WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY IN WALES

by Mary Lewis

from The queer side of things (1923)

Extraordinary though it seems in this practical age, the professional "wise man" and "witch" are, I believe, scarcely yet extinct in the remote country districts of Wales, though, of course, their number, already few, is dwindling yearly. Also it is very difficult to hear of them nowadays, as they rarely display their talents. But there is certainly no doubt that instances could easily be found up to quite a few years ago — perhaps even now — of ailing people consulting the local wise man as a last resort when the ordinary doctor's treatment has failed. Whatever the quality or attribute peculiar to wise men and witches, it was sometimes said to be confined to certain families. In a hamlet not many miles from my own home there was a "witch" family; that is, there was always some member or another who could claim "witch" powers. The connection between witches and hares was very widely spread. Addison mentions the belief in one of his Essays, writing of an old crone called Moll White. "If a hare makes an unexpected escape from hounds, the huntsman curses Moll White... I have known the master of a pack upon such an occasion send one of his servants to see if Moll White had been out that morning." Not only was it thought that witches transformed themselves into hares, but Elias Owen, in his "Welsh Folk-lore," tells us that, in his day, aged people in Wales believed that witches, by incantation, could change other people into animals. He quotes instances of a man being turned by witchcraft into a hare, in the neighbourhood of Ystrad Meurig (Cardiganshire). Another case he relates is that of a woman in North Wales, who knew before any one told her that a certain person died at such a time. The clergyman of the parish asked her how she came to know of the death if no one had informed her and she had not been to the house. Her answer was: "I know because I saw a hare come from towards his house and cross over the road before me." Evidently the woman connected the appearance of the hare with the man's death. Here there seems to have been a trace of the belief, which formerly obtained in some parts of Wales, of the transmigration of souls, the idea being that the departing soul went into the body of some animal. But it is probable that all through Wales the hare was vaguely regarded as the herald of death. It is said that this animal was much used by the Druids for the purpose of augury, prophecies being made according to its various movements when set running. So it is quite possible that the uncomfortable atmosphere which seems to surround this harmless beast in all Celtic countries is due to its traditional connection with far-away Druidical mysteries. In olden days Welsh witches used to put spells on the animals of neighbours who annoyed them. If a cow was the victim it would sicken of no apparent disease, cease to give milk and, if the spell were not removed, would die. The effect of "witching" a pig was to cause an odd kind of madness, something like a fit; this, again, ended fatally unless a counter-charm was forthcoming. Quite recently I saw one of these charms quoted in a local paper by a collector of folklore. "An old witch, living not far from Llangadock (in Carmarthenshire)... on one occasion when she had witched a pig, was compelled subsequently to 'unwitch' the animal. She came and put her hand on the pig's back, saying, 'Duwa'th gadwo i'th berchenog' (God keep thee to thine owner)" — which seems a mild way of calming a frenzied pig. A noted witch used to live about a mile and a half from my own home. She was known as "Mary Perllan Peter," from the name of her house "Perllan Peter," deep down in a thickly-wooded ravine, or dingle as we call it in Cardiganshire. This way of designating individuals is common in Wales, where surnames amongst the peasantry are apt to be limited to a few favourites, such as Jones, Davies, Evans, etc. So that a person's Christian name, followed by that of his house, is far more distinctive than using a surname probably common to a third of the people in a parish. Therefore the witch was "Mary of Peter's Orchard" ("perllan" meaning "orchard," though who Peter was, I never found out) and she was undoubtedly a powerful one, as the following stories will show. One day she asked a neighbour to bring her some corn which she required, and the man only consented unwillingly, as the path down to the cottage was very steep and the corn heavy to carry. On the way he spilt some, and Mary was very angry and muttered threats to her friends when he left. And when he got back to his own home and went to the stable, what was his amazement to see his little mare "sitting like a pig" on her haunches and staring wildly before her. He went to her and pulling at the halter, tried to get on her feet, but in vain; she did not seem able to move. Then the man, very frightened, bethought him of the witch's threats, for