The Bishoprick Garland of Durham

Sword dancers, shapeshifting goblins and an ancient mythological worm! What a way to bring in the year! This time it's Sir Cuthbert Sharp's 1834 collection The Bishoprick Garland of Durham.

'This poor goblin, whose pranks were otherwise perfectly harmless, was at length banished by the usual expedient of presenting him with a suit of clothes. A green cloak and a hood were laid before the kitchen fire, and the domestics sat up watching the event, at a prudent distance. At twelve the sprite glided gently in, stood by the glowing embers, and surveyed the garments provided for him very attentively, tried them on, and seemed delighted with his appearance.'

Tales From Antiquaria is a podcast dedicated to exploring the legacy of work published regarding folklore and local history during the golden age of antiquarian writing in the nineteenth century.

For show notes and links, visit the episodes page at thelocalmythstorian.com

Episode written, produced and presented by Eli Lewis-Lycett. All source material taken directly from the stated publication. Main theme music by Humanoid Media. Incidental music from Restum-Anoush. 

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Transcript

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Sword dancers and an ancient mythological worm. We've got them all tonight. My name is Eli and this is Tail Shamantiquaria. Quite a curious title for us to explore tonight, the bishopric Garland, or a collection of legends, songs, ballads, etc., belonging to the County of Durham. It was compiled by Sir Cuthbert Sharp, who, born in Hartlepool, County Durham, in 1871, had been a soldier. In 1816, he released his first work, The History of Hartlepool, and then in 1834, this title was published by Nicholas Baldwin and Craddock of London. There's lots of ballads and rhymes in the collection, all interesting in their own way, of course, but as usual it's the tales of lore and legend we're after. Sometimes in these collections that can take a bit of mining, as it were, but well worth it. And I think I found some really cool stuff in this wider text. It's full of surprises, and I think Sharp himself was surprised when compiling it, noting every county has its peculiarities, affected and modified by localities and accidental circumstance. Durham being a maritime county, it might have been expected, which is not the case, that its traditions and badlands would have been tinged with the colours of the sea. While it's true, we may not have a great deal here regarding the Durham coast, but we do have some genuinely weird and wonderful, if somewhat landlocked, tales to explore The worm of Lambton. The young Hare of Lambton led a dissolute and evil course of life, equally regardless of the obligations of his high estate and the sacred duties of religion. According to his profane custom, he genuinely amused himself on Sundays by fishing and was frequently to be seen angling in the river Weir. At length he felt something extraordinary, tugging at the end of his line, and in the hope of hooking a large fish, he exerted the utmost skill and care, yet it required all his strength to bring the expected fish to land. But what was his surprise and mortification when instead of a fish, he found he had only caught a worm, and he hastily tore it from his hook and flung it into a well hard by. He again threw his line into the stream. Then suddenly a stranger, a venerable appearance appeared, passing by and asked, What sport? to which he replied, Why truly I think I've caught the devil. He then directed the stranger to inquire and look into the well. The stranger saw the worm and remarked that he had never seen the like of it before, and that it tokened no good. The worm remained unheeded in the well, but soon grew so large that it became necessary to seek another abode. It usually lay in the daytime coiled around a rock in the middle of the river, and at night frequented a neighbouring hill, twinning itself around the base. The dreaded worm now grew to become the terror of the whole countryside, devouring lambs, suckling the cow's milk, and committing every species of injury on the cattle of the African peasantry. The immediate neighbourhood was soon laid waste and barren, and the worm, finding no further support on the north side of the river, crossed the stream towards Lambton Hall, where the old lord was there living, oppressed with grief and sorrow, bewailing the loss of his son, who having repented him of his former sins, had gone to the wars in a far distant land. The terrified household assembled in council, and after so many conflicting opinions had been advanced, the advice of the steward, a man of great experience and far advanced in years, was adopted, which was that the large trough which stood in the courtyard should be immediately filled with milk. The monster approached, and eagerly drinking the milk, then returned to its favourite hill, without inflicting further injury. Next day the worm was seen crossing the river at the same hour and directing its way to the hall. When the worm returned to drink the milk, if the quantity was not enough, the worm showed its most violent signs of range by lashing its tail around the trees in the park and tearing them up by the roots. Many a gallant knight of undoubted fame and prowess had sought to slay the monster. Although the worm had frequently been cut asunder, yet the sever parts immediately reunited, and the valiant assailant never escaped without the loss of life or limb. So after many fruitless and fatal attempts to destroy the worm, it remained in tranquil possession of its favourite hill. At length, after seven long years, the gallant hare of Lambton returned from the wars and found the broadlands of his ancestors waste and desolate. He heard the wailings of the people, for their hearts were filled with fear and alarm. He hastened to the hall of his ancestors, and received the embraces of his aged father, who worn out with grief and sorrow, both for the absence of his son and for the dreadful waste inflicted upon his fair domain by the devastations of the worm, was rapidly descending towards the grave. The Arab Lampton took no rest until he crossed the river to examine the worm for himself, and he found it lay coiled around the base of the hill. He consulted a Sibyl on the surest means to destroy the monster. She told him that he had himself been the cause of all the misery fishing in the river when he should have been at church. She said he must have his best suit of mail studied with spear blades and take his stand on the rock in the middle of the river. He must trust in his own valour and the might of his good sword, making a solemn vow that if successful, he would slay the first living thing he met, but if he failed to do so, the lords of Lambton for nine generations would never die in their beds. He made the vow in the chapel of his forefathers, caused his armor to be studied with the blades of the sharpest spears, and he then took his stand on the rock in the middle of the river. Unsheathing his trusty sword which had never failed to protect him in time of need, he