📚📚"Folktales of England" by Katharine M. Briggs and Ruth L. Tongue

Drake’s Cannon Ball

Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 28, 1963, as she heard the legend from a member of Watchet Women’s Institute in 1950, and in Chipstable, on the Devon border, in 1960.

Sir Francis Drake was believed to be a magician by the Spaniards, but his reputation was no better among his fellow Westcountrymen. Various stories of his magical feats are told by Mrs. Bray, The Borders of the Tamar and the Tavy, Vol. II, pp. 28–34; and Robert Hunt, Popular Romances of the West of England, First Series (London, 1865), “Sir Francis Drake and His Demon,” pp. 260–62; and repeated by Christina Hole, English Folk-Lore (London, 1940), pp. 146–67. The people around Combe Sydenham still believe that Drake’s cannon ball rolls up and down in times of national danger, and his drum was said to sound during the Second World War. John Henry Newbolt’s poem, “Drake’s Drum,” commemorates this belief (Collected Poems 1897–1907, London, 1910, pp. 15–17).

Motifs present are H335.4, “Suitor task: to defeat enemies”; D1123, “Magic ship”; and, in Baughman, G295*(g), “Wizard produces gunboats from pieces of wood in water” and G295*(k), “Wizard throws cannon ball several thousand feet to prevent second marriage of wife who thought him dead”.

THERE WERE ONE o’ the Sydenham maids, and ’er got ’erself betrothed to Sir Francis Drake. But afore they could be married, ’e ’ad to go away on a voyage, and ’ow long it’d be afore ’e could come back, no one knew, and ’e didn’t trust ’er father. So they took their troth-plight, the two of ’en, afore Drake sailed away. Well, ’e sailed away, for three long years, and Sir George Sydenham, ’e found another suitor for ’is daughter, a much richer one. Well, no matter what the maid do say, marriage were announced, and she were half afraid o’ Sir Francis Drake, but she were more afraid of ’er father. So she give in.

Well now, Sir Francis Drake, ’e did do some very strange things—’e did sit on Plymouth ’oe, a-whittling of a stick, and all the chips that fell into the sea, they did turn into ships, to go fight the Spanish Armada. Now, although ’e’d been gone three years, ’e knew what was ’appening, so at the very door o’ the church, ’e dropped a red-’ot cannon ball in front o’ the bridal party. Oh! give ’en a fright, did—and when ’e come ’ome at last, ’twas to find ’is bride and ’er dear father a-waiting for ’en with smiles. As for t’other bridegroom, ’e’d a-taken ’isself across the length and breadth of England. But I expect Sir Francis Drake knew where ’e was tew!

45

Marshall’s Elm

Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 28, 1963, as she heard the account in 1946 on a riding tour in Somerset from a Glastonbury farmer. She had heard previous mentions in the early 1920’s from friends in Street.

This tradition is one of the many instances of the deeply rooted memories left in Somerset by the experiences of the Monmouth Rebellion in 1685, when fames Scott, Duke of Monmouth, rebelled against James II, claiming he was the legitimate son of Charles II.

Applicable is Baughman’s Motif G271.4.1(a), “Exorcism by burning or boiling animal heart stuck with pins (commonly nine). Usually this process brings the witch to the scene because of the burning it sets up in her heart.” For a cow or bullock’s heart he gives fourteen references from northern to southern England.

For discussions of the “Bloody Judge” Jeffreys see John Tutchin, The Bloody Assizes, ed. J. J. Muddiman (Edinburgh, 1929), and Hilaire Belloc, James the Second (London, 1928), pp. 187–91.

“Marshall’s Elm” is the name of the tree on which the boy was hanged; it was still standing in 1946. “Urchin” is a hedgehog.