he felt sure the mare was spellbound. So he sent off for Mary to come and remove the spell, and when she arrived, she went straight up to the animal; and "Moron fach, what ails thee now?" was all she said, and the mare jumped to her feet as well and lively as ever. Another time Mary Perllan Peter went to the mill at a neighbouring village to get some corn ground. The miller was very slow over the business, so slow that Mary grew annoyed and cursed the mill. Whereupon it instantly began to turn round the wrong way, and went on like that till the witch was appeased and removed the spell. These instances were related by a cousin of Mary's, called John Pŵllglas, who apparently quite believed in the uncanny powers possessed by his relative. In Cardiganshire, as in many other rural districts, it was always firmly believed that when the butter would not "come" on churning-day, the cream or churn had been bewitched. There were many remedies against this trouble — one being a branch of the rowan tree hung over the dairy door; another was a knife put into the churn, for all witches, like fairies, hate iron. I know a house where, some few years ago, the dairymaid left in a fit of temper. Never had there been any trouble over the churning in that particularly well-regulated dairy, but, strange to say, from the week when "Jane" left the place the butter refused to "come." Churning, which in spring began early in the morning, went on for hours, everyone in the house taking a turn at the handle, and at length, towards afternoon, the long-delayed butter appeared. But what butter! It was scarcely fit to eat, and this state of things continued for several weeks, no theory of temperature, unsteady churning, or any other reason that scientific butter-makers appreciate, accounting for the extraordinary behaviour of the cream. Of course, all the local people said that Jane departing had bewitched the churn; how that was I do not know, but there is no doubt that after five or six weeks, and quite without apparent cause, the butter suddenly "came" properly again, the "spell" being presumably ended. When staying at Aberdovey once, I noticed a strangely shaped depression on the hill behind the schools, and inquiring, I was told that it was called the "Witch's Grave," and that a witch was supposed to have been burnt there and her ashes buried on the spot. The old village green used to be on the little plateau where the "grave" is, so that if any burning did take place it is quite likely to have been there. This is the only tradition I have so far encountered of witches being ill-treated in Wales. My own idea is that, unlike many other districts, witches and wise men were never much molested in the Principality, but were rather feared and looked up to. This witch burning at Aberdovey, if the tradition be true, was perhaps due to a backwash of that terrible wave of persecution and burnings that swept over Great Britain and the Continent in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The practice of "charming" with yarn was, I found, well known in the Aberdovey district, though not much of it is done now. "Witches' butter" is also believed in round there. This is a kind of fungus which shakes and trembles when touched. It is very unlucky to find it, for it means you are bewitched. The remedy is to take up some of the fungus very carefully, and stick it full of pins. These pins will prick the conscience of him or her who has bewitched you, and they will remove the spell. I heard a quaint little story of an old sea-captain at Aberdovey, whose garden was infested with worms, which he declared was the result of a spell laid on it by a witch woman he had offended. "Wise men" seem to have flourished from time immemorial in Wales, every village having its "dyn hysbys" in old days. It is said that their numbers were kept up by the superstitious practice amongst the very ignorant country-folk of "sacrificing children to the Devil," in order to make "wise men" of them. The Rev. Rees Prichard, of Llaydovery, in a hymn against "conjurors," alludes to this dreadful custom:— Tynnu'r plentyn trwy ben crwcca. Neu trwy'r fflam ar nos f'lamgaua, A'u rhoi ymhinny felyn uchel, Yw offrumm plant i Gythraul. Meaning that "to drag children through a hoop or flame of fire, on All Hallows Eve, and taking them to the mill bin to be shaken, is the way of sacrificing them to the Evil One." I think the first item of this description — viz., dragging through a hoop — may refer to the old Welsh custom of passing delicate children through a split ash to cure them of rickets and other troubles. I know someone to whom this was done when he was a child, but most certainly in his case the intention was distinctly curative, and had nothing to do with dedication to the Evil One. However, in Vicar Prichard's time — about three hundred years or so ago — there existed, no doubt, many remnants of beliefs in the country, which have long since died out; just as those which obtain in our day are gradually