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 160 the parish authorities were obliged to take upon themselves the expense of her maintenance; they accordingly handed her over to a nurse, and a very hard time of it the nurse had with her. All the spirits of the neighbourhood seem to have assembled in the nurse’s cottage to amuse the weird infant; and it is singular to find in a book nearly two hundred years old a description of their tricks, so closely resembling the highly intellectual performances at a spiritual conference in the modern drawing-room. Among other things, they are said to have set the heavy furniture walking up and down the stairs, which gave the chairs and stools a clearer space for amusing themselves below in playing at “Bowles with the Trenchers and Dishes.” At last they became so uproarious in their indulgence of these innocent pursuits, that the nurse got tired of it, and Mother Shipton, as she was already called, having become a big girl, the parish, at her request, relieved her of her charge, and took it upon themselves; putting her to school “that she might receive the education commonly given to the children of paupers, namely, reading, writing, and sewing.” (This was written, be it remembered, nearly two hundred years ago.) For some reason or other, she was not popular among her fellow-students. They ridiculed her personal appearance, and she retaliated by causing all the Robin Goodfellows, Ariels, and Pucks of her acquaintance to pinch and otherwise annoy and injure them to such an extent, that she was at last expelled from the school, and thrown upon the wide world, with nothing but her own resources to rely upon. Feeling that she “had a mission,” she followed the promptings of her internal consciousness, and established herself in the neighbourhood as the real original medium. Persons began now to visit her, to consult her on future events, and as she always gave them the information couched in sufficiently ambiguous language, and invariably refused to take any fee for her trouble, they were loud in their praises of her knowledge and disinterestedness. It is true that she kept a girl as servant, who was always willing to accept anything visitors chose to give, and who took care to remind them of their duties in this respect, if necessary, by telling them that she and her dame could not live on thanks; quoting the aphorism which has come down to our time, that “it is money makes the mare to go.”

Gradually, however, her fame travelled beyond this narrow circle, and people came to her from distant parts, just as in more ancient times they visited the pythoness of Delphi.

Her biographer concludes her performance as follows, and I would recommend the prophecy to the particular attention of those who are skilful in the interpretation of such things, as offering a wide field for the exercise of their peculiar talent:—

Great noise there shall be heard, great shouts and cries

And seas shall thunder louder than the skies;

Then shall three lyons fight with three, and bring

Joy to a people, honour to their king.

“This Mother Shipton lived till she was of an extraordinary age, and though she was generally believed to be a witch, yet all persons whatever, that either saw or heard of her, had her in esteem, and her memory is to this day much honoured by those of her own country.

“A stone was erected near Clifton, about a