THERE WERE A varmer o’ Walton near Street. ’E ’ad a only son, and ’e were tremenjus proud of ’e. Well, the lad, like so many more lads, ’e went to fight for Duke o’ Monmouth down to Sedgemoor battle, and ’e were taken a prisoner. Well, ’is vather ’e were frantic, and ’e try and ’e try to get the lad’s life saved. ’E spent all ’is savings, and ’e sold ’is ’arvest, and ’e took ’en to Judge Jefferies. And then, ’aving took all ’e ’ad to offer, the Bloody Judge gave orders the lad should be ’anged right afore ’is ’ome. Well, they did so, and the vather ’e stood by, and when ’twas all over, ’e turned round wi’out a word, and ’e go down to stables, and ’e kill ’is best bullock. And then ’e pull out the girt ’ot bleeding ’eart o’ ’im, and ’e drove nail arter nail through ’en, till it looked like a red urchin. Then not saying a word, ’e go back to kitchen, and ’e carry the ’eart there, and ’e nail it up in the chimney, where ’twas smoked and scorched for years.

And arter that day, the Bloody Judge, ’e were taken wi’ choking coughs, and scorching burning pains all round ’is ’eart, which pierced ’en right through. And whenever ’e got an attack like that, there come a sight afore ’is eyes, no matter whether ’e closed ’em or no—the sight of a ’anging lad.

46

Jack White’s Gibbet

Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 9, 1963. This version was heard in a composite discussion at Wincanton in 1948, but Miss Tongue had been familiar with the story from 1906 onwards. A very popular Barnstormers play on the subject is still performed in Somerset.

An article on the actual event and the traditional accretions of the story was contributed by H. B. Irving to The Somerset Year Book for 1922 (p. 60). The murdered man was killed partly in a drunken quarrel and partly from motives of greed, aroused ironically enough by a gilded Nuremberg token mistaken for a guinea. The crime was easily proved, Jack White was hanged and afterwards gibbeted on the scene of the crime. This was in 1790. Popular imagination got to work, and not only was the gibbet supposed to be haunted (Motif E274, “Gallows ghost”), but the incident of the bleeding of the corpse in the presence of the murderer (Motif D1318.5.2, reported by Baughman for Shropshire, Yorkshire, and Lincolnshire) began to be told. A rumor that Jack White had unwittingly killed his own brother even brought the tale into the orbit of the popular Tale-Type 939 A, that of the returning son unwittingly killed by his parents. (See No. 26, “The Son Murdered by his Parents,” in this volume.) This text is of particular interest to the folklorist as an example of the way in which rumor and tradition work.

JACK WHITE WERE a ostler, ’e weren’t a very good one neither—a bit too fond o’ cards ’e was; and ’e took to dipping ’is fingers into other people’s pockets to find the cash to pay back ’is debts. Well now, there come a traveler to the inn, and ’e got over full o’ zider, and ’e wasn’t very wise about things, and ’e let on that ’e’d got a lot o’ gold about ’en. Well, next morning, when ’e do leave the inn, and go on ’is way, Jack White, ’e up and followed ’im, and when ’e’d gotten up by the crossroads, ’e murdered ’im, dead. Some say that ’e knifed ’im with ’is own knife, ’Twere a case-knife, and the man were a sailor. Anyways, Jackie White, ’e took the gold; and ’e run back to inn.

Well, someone came along, and they found that man all dead and murdered in ’is gore, and they bring corpse down to town, and they put ’en out, so’s everyone should see ’en—see if they recognise ’en; and the crowds did come from Wincanton and Castle Carey, all round like, to see if they recognise dead man; and Jack White, ’e just daresn’t stay away. Well, when the crowd began to press round like, to ’ave a look at the dead corpse, Jack White, ’e got pushed to the front, and so soon as ’e got pushed to the front, that there corpus’s nose began to bleed, a little bit, just a little trickle, but someone spied ’en, and they said, “’Tis a-bleeding! ’Ere!” And they looked round, and there were Jack White, so white as—oh! like a bit o’ snow. And they pushed ’en a bit further near corpse and—well! blood came gushing out like, and they laid ’ands on Jack White, and they said, “’Ere be murderer!”