disappearing, and unless noted by those interested in such things, will be lost to the generations to come. Of course, the Prince of Welsh wizards was Merlin, of whom many wonderful tales and traditions still linger in the neighbourhood of Carmarthen, in which town the great astrologer and soothsayer is supposed to have been born. A prediction of his in Welsh is preserved, foretelling the attempted landing of the French at Fishguard, in 1797, and its frustration by Lord Cawdor; the lines are very curious, but I will spare readers a further infliction of the vernacular. It is said that Merlin also prophesied the inundation of Carmarthen, a calamity which fortunately has not yet come to pass. Leaving the shadowy personality of the great wizard, with the host of lesser lights who followed him, and coming to historical times, we have many records of celebrated "wise men," of whom it may be said that on the whole their influence amongst the people was for good, and that their talents seem to have turned in the direction of benevolence rather than spite. One wizard of North Wales, who died about a century ago, was called "Mochyn y Nant," and was held in great terror by all evil-doers of his district on account of the uncanny knowledge he possessed of their crimes, however secret. De Quincy once visited "Mochyn y Nant," and gives an entertaining description of the experience in his "Confessions." The following story which I find amongst my notes, well illustrates the kind of affair about which these seers were constantly consulted. A gentleman in Denbighshire, lost a large silver cup of much value, which had been an heirloom for several generations. After making diligent inquiries respecting the cup without success, he determined to place the affair in the hands of Robin Ddu, the wizard. Robin attended at the hall, and after placing his red cap on his head, he called the inmates of the hall before him, and declared he would find the thief before midnight. All the servants denied the theft. "Then," said Robin, "if you are guiltless, you will have no objection to a magic proof." He then ordered a cockerel to be placed under a pot in the pantry, and told all the servants to go and rub the pot with both their hands. If any of them were guilty, the cockerel would crow whilst the thief was rubbing the vessel. After all had gone through the ceremony, the wizard ordered them to show their hands, when he perceived that the hands of the butler were clean. His conscience had stricken him so that he could not touch the pot. Robin accused him of the theft, which he admitted, and the cup was restored to its owner. The next stories, told me on excellent authority, relate to the parish of Llanfihangel-Geneurglyn, in Cardiganshire, and the "John Price" referred to was living a very few years ago, and is still alive, for anything I know to the contrary. There was a man belonging to the village of Llanfihangel who had a sick cow. He could not discover what was the matter with her, and at last, in despair, he went to consult John Price, the wise man, who lived at Llanbadarn-fawr, a few miles away. John immediately declared that the cow was bewitched. "Because," said he, "you will find when you look that every tooth in her head is loose." "Why, who has done that?" asked the farmer. "That I cannot tell you," was the reply, "but this I will tell you, that the person who bewitched her has visited your house to-day." He would say no more, and the inquirer hurried off home. He lost no time in examining the cow's mouth, and, sure enough, every tooth was loose. Then he asked his wife, "Who has been here to-day?" "No one," she answered, "except indeed So-and-so," naming a poor girl who came sometimes to get work. Then the farmer knew who had ill-wished his cow, which, by the way, recovered. In the same parish of Llanfihangel there was a child very ill — so ill, in fact, that the doctors gave him up. The father went secretly and consulted John Price, who said that the child was bewitched but would recover; and he did. I know the clergyman who was the vicar of this parish at the time these two instances occurred, and it was he who made notes of the cases. He is now vicar of a parish in North Pembrokeshire. Another wise man lived at a farm near Borth (on the coast not far from Aberystwyth) not so long ago, and was often consulted. I heard of the case of a girl who was ailing, and thought by her relations to have had a spell put on her. So they took her to the wizard, who told them that on the way home the first person they met on the road would be the "witch" who had laid the spell on the invalid. They set off home, and before they had gone far, who should they meet but a poor, harmless old man, whom they knew could not have worked the mischief. So they hurried back to the wise man with this information, who coolly replied, "It was not he, but his brother who is dead. And the girl will not be well till the brother's body is decayed — i.e., for about twenty years." History does