Jane.

Harry! I’m tired of playing. We’ll draw round

The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us

One of her stories.

Harry.

Aye—dear Grandmamma!

A pretty story! something dismal now;

A bloody murder.

Jane.

Or about a ghost.

Grandmother.

Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know

The other night when I was telling you

About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled

Because the screech-owl hooted at the window,

And would not go to bed.

Jane.

Why Grandmamma

You said yourself you did not like to hear him.

Pray now! we wo’nt be frightened.

Grandmother.

Well, well, children!

But you’ve heard all my stories. Let me see,—

Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered

The woman down at Pill?

Harry.

No—never! never!

Grandmother.

Not how he cut her head off in the stable?

Harry.

Oh—now! do tell us that!

Grandmother.

You must have heard

Your Mother, children! often tell of her.

Sheused to weed in the garden here, and worm

Your uncle’s dogs, [12] and serve the house with coal;

And glad enough she was in winter time

To drive her asses here! it was cold work

To follow the slow beasts thro’ sleet and snow,

And here she found a comfortable meal

And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll

Was always welcome.

Harry.

Oh—’twas blear-eyed Moll

The collier woman,—a great ugly woman,

I’ve heard of her.

Grandmother.

Ugly enough poor soul!

At ten yards distance you could hardly tell

If it were man or woman, for her voice

Was rough as our old mastiff’s, and she wore

A man’s old coat and hat,—and then her face!

There was a merry story told of her,

How when the press-gang came to take her husband

As they were both in bed, she heard them coming,

Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself

Put on his clothes and went before the Captain.

Jane.

And so they prest a woman!

Grandmother.

’Twas a trick

She dearly loved to tell, and all the country

Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel

For miles around. All weathers and all hours

She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts,

Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts,

And if she did not reach her home at night

She laid her down in the stable with her asses

And slept as sound as they did.

Harry.

With her asses!

Grandmother.

Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho’ poor wretch

She was a terrible reprobate and swore

Like any trooper, she was always good

To the dumb creatures, never loaded them

Beyond their strength, and rather I believe

Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want,

Because, she said, they could not ask for food.

I never saw her stick fall heavier on them

Than just with its own weight. She little thought

This tender-heartedness would be her death!

There was a fellow who had oftentimes,

As if he took delight in cruelty.

Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived

By smuggling, and, for she had often met him

Crossing the down at night, she threatened him,

If he tormented them again, to inform

Of his unlawful ways. Well—so it was—

’Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her,

She laid an information, and one morn

They found her in the stable, her throat cut

From ear to ear, till the head only hung

Just by a bit of skin.

Jane.

Oh dear! oh dear!

Harry.

I hope they hung the man!

Grandmother.

They took him up;

There was no proof, no one had seen the deed,

And he was set at liberty. But God

Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen

The murder, and the murderer knew that God

Was witness to his crime. He fled the place,

But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand

Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest,

A guilty conscience haunted him, by day,

By night, in company, in solitude,

Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him

The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears,

Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her

Always he heard; always he saw her stand

Before his eyes; even in the dead of night

Distinctly seen as tho’ in the broad sun,

She stood beside the murderer’s bed and yawn’d

Her ghastly wound; till life itself became

A punishment at last he could not bear,

And he confess’d [13] it all, and gave himself

To death, so terrible, he said, it was

To have a guilty conscience!

Harry.

Was he hung then?

Grandmother.

Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man,

Your uncles went to see him on his trial,

He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed,

And such a horror in his meagre face,

They said he look’d like one who never slept.

He begg’d the prayers of all who saw his end

And met his death with fears that well might warn

From guilt, tho’ not without a hope in Christ.

[12] I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing any mischief should they afterwards become mad.

[13] There must be many persons living who remember these circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman’s name was Bees. The stratagem by which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.