Folklore of Essex

by Sylvia Kent

  In England at that time, witchcraft was not considered heresy, and torture was forbidden as a general rule. However, this did not stop many people being persecuted and killed. In Essex alone, around 550 people were accused of witchcraft and around 100 sent to the scaffold between 1560 and 1680. The Assize courts at Chelmsford held the melancholy distinction of having hanged more unfortunate people who had been condemned as witches than any other English county. From court accounts, they were mostly poor, often deranged and generally elderly women, although there were some cases of elderly men being accused. They appear to have been convicted on flimsy evidence that would have been thrown out by many other courts in the country.

  To set the scene and attempt to understand the fear of that period, it is necessary to picture Essex as it was in the sixteenth century. The county was dotted with tiny villages standing in lonely spots near some desolate, windswept marsh or salting, or bordering the extensive woodland that covered much of the area in past centuries. The villagers were often uneducated and illiterate. Their very existence hung by a thread: if inclement weather caused a bad harvest, or a cow or pig died, hardship and starvation inevitably followed. Their lack of scientific knowledge made crop failures, unusual illnesses or unseasonable weather conditions something of a mystery. A reasonable explanation was always sought and very often witchcraft was a useful scapegoat.

  So it was in Essex and the Eastern Counties that many women – and a few men – were tortured, hanged or drowned by the ‘swimming’ method, which was in accordance with the ancient belief that water, the element of baptism, would reject a witch. The victim had her right thumb tied to her left big toe and was thrown into the village pond. If the woman sank, she was innocent but if she floated then she was definitely a witch and was condemned to die on the scaffold. No one, it appeared, was safe. Even the ‘wise women’, who until then had often been respected midwives, possessing knowledge of plant cures for illness using herbs growing in the countryside, were now in danger of being branded a sorceress or witch. Telling fortunes, charming warts or just administering age-old country remedies learned from their parents to cure sick folk and their animals all came within the scope of the witch-watchers.

  Glyn Morgan, in his book Essex Witches, tells us that the first Chelmsford witch trial took place in 1545. On the opening day, the Revd Thomas Cole, the local rector, and Sir John Fortescue, the Keeper of the Royal Wardrobe, presided but the trial was considered to be of such importance that the Attorney-General, Sir Gilbert Gerard, and a judge of the Queen’s Bench, John Southcote, took over. In that first trial, the defendants were three women from Hatfield Peverel: Agnes Waterhouse, her daughter Joan and Elizabeth Francis.

  Agnes Waterhouse seems to have been a most unpopular person. She was quarrelsome and had many enemies in the village. While she was awaiting trial at Chelmsford, the sixty-four-year-old confessed to being a witch. She told the court that she had commanded her neighbour’s cat, Sathan, to kill one of her pigs. Sathan had a reputation for causing illness and death. Once in Agnes’s home, Sathan was apparently instrumental in killing several animals belonging to neighbours who had had a disagreement with Agnes in the past. She rewarded him with a chicken and a drop of blood. No neighbour who had disagreed with her over the years escaped punishment. The details of this first trial have been written into witchcraft history, including the statement that, nine years earlier, having become tired of her husband, Agnes had commanded Sathan to kill him.

  Agnes’s eighteen-year-old daughter Joan was cross-examined while her mother was in prison and admitted that when she was alone in the house, she had experimented with what she had seen her mother do. She called Sathan, who appeared from under the mother’s bed in the guise of a huge dog. She wanted the dog to punish a neighbour who had been unkind to her. Shortly afterwards, this neighbour suddenly saw ‘an evyll favoured dogge with hornes on his head’, which scared her so much that she was literally paralysed in her right arm and leg. Agnes Waterhouse was charged with causing death by witchcraft, assisted by her ‘familiar’ Sathan, and was hanged on 29 July 1566. To her belongs the distinction of being the first of the ‘great witches’ of the period. Her daughter Joan was found not guilty.