not relate if the wizard was believed on this occasion, but the person who told me about him said he had many clients, and that one of his accomplishments was the writing of "charms" for people to wear. At the time I was told of this wizard, my informant asked me if I had ever heard of "Vicar Pritchard of Pwllheli" (now dead), who in his time was a noted layer of ghosts, and whose fame still survives in Merionethshire, for he was in great demand throughout the country whenever an uneasy spook gave trouble. Armed with candle and book, in the orthodox way, he said to one ghost: "Now, will you promise me to cease troubling this house as long as this candle lasts?" The spirit gladly promised, thinking that was but an hour or two to wait. But the vicar promptly extinguished the flame, put the candle into a lead box, sealed and buried the box beneath a tree, where it lies to this day, and the ghost can do no more harm. This is a digression; but most readers will excuse the irrelevancy because of its mention of a more or less modern cleric as a professional ghost layer. The account that follows, of a Pembrokeshire witch, was sent me by an old friend a few years ago, and is best given in his own words, only substituting initials for the personal names. "I was at Carmarthen last week, and returned in company with Archdeacon H—— and Mr. H—— W——. At Whitland a local doctor came into the compartment; I did not know him, but they did, and this is the substance of what he told us. A reputed witch lived near Whitland Abbey. The house she lived in was sold, and bought by a brother-in-law of the teller of the story. A gamekeeper of Mr Z——, the owner of the Abbey, went into the cottage of the witch. She was very angry and gave out that she would be even with all concerned. The following things happened. The keeper's wife (the narrator attended the case) became a mother, and the infant was born with an abnormal number of limbs and died. The doctor's brother-in-law was suddenly seized with a mysterious illness one morning whilst dressing, and was laid up for a long time. The doctor lost a cow, two horses and a sow. "These happenings made a stir, and even Mr Z—— was troubled. He was a bit superstitious and was very desirous that the doctor should 'draw the witch's blood' by holding the blade of a penknife between finger and thumb, so that just enough of it should project to draw blood without inflicting a serious wound. The doctor said that would not do, as the woman would run him in for assault! "When asked to do so, the doctor attended the witch, but for the life of him dared not send in a bill." If the above facts were correctly reported, they certainly form an extraordinary instance of "ill-wishing" — a power known for many ages to be possessed by a few people of very strong will and a malevolent disposition, and the fear of which is a trait as old as humanity, still lurking, as we have seen, amongst the country-folk in remote districts of this and many other countries. From the subject of witches one passes naturally to the extraordinary remedies often prescribed by them and the old-fashioned herb doctors up to the beginning of the last century, or perhaps later. There are still people to be found who visit and consult herbalists, sometimes finding them hidden away in dark and dusty little shops in the quiet back streets of towns, or living, often solitary, in isolated cottages near wood or moor in remote country districts. And there is no doubt that some of the mixtures prescribed by these modern "herb doctors" possess virtue and are probably nowadays derived from more or less wholesome and certainly harmless plants and normal food materials. It is hardly likely, for instance, that a twentieth century herbalist would sell dried earth worms to a patient as a remedy for fits, or advise oil of earth worms as beneficial for the nerves, and to "ease pain of the joints." Even if this kind of dose were prescribed, nobody now would swallow anything so nauseous. But little more than a hundred years ago, not only did "wise men" and herbalists use such unpleasant things in their prescriptions, but there is every reason to believe that ingredients which seem to us quite horrible were taken docilely and with perfect faith in their efficacy by people of intelligence, and not only by the ignorant and less fastidious classes. A quaint old book was lent to me once; it was called "A General Dispensatory," by R. Brookes, M.D., and the date of publication was 1753. There was a long list, arranged alphabetically, of all the materia medica used in the eighteenth century, and very odd some of those "materials" were. Much store was set on preparations made from various stones; of these, the chief were Eagle-stone, Jew's stone, Bezoar and Blood stone. Bezoar was taken from a certain species of "Mountain-goat, called by some, Capricarva.... It is a most timourous animal, and delights in the mountains, seldom descending into the plains.... The stones are cried up as an antidote