Well, the King’s advisers seemed quite satisfied to let Porter take him across the Fens alone. When they arrived at St. Ives, they had to cross the river by a ford. Guarding this ford was two of Cromwell’s soldiers. But when Porter produced the grey feather, they said, “Pass, all is well.” They were Fenmen. So eventually King Charles arrived at the Bell Tavern, in Huntingdon, and he gave a reward to Porter for taking of him over, but he retained the grey goose feather. Some time afterwards, the king was taken prisoner, but before that happened, one of the officers in charge of the troops in Cromwell’s army heard about how the sentry let them through, and he brought them along to Cromwell. But Cromwell was a Fenman too; so he said to that officer, “It is better for a king to escape than for the Fenmen to go back on a man who carries the split goosefeather.”
So he let the men go, and not long after that King Charles was caught, and they brought him up to London and tried him, and he was sentenced to death. But the night before the execution, when Cromwell was sitting down to supper with his staff, a messenger came from the king, and Cromwell told his servant to let him in.
The messenger said: “His Majesty does not beg for mercy, but he demands as a right the help you must give to every man who carries this token.”
And he flung down a grey goose quill on the table in front of Cromwell. Cromwell told everyone to go out, and he sat looking at the grey goose feather. And in the morning when the servants came in he was still looking at it.
Well, the king was beheaded, but Cromwell was never the same man again. He brooded and brooded, and what made things worse, all the Fenmen, who had served him well up to that time, sent back their goosefeathers, all broken and bent, and they said they were going back to the Fens, where there were still men who kept their word. And as he’d been false to the old custom of the feather, none of the promises that went with it would ever be made to him or any of his family again.
40
Swayne’s Leaps
Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 29, 1963, as she heard the account from a laboring man in the Polden Hills, Somerset, in 1947. She heard other versions at Knowle St. Giles, two miles outside Chard, in 1959; in Eddington, 1962; and in Sutton Stawell in May, 1963. Stones (since moved) were placed to mark the leaps in Loxley Wood.
Discernible motifs are F1071, “Prodigious jump”; F1088, “Extraordinary escapes”; and K551.28, “Captors give captive respite in order to witness alleged marvel.”
THIS HERE Tom Swayne he weren’t much of a chap to have around a farm, but he could jump wonderful and he was surprising fond of his dear wife and little ones. Now there was a lad, out over, could run so fast as his father’s hoss, and there was to be a match between the pair, see—who was champion. Then “the war” come—down over there on the moors, and Tom Swayne and this young chap they was both took. Well, they cruel devils did promise the young chap he was to be spared if he can match with a bay colt and win, which he did. Then they devils hang him high with other honest men! Oh ’twas a time of tears and sadness, ’twas. Now, Tom Swayne he’s in a turrible fright in case he do swing then and there, but they marches him along this here road to Street. Well, his dear wife and the children run out to beg and pray for his life and his heart do nearly break in two.
Then he say to they soldiers, “Looky zee, have ’ee ever heard tell of a man as could jump from where we do stand now right to the edge of thic wood in dree leaps?” They wouldn’t have it, but he say, “Let’s have a try and you can bet on it. I’d a-wish my little children to remember my powers.”
Now, a Moorlynch man would ha’ been looking out for a bit of a trick, but they sojers didn’t know he. They loosed his bonds and he do leap. One: fifteen feet. Then he do leap. Two: eighteen feet. Then he do leap. Dree: twenty-one feet—right over edge of wood and down in under the fern—and they’d a-lost their prisoner. When all them days was gone by Tom Swayne he come home to his own dear souls all safe and sound.
41
The Lost Bride
Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 21, 1963, who heard the story from “Annie’s Granny” in her old age when she was in an almshouse at Chard or Yeovil, in Somerset, about 1920.
This version is about Shapwick, where a stone in the chancel of the church tells of the “daughter and heiress of the family honor and estates who died June 14, 1681. Taken away by a sudden and untimely fate at the very time of the marriage celebrations.”
There seems to be no European counterpart to this story, which is not given a number in the Motif-Index. There are several versions of it in England, all supposed to be historical, though with very little foundation. It is also well known in the United States, mainly by reason of Thomas Haynes Bayley’s Song, “The Mistletoe Bough,” which was a popular item in village concerts, and which became traditional in the United States, though with very little variation either in words or tune. See Maurice W. Disher, Victorian Song: from Dive to Drawing Room (London, 1955), p. 89. The explanation attached to the song has undergone more folk mutation, for the bride is usually described as a princess. In England the song is generally supposed to relate to a bride of the Yorkshire Lovels of Skelton, but Minster Lovel in Oxfordshire also claims to be the scene of the tragedy, and Broomshill in Hampshire is another claimant.
’TIS A TURBLE zad tale, zo tis, but it do go thisaway. Parson had a darter, a purty young thing her was, and her was agettin’ wed to her true love. There was a fine junketings and there they all was playing old games and merriment. And her went to hidey in a girt big chest, in attic ’twas, and lid come down crackey on poor maid’s head and her fell in a swound inzide chest, and chest did lock itself. They did go lookin’ up and down for the bride and no one could find she—and her true love’s heart did break zo they buried the poor young man—but her never come back no more. Nobody could tell where her was to; then one day they come into the attic for something or another and opened the chest—and there her lay in her wedding gown, and her were just a skeleton.