  Elizabeth Francis was the third person in court with the Waterhouse women and it was she who was the original owner of the cat Sathan, who was said to be her ‘familiar’ or imp. She vouched for the efficacy of Sathan’s powers, as she had benefited by ridding herself of the baby she was expecting by Andrew Byles, who refused to marry her, and using magic to cause his death. Then, after marrying Christopher Francis, she was also implicated in his death. She commanded Sathan to lame her husband. This the cat did by transforming himself into a toad and jumping into one of Christopher’s shoes. The lameness could not be healed and he died soon after from natural causes. This suited Elizabeth, who had not been happy with her husband. When her confession was laid before the court, she was found guilty but, despite having committed two murders and one abortion, she was sentenced to only one year’s imprisonment. Thirteen years later, however, Elizabeth was involved in witchcraft once more and this time she was sent to the gallows.

  Although there were many Essex villages in the northern part of Essex that were well known for incidents of witchcraft during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there were several areas that had little or no witchcraft activity, such as Stansted Mountfichet, Great and Little Easter, West Bergholt, Marks Tey, Stanway, Ardleigh to Great Bromley and a long line stretching from the Easters to Hutton. The Benfleet and Thundersley regions also seem to have been fairly quiet. These were perhaps areas of little religious enthusiasm. By contrast, Barking and Dagenham seem to have been lively. It has been suggested that this could have something to do with the far-reaching effects of the strong Catholic traditions of Barking Abbey, which had been suppressed many years earlier after Henry VIII’s break from Rome. Tom Gardiner writes:

  A witch weathervane.

  Hatfield Peverel, on the other hand, was of some Puritan intensity and I am inclined to think the same went for Brightlingsea, St Osyth, Clacton, the Sokens, indeed virtually the whole of the Tendring Hundred. It is very difficult for us in the twentieth century to appreciate what a regard these people had for religion. It was a burning issue; its language came to their lips quite naturally. Above all, an interest in it said much for the kind of person you were. Adjectives like Catholic and Protestant took in the whole of life; which is why Colchester occupies such a significant place in this period.

  Another local case of witchcraft involved several women in St Osyth, one of whom was Grace Thurlowe. Her baby boy had been feverish for some months and she called in one of her neighbours, Ursula Kempe. This woman always went quietly about her business in the remote and quiet village of St Osyth and it would have been difficult to believe that she would become the centre of a notorious witch-hunt. She was known to be knowledgeable about herbs and healing and was particularly good with children. Mother Kempe made three visits. She took the child by its hands and talked to him gently, issuing ‘magic words’, so the delighted mother said, and the boy’s health improved.

  Grace worked for the lord of the manor, Mr Brian Darcy, and when she gave birth to another child, a girl, her employer suggested she again seek the help of Mother Kempe with her confinement. Grace refused, suspecting that Mother Kempe’s special knowledge had connections with witchcraft. Mother Kempe was offended. A while later, the baby fell out of its cot and was badly injured. In front of neighbours, the old nurse was accused of bewitching the child, a charge that was denied. The baby’s condition worsened, so another wise-woman was consulted but she could not lift the so-called curse that Mother Kempe had laid on both mother, who was now suffering from lameness, and child. Previously content to have Mother Kempe use her powers to heal, the citizens of St Osyth now began to lay all the evils of the village at her door.

  Small children, who had colourful imaginations, were called to give evidence. Thomas Rabbet, Mo
ther Kempe’s eight-year-old son, went into court and declared that his mother had four spirits – Tyffin, Tyttie, Pygine and Iacke. Tittie was a little grey cat, Tyffin a white lamb, Pygine a black toad and Iacke a black cat. He said his mother fed these creatures on beer and white bread and he had seen them suck her blood.