against all manner of poisons, plagues, contagious diseases, malignant fevers, the smallpox and measles...." This stone was ground and given in powder. Others were applied outwardly by rubbing the part affected. I know of the existence of a stone in Cardiganshire, about the size of a large marble, which was formerly used for the cure of goitre; it was lent to sufferers from that complaint and rubbed on the neck. Its present owner, an old lady, knows of undoubted cures wrought by it in former years. There seems to be an idea that this stone has some connection with a snake, though apparently the exact relation has been forgotten. But it is very probable that in old times it was called a snake stone, and believed to have been taken out of the head of a snake; for it was thought in Wales that such stones were sometimes found in the heads of toads and adders, and were endowed with wonderful powers of healing and magic. Blood stone, of course, has been used from times unknown to stop bleeding, and among other cures for the same thing was the bone or "stone" taken from the head of the manatee or sea-cow. Hare's fur as an application to the wound was also advised. A hare's foot, carried in the pocket prevented heartburn. Another "pocket" remedy was a piece of potato for rheumatism, which I have known practised very lately. Gabs' eyes — probably dried and powdered — seem to have been a popular medicine; a pike's jaw was supposed to have much the same virtue as crabs' eyes, but was more "efficacious in the pleurisy and peripneumony." Amber, burnt and reduced to powder was thrown on a chafing-dish, and the smoke inhaled to stop bleeding of the nose. In Wales this beautiful sea-product was worn as a powerful charm against witches, the Evil Eye, and blindness. Snail broth was a great country remedy for consumption in old days. Culpepper, in his "Herbal," gives a recipe for it. "Snails with shells on their backs, being first washed from the dirt, then the shells broken, and then boiled in spring water, but not scummed at all, for the scum will sink of itself, and the water drank for ordinary drink, is a most admirable remedy for consumption." "Snail water" is also prescribed for the same complaint; this was a really terrible mixture, as besides "Of Garden Snails two pounds," there was included the juice of ground ivy, colt's foot, scabious lungwort, purslain, ambrosia, Paul's betony, hog's blood and white wine, dried tobacco leaves, liquorice elecampane, orris, cotton seeds, annis seeds, saffron, the flowers of red roses and of violets and borage; all to be steeped three days and then distilled. One wonders if the unfortunate patient who imbibed this decoction had any idea of what he was swallowing. A fox's lung dried and made into a "lohoch" (a substance to be licked up, rather thicker than a syrup) and sucked off the end of a liquorice stick was also "a present remedy in pthisicks." Flummery, or wheat boiled to a jelly, was another country cure for consumption, especially in Wales, where the old people also extolled the virtues of nettle tea as "very good for the chest," and for other ills besides. A decoction of nettle seeds was supposed to cure hydrophobia, but many other remedies were advised for this dread disease. One which I found in a very old manuscript collection of recipes, headed "For the Bite of a Mad Dog," was simple in the extreme. "Pare an onion, mix it with honey and salt and lay it on the wound." A piece of onion rubbed on a bee or wasp sting is certainly an excellent impromptu relief, but one would scarcely imagine it could do much to counteract the deadly poison of hydrophobia. The root of liverwort — lichen caninus — was thought to be an infallible cure or preventive in the case of a mad dog's bite. One was bidden to mix the ground liverwort with black pepper, and the patient "is to lose nine or ten ounces of blood, and then a dram and a half of the powder is to be taken fasting every morning, for four mornings successively, in half a pint of warm cow's milk; after this he must go into a cold bath, cold spring, or river for thirty days together early in the morning, and before breakfast, and to be dipped all over; but he is not to remain in it with his head above water, not longer than half a minute, if the water be very cold." Another curious specific for hydrophobia is mentioned by Iolo Morganŵg in his Diary, dated 1802. When on a walk to Llanfernach, in North Pembrokeshire, he met a man "who carries a stone about the country, which he calles Llysfaen. Scrapes it into powder with a knife, and sells it at about five shillings an ounce as an infallible remedy for the canine madness. He says this stone is only to be found on mountains after a thunder-storm, and that every eye cannot see it. I assured him it was only a piece of Glamorganshire alabaster; but I was surprised to hear many positively assert that they had actually seen the hydrophobia cured in dogs and man from this powder, given in milk and used as the only liquid taken