42
The Thievish Sexton
Recorded by Ruth L. Tongue, September 29, 1963, who heard her version in Watchet, in Somerset. The legend is closely attached to St. Decuman’s Church, Watchet.
This is Type 990, The Seemingly Dead Revives, and Motif K426, “Apparently dead woman revives when thief tries to steal from her grave,” reported in scattered instances throughout Europe, with 77 examples in the Irish Folklore Archives. Baughman cites five American and four English variants. E. S. Hartland reprinted two texts in Folk-Lore of Gloucestershire, County Folk-Lore, No. 1, Part I (London, 1892), “The Lady Restored to Life,” pp. 27–28. In Yorkshire the heroine is a miller’s wife; see Mrs. Gutch, Folk-Lore of the North Riding of Yorkshire, County Folk-Lore, No. 2 (London, 1901), pp. 386–88. A southern Illinois variant is reprinted in R. M. Dorson, Buying the Wind (Chicago, 1964), pp. 310–11. A German version was used in Zangerle’s Puppet Theatre in Cologne. See Cyril W. Beaumont, Puppets and Puppetry (London, 1958), pp. 84–85, for the story outline and pictures of the marionette characters.
In no case has the story actually been substantiated, though there have often been cases of catalepsy recorded in the families concerned.
YOUNG MISTRESS FLORENCE Wyndham, ’er were took ill, and in spite of all they could do for she, ’er died, and ’er dear ’usband, ’e were ’eartbroken. They took she from Kentsford Farm, where ’er lived, up to St. Decuman’s Church, and they buried ’er in the family vault. And then, ’er poor ’usband were took back to Kentsford.
Well, that night, the sexton ’e came creeping back to church, and ’e opened the vault again. You see, she ’ad some lovely jewels, and e’ ’ad a mind to they. ’E crep’ in with a little lantern, and ’e took ’old of ’er cold ’and, and ’e wrenched off one ring and another, but there was one ’e couldn’t move. So ’e took out ’is knife to cut off the vinger o’ she, and it bled! Well, ’e were so terrified, ’e just stood there, quaking, and the vigger of the lady, all in ’er shroud, sat up. Well, ’e turned around, and ’e kick over the lantern, and there ’e stood in the dark, while something rustled past ’e and out. Well, ’e were that terrified, ’e come out o’ the church, and ’e run, and ’e run, and ’e run. And in ’is terror, ’e run over the edge of Old Cleeve cliffs, and ’e dropped down ninety feet into the sea, and no one ever saw anything of ’im again.
Well, the volks down to Snailholt Farm, they found themselves awaked by a voice, and it were the voice o’ Mistress Florence Wyndham! Oh! They shook and they shivered in their beds, and at last, young Missis, she says, “Well, Mistress Wyndham, she never did no ’arm to I. I’ll go and see what ghost want.”
So ’er took and ’er looked out o’ chimmer window, and there were the young mistress alive, with ’er ’and bleeding. Oh! They took the poor soul in, put a cloak round she, and took ’er back to Kentsford, and what’s more, ’er was alive and well for years arterwards, and give ’er ’usband two more lusty sons.
43
Mr. Fox’s Courtship
Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 29, 1963, who heard this cante-fable (story with a song included) from a farmer’s daughter who was told it by her grandfather in Thorn St. Margaret, Blackdown Hills, in Somerset.
Baughman assigns this a new subtype, 955C, Mr. Fox, and cites English variants from Yorkshire, Derbyshire, Cornwall, Gloucestershire, Buckinghamshire, Lincolnshire, and Cambridgeshire, and American ones from North Carolina, Tennessee, Missouri, Kentucky, and Indiana, all states with English and Scotch-Irish settlers. “The Oxford Student,” told by J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps in Nursery Rhymes and Popular Tales (London, 1849), p. 49, is an early version of this tale, but it has a close connection, too, with “Mr. Fox” as known by Shakespeare. The story nearest to “Mr. Fox” is “The Cellar of Blood,” a gipsy tale summarized by T. W. Thompson in his manuscript notebooks (1914).
Motif G661.1, “Ogre’s secret overheard from tree” is present, and B651.1, “Marriage to fox in human form,” is suggested.
The Robber Bridegroom (Type 955, Grimm No. 40), widely spread throughout Europe, is much nearer to the “Mr. Fox” story; the riddle and the grave belong mainly to the English tradition.
“Hose-bird” means rascal. Red-headed men are always mistrusted in Somerset.
Miss Tongue knows two other songs upon this story. She also says, “A fragmentary version which seems to come from Somerset recollections was that of the maid who asked her suitor a riddle: ‘’Tis too little for a hoss, too large for a bee.’ He couldn’t answer her, so before her kinsman killed him she told him: ‘Too little for a hoss, too large for a bee/1 reckon ’twas the grave you digged for me.’”
This song was heard by Miss Tongue about 1910 and published in Word-Lore, 1 (1926), p. 33.
False Foxes (1)
Where was I last Saturday night? Up in the ivy-tree.