  The local magistrates found themselves with what was supposedly a whole coven of local witches. Mother Kempe was charged with five murders and other women in the village were also accused of sorcery offences, resulting in Darcy sending at least ten to the gibbet, including Mother Kempe. In 1921, two skeletons were found in St Osyth while building renovations were taking place. The elbows and knees of the two women’s skeletons were riveted through with iron pins, to prevent them walking as ‘living dead’.

  Familiars

  The belief that witches possessed imps, usually in the form of small creatures such as mice and rats, which were believed to have been given to them by the Devil, was one of the most persistent in Essex. These evil spirits or imps were the surest sign of a witch. An outstanding feature of many of the cases that came to court at the time was the number of domestic ‘familiars’ that were supposed to have played an important part in their mistresses’ witchcraft activities.

  The witches often had cats, dogs, ferrets and in some cases, toads which were believed to be demons in animal form. These creatures were supposed have assisted the witch in carrying out her malicious acts and the trial records depict them as having incredible, unearthly powers. The familiar was by no means a subservient, faithful helper who followed the witch’s every command. The relationship between the familiar and the witch is better characterised as ‘give-and-take’. Some familiars were believed to have played the role of devils or imps, in that they requested a pact (often satanic in nature) before they would perform any services for the witch. Furthermore, almost all of them craved nourishment in the form of human blood. They would attach themselves to some part of the witch’s body and suck blood out of her, leaving a bruise that witch-hunters called ‘the witch’s mark’. When the witch purge was at its height, some unfortunates were executed just because they kept animals or had a few moles on their bodies.

  King James I

  After the awful witch trials in the early years of Elizabeth’s reign, the witchcraft craze simmered down. However, in 1594, Essex lawyer William Smith wrote:

  A witch or hag is she which, being eluded by a league made with the devil through his persuasion, inspiration and juggling, thinkest she can design what manner of things soever, either by thought or imprecation, as to shake the air with lightnings and thunder, to cause hail and tempests, to remove green corn or trees to another place, to be carried by her familiar, which hath taken upon him the deceitful shape of a goat, swin, calf, etc. into some mountain far distant, in a wonderful short space of time. And sometimes fly upon a staff or fork, or some other instrument. And spend all night with her sweetheart, in playing, sporting, banqueting, dalliance and divers other devilish lusts and lewd desports, and to show a thousand such monstrous mockeries.

  When Elizabeth died in 1603 and James IV of Scotland ascended the English throne, becoming James I, a new Act regarding witchcraft was placed on the Statute Book. It was far more severe than its predecessors. This came as no surprise since Scottish practice followed continental themes. From that time, death was to be the punishment for any witch committing a second offence.

  The Witch-hunters

  The sixteenth-century outbreak of witchcraft appears naïve in comparison with the much more terrible terror to come. For a generation, witchcraft in East Anglia seems to have gone underground but in 1644, amid the upheavals of the Civil War, on to the scene came Matthew Hopkins, the lawyer son of a Suffolk parson who lived at Manningtree.

  The Witchfinder General and imps.

  Matthew Hopkins, self-styled Witchfinder General.

  The Dictionary of National Biography states that ‘little is known of Hopkins prior to 1644’ but there is plenty of documentation and proof of Hopkins’ activities as self-styled Witch Finder General. Richard Deacon, in his book Matthew Hopkins – Witch Finder General, states:

  From what scant evidence we have it seems probable that Hopkins first knew Mistley and Manningtree as a youth when he worked for a shipping owner at Mistley. Assuming that he was born sometime after 1619 – it is unlikely that it was later than 1622 – he would have been about twenty when he went to Ipswich to work in a lawyer’s office or, as seems likelier, in the legal department of some shipping firm. One simply cannot take it for granted, as so many have done, that he had qualified as a solicitor or barrister, for the proof of this does not exist. Yet so many writers have described him as a failed lawyer.