commended himself to the protection and to the will of Providence. At the accustomed hour the worm uncoiled its lengthened folds and leaving the hill took its usual course towards Lambton Hall, passing by the rock where the knight stood ready and eager for the combat. He struck the monster on the head with all his might, but without producing any other visible effect than to irritate and vex the worm, which, closing on the knight, claps its frightful coils around him and endeavoured to strangle him in its poisonous embrace. But he was well provided against this expected extremity, for the more closely he was pressed by the worm, the more deadly were the wounds inflicted by his coat of spears, until the river ran with a crimson gore of blood. The strength of the worm diminished, and its incessant efforts to destroy the knight, who, seizing a favorable opportunity, made such good use of his trusty sword that he cut the monster in two. The severed part was immediately carried away by the force of the current, and the worm, being thus unable to reunite itself, was, after a long and desperate conflict, finally destroyed by the gallantry and courage of the Knight of Lambton. The afflicted household were devoutly engaged in prayer during this mortal encounter. But on the happy issue of the combat, the knight, according to promise, blew a blast on his bugle to assure his father of his safety, and that he might let loose his favourite hound, which, according to a preconcerted agreement, was destined to be the sacrifice. But the aged parent, forgetting everything but his parental feelings, rushed forward to embrace his son. When the knight beheld his father, he was overwhelmed with grief, for he had agreed he must then kill the first living thing he saw, and it was not the hound. The hound then broke forth and bounded forward to receive the knight's caresses. The knight once more drew his sword, still reeking with the gore of the monster, and plunged it into the heart of his faithful companion. But in vain. The prediction was fulfilled, and the Sibyl's curse pressed heavily on the house of Lambton for nine generations. The cold lad of Hilton The Cold Lad was a domestic spirit, rarely seen, though nightly heard by the servants who slept in the great hall. If at night the kitchen was left in perfect order, he was heard breaking plates and dishes and hurling the pewter in all directions, throwing everything into confusion. If, on the contrary, the kitchen was left in disarray, a practice which the servants found most prudent and most convenient to adopt, the goblin arranged everything with the greatest precision. This poor goblin, whose pranks were otherwise perfectly harmless, was at length banished by the usual expedient of presenting him with a suit of clothes. A green cloak and hood were laid before the kitchen fire, and the domestic sat up to watch the event at a prudent distance. At twelve the spirit guided gently in, stood by the glowing embers, and surveyed the garments provided for him very attentively. He tried them on, and seemed delighted with his appearance, frisking about for some time and cutting several somersaults, till on hearing the first cock crow, he twitched his mantle tight about him, repeating these lines. Here's a cloak and here's a hood. The cold lad of Hilton will do no more good. The Palton Brag So many and in such various shapes has the brag appeared that it became necessary to procure the best local information on the subject, and an old woman of respectable appearance of about ninety years of age living near the spot was universally referred to as knowing most about it. Her deposition is therefore given verbatim. I never saw the brag very distinctly, but I frequently heard it. It sometimes appeared like a calf with a white handkerchief about its neck. It came also like a galloway, but more often like a coach horse, trotting along the lanes, setting up a great knicker and winnery every now and then. My brother once saw it like four men holding up a white sheet. I was then sure that some near relation was going to die, which was true. My husband once saw it in the image of a naked man without a head. I knew a man by the name of Baric who saw it and was so frightened that he hanged himself. Whenever the midwife was sent for, it always came up with her in the shape of a galloway. Dr. Harrison wouldn't believe in it, but he met it one night as he was going home, and it maced killed him. But he never would tell me what happened, and didn't like to talk about it, and whenever the brag was mentioned, he sat trembling and shaking by the fireside. My uncle had a suit of white clothes, and the first time he ever put them on he met the brag. He never wore them afterwards, but he met with some misfortune, and once when he met the brag he had his white suit on, being a bold man, and having been at a christening, he was determined to get on the brag's back. But when he came to four long ends, the brag joggled him sore. He could hardly keep his seat and at last it threw him off into the middle of the pond and ran away, setting up a great knicker and laugh just for all the world like a Christian. But this I know to be true of my own knowledge, that when my father was dying, the brag was heard coming up the lane, and it stood before the house, and the room shaked, and it gave a terrible yell when my father died, and then went off clattering and galloping down the lane, as if Helen Earth were coming together. Sword dancers. It's still the practice, though less in repute than formerly, during the Christmas holidays, for companies of pitmen and other workmen from the neighbouring collaries to visit Sunderland and Durham to perform a sort of play or dance accompanied by song and music. Their appearances hail by the children with great satisfaction, and they receive liberal contributions from the spectators. The dancers are girded with swords and clad in white shirts or tunics decorated with a profusion of ribbons of various colours gathered from the wardrobes of their mistresses and wild wishers. The captain generally wears a kind of faded uniform, with a large cocked hat and feather for preeminent distinction, and the buffoon or Bessie, who acts as treasurer and collects the cash in a tobacco box, wears a hairy cap with a fox's brush. The music is simple and not devoid of harmony. Its peculiar beauty depends perhaps greatly on the force of early associations. The party assemble promiscuously, and the captain forms a circle with his sword round which he walks and sings, each actor following as he is called upon. The dance then begins in slow and measured cadence, which soon increases in spirit and at length bears the appearance of a serious affray. The rector, alarmed, rushes forward to prevent the bloodshed, and in his endeavours to separate the combatants, receives a mortal blow and falls to the ground. The rector gradually recovers, which is a signal for general rejoicing and congratulation. Hope you've enjoyed the show tonight. So until next time, take care and may your God go with you. You can find out more about the show and about my other projects at the local mythstorian.com.