for nine days and the only food also." A far more drastic method of treating hydrophobia patients than the above is quoted by Mrs. Trevelyan, as being formerly very popular all along the coast of Wales. The person bitten was taken out to sea in a boat. "Before starting, he was securely bound by the hands and feet, and when out at a distance from the shore, two men plunged him in the water three times. Each time the man or woman as the case might be, was asked if he or she had had enough. But just as he opened his mouth to reply he was dipped again. This dipping was repeated nine times, with a pause between each three dips, to enable the patient to have an opportunity for breathing. The shock or temporary fright caused by repeated dips into the sea, and the quantity of water swallowed, worked the cure." The use of the number nine in so many of these old cures, is remarkable, and shows that originally there was a mystic meaning behind these rude treatments in which the "curative" power lay, and which possibly did really continue to heal those who used them with faith, long after the knowledge of their mystical significance was lost. Very extraordinary were some of the remedies administered for "the falling sickness," as epilepsy used to be called. I have already mentioned the use of earth worms dried and powdered; but decoctions of the wood and leaves of the mistletoe were also taken, and an elk hoof, either worn in a ring, or scraped and taken internally, was much recommended. "But," says an authority, "it must be the hoof of the right foot behind." Most firmly believed in as a potent cure was a powder made from the human skull, which dreadful ingredient figures in a recipe I have for "convulsion fits." "Take native cinnabar, the roots of male Piony and Human Skull prepared, of each an ounce, castor and salt of amber of each a dram, mix them and divide into forty-eight equal parts. This is Dr. Pughe's Receipt." Especially valuable were the skulls of those who had died a violent death, and the heads of criminals were eagerly bought for that reason. Hedgehog's liver, dried, powdered and drunk in wine was another specific for epilepsy. Vipers were much esteemed as medicine in various parts of the country, and prepared in different ways were swallowed with the greatest faith. The old "Dispensatory" before quoted, said: 'Viper's flesh is looked upon as a great restorative, to be very balsamic, an enemy to all malignity and excellent to purify the blood, hence it is given to prolong life and to resist poisons." I have read an old recipe for "viper broth," which included chicken as well as snake, so let us hope the prevailing flavour was of fowl and not of serpent. There is some plausibility about the idea that various herbs possessed efficacy in clearing the sight; the common "eyebright" was much used for this purpose. But we can hardly believe that the eating of young swallows, which was also advised, can have benefited the eyes much, unless a great deal of faith was taken with the fledglings. In some districts a dried toad worn in the armpit was thought to ward off fever. The poor creatures were put alive into an earthen pot, and gradually dried in a moderate oven till they were fit to reduce to powder. Bees were treated in the same way; and an old prescription says, "Burnt to ashes and a lye made with the ashes, trimly decks a bald head being washed with it." A strange remedy for jaundice was a live spider rolled in butter to form a pill and then swallowed. Quite lately I saw a case reported in a paper of a child found wearing a spider enclosed in a nut round its neck to cure whooping-cough; but that, of course, was worn as a "charm"; a form of remedy which seems likely to be popular as long as the world goes round. Diet drinks were formerly much used in amateur doctoring in rural districts, and recipes for their manufacture are sure to be found in any of those quaint "house books" treasured in old country houses. In one of these which I have handled, there is a recipe for a "Dyet drink," composed of no fewer than nineteen ingredients, mostly herbs, such as dwarf elder, salendin, broom robin, brook lime, wormwood, eyebright, etc., etc., all making "two payls and a half of Drink." Pity the poor victim who had to begin the day by swallowing a mugful of such nauseous mixtures. In Cardiganshire to-day, a decoction of the wild ragwort is believed to be excellent for rheumatism; also another of garlic for "the indigestion." I have known blackberry leaves applied to heal sores in the same county; this is a very old remedy, and its survival is interesting. So is the fact that in the parish of Talybont, in North Cardiganshire, there is a family owning a recipe for the cure of erysipelas, which has quite a local fame, but of which no one knows the secret but themselves. This element of secrecy is nearly always a feature of these rural "cures"; doubtless a vestige of the ancient belief that medical treatment to be successful must be wrapped in mystery.