  At some time during the early 1640s, Hopkins seems to have made a few influential friends, probably through his work at Mistley, and from 1644 he appears to have assiduously studied books on witchcraft, including King James’s book, Daemonologie, which he published in 1597, and Thomas Potts’ account of the Pendle witches’ trial in 1612. He would also have known about and very probably read the depositions of the St Osyth witches’ trial in Essex. There is uncertainty about when very first actions against witches were brought by Matthew Hopkins but it was not until July 1645 that Hopkins launched the trial of sixteen women and not until the end of that year that five were found guilty and hanged.

  New legal directives were eagerly adopted by Hopkins, with terrifying results. He and his assistants, John Stearn and Mary Phillips, swept through the Eastern Counties like avenging angels. Whenever an informer indicated a witch, Mary examined the suspect for identifying devil marks. If a wart, a pimple or a birthmark was found, the victim was subjected to a ruthless and cruel examination, which usually produced a confession – and led to the victim’s death.

  So much has been written about Hopkins’ reign of terror, yet it was relatively short, lasting from 1644 until the autumn of 1646, when there was a steadily mounting campaign of criticism against Hopkins. Gradually, it came to be realised that more witches were being executed than ever before in the history of England. Hopkins’ campaign resulted in the execution of several hundred witches, with many more elderly women dying in prison through the effects of torture.

  A great deal of criticism was devoted to the fact that, alongside the power that he enjoyed, Hopkins was also making large amounts of money from his unsavoury activities. Twenty shillings was paid for every witch he discovered, and Mary Phillips and John Stearn also fared well.

  The tide was turning against Hopkins, and allegations of corruption and fortune-hunting were being levelled at him and his assistants. In 1647 he wrote a pamphlet, ‘The Discoverie of Witches’, published later that year, in which he cleverly put forward a series of reasoned arguments in the hope of disarming his critics and impressing local magistrates. But his time was running out. He failed to influence those in power and he disappeared from the scene.

  Some accounts say he was himself hanged as a witch; others suggest that he died from consumption in his own bed at Mistley. There was a also a tale that he joined his brother in America under an assumed name. Perhaps one day we may find the answer. Despite the supposedly remarkable success of Hopkins, he failed to eradicate witchcraft from Essex and it is said that it continues to this day.

  Cunning Murrell

  From 1812 to 1860, Hadleigh was the home of James Murrell, thought to be the last and most famous male witch in Essex. Born the seventh son of a seventh son, he was known as Cunning Murrell and enjoyed a lucrative career as a white magician. He had great knowledge of plant remedies, which proved to be most effective. People from all over East Anglia would make their way to his cottage to be healed. He used his ‘magic mirror’ to find lost valuables and took great pride in his special telescope, which he boasted could see through walls. He had a copper charm which he believed could decide whether the person before him was honest.

  Murrell often boasted that he was ‘the Devil’s Master’, claiming that he had the p
ower to exorcise spirits and overcome witchcraft with counter-spells. In his youth, Murrell had worked for a chemist in London, which was where he had acquired some knowledge of pharmacy and plant remedies. Murrell was known to be a secretive man with some odd habits. He never went anywhere without his old umbrella, whatever the weather.

  No one was allowed near his piles of dusty old books, which were scattered around his cottage. Many were treatises on charms and spells and ancient medical volumes. He was well known for his iron witch bottles, into which he put samples of the urine, fingernail pairings, blood and hair of clients whom he had diagnosed as being bewitched. At midnight, the mixture would be heated to boiling point in absolute silence. This was intended to create a burning sensation in the witch’s body, which would force her to remove the spell. One story relates how a girl was brought to him barking like a dog after being cursed by a gypsy girl. When Murrell heated up his witch bottle that night, it exploded and the next day the charred body of a woman was found lying in a nearby country lane.

  Betty Puttick mentions Cunning Murrell in her book Ghosts of Essex:

  Murrell himself died on the day he prophesied, 16 December 1860. He was buried on the east side of the little Norman church in Hadleigh with his wife, who predeceased him in 1839 and some of his fourteen children, and his memory is still as green as the unmarked grassy mounts in that traffic-bound oasis.