that served her as well as door, looked into the garden and orchard. No one passing the road who was unacquainted with the facts would for a mo-

luent have supposed that any human being could inhabit such a ruin. Iler rase was under consideration by the magistrates at petty sessions, but it was decided that nothing could Im* done with her. as she was residing on Iter own land, and was not a nuisance to her neighbours, for near neighbours she had none, nor was she in any immediate danger of her life, and to lie removed to the workhouse she refused absolutely. As a young woman she had been comely. and neat in her dress, and cleanly in her person, hut as circumstances altered, she altered for the wor-e. hut there was always a certain picturcsqiiencss in her apparel—a scarlet petticoat, though very dirty, and a. red kerchief over her head or about her throat. But. oh! how be-g rimed were her hands, and how unkempt her wild hair. It was three years since she had been known tc buy a bit of soap at the village store. Access to her garden, and through her garden to her door window, was obtained through a gap that had once been occupied by a wicket gate. It was now artificially obstructed with thorns. If any visitor desired to see Rebecca, he or she shouted. Presently a muffler I response reached him. and five minutes later she appeared at the gap. and began deftly to unlace the thorns. As to crawling in through her window into the foul dog-kennel in which she dwelt, no one ventured on that. One day. having a Scottish gentleman staying with me, I took him over to call on We had a long interview*. As we left, he turned to me with a look of dismay, ami said, “Good heavens! in the wildest parts of the Highlands such a thing would be impossible—and in England—” he did not finish his sentence. And now I come to the catastrophe concerning which 1 have already thrown out a hint or two. It was usual for the hunters when passing that way, to halt before the ruin, and shout for Rebecca; and the old woman would presently appear, tear down her obstruction of thorns, and enter into conversation with the sportsmen, who had ever a joke or a kind word for her; and

who never left without pressing a fair coins into her very dirty palm. (hie winter’s day, the hunters were on their way home, and passed the cottage on their way. As usual their rose a shout for Rebecca. “Coming, but I’m boiling water for tea!” And the smoke issuing from Im*tween the planks that roofed her in. showed that she had kindled a lire in h< i den. However. she came forth, and stopped for a chat and expectant half crown: when all at omc a cry escaped her, as a llama shot up. ami m a »ew minutes it was clear that her habitation was blazing. The hunters dismounted and endvax oured to extinguish the lire, but it was found impossible to do thi-. the floor overhead flamed and fell, ami all her possessions were destroyed. That settled matters. Siu* was carried away to end her days in a workhouse where she would be washed ami well fed.