And they took ’en, and they ’anged ’en, up by crossroads. And there ’e do ’aunt. Ah! They do say, some on ’em, as the man killed were ’is own dear brother, come ’ome from the seas, and Jack ’e never recognised ’e, and the brother never let on. And that’s why Jack do ’aunt.

47

The Foreign Hotel

Katharine M. Briggs heard this story from Agnes Hannam in 1915 in Yorkshire. Baughman has assigned it Motif Z552, “The mysterious disappearance. Guest mysteriously disappears from hotel room.”

Alexander Woollcott attempted to trace the source of this legend in While Rome Burns (New York, 1934), “The Vanishing Lady,” pp. 87–94, but came to a dead end with a report in the Detroit Free Press in 1889.

A LADY AND her daughter were traveling abroad, and arrived late at night, very tired after an exhausting journey, at the hotel where they had booked their rooms. The mother was particularly worn out. They were put into adjoining rooms, and the daughter tumbled into bed and fell asleep at once. She slept long and heavily, and it was well on in the next day before she got up. She opened the door into her mother’s room, and found it empty. And it was not the room into which they had gone the night before. The wallpaper was different, the furniture was different, the bed was made up. She rang, and got no answer to her bell; she dressed and went downstairs.

“Can you tell me where my mother is?” she said to the woman at the reception desk.

“Your mother, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, the lady who arrived with me last night.”

“But, mademoiselle, you came alone.”

“We booked in; the night porter will remember; we wrote for two rooms!”

“Mademoiselle indeed wrote for two rooms, but she arrived alone.”

And wherever she asked among the servants she got the same answer, until she began to think that she must be mad.

At last she went back to England and told her friends what had happened and one of them went to investigate. He went to the consul and the police and at last he found out the truth. The mother had been more than tired when she arrived that night, she had been in the invasion stages of cholera. No sooner had she gone to bed than she was taken violently ill; the doctor was sent for, she died, and the hotel owners were filled with panic and decided to conceal all that had happened. The body was carried away, the furniture was taken out to be burnt, the wall was re-papered, and all the staff were told to allow nothing to be guessed of what had happened. They knew that not a guest would be left to them if it was known that cholera had been in the house.

48

The Stolen Corpse

Recorded from Winifred E. Briggs, in Burford, Oxfordshire, November 3, 1963. She heard it in Canada from a cousin who had heard it in Leeds, Yorkshire. It is by way of becoming an international migratory legend. Stewart Sanderson of Leeds University is making a collection of various versions of the tale, some of them dating back twenty years. It is, however, traveling, for Laurits Bødker of Copenhagen had seen it as a newspaper story told about Poland, and Bengt Holbek, also of the Folkedigtning Institut in Copenhagen, knew it in September, 1963, having heard it from Gustav Henningsen—again about Spain—from a friend’s friend. I have lately come across versions from Sussex and Kent. Richard M. Dorson heard an American variant in East Lansing, Michigan, December 31, 1963, localized in the Southwest.

THIS STORY WAS told me by my cousin, who had heard it from a friend in Leeds, about a couple whom he knew, who went for a camping holiday in Spain with their car. They had taken his stepmother with them. She slept in a different tent to the others. On the morning that they struck, they were very busy, and they didn’t hear anything of her for a while, and then, when they went to her tent, they found she had died, and rigor had already set in. They were in a great state, and they didn’t know what to do, but they decided to roll her up in the tent, and put her on top of the car, and go to the nearest town, and go to the consul and the police. So they did this, and went to the town, and then they felt very cold and miserable, and they hadn’t had a proper breakfast. So they thought they’d get a cup of coffee to revive them, before they went in search of the consul. So they parked the car, and went to a small cafe, and had their cup of coffee, and then came back to look for the car. But it wasn’t there. It had gone.

So they went home to England without the car or the stepmother. But the difficulty was, they couldn’t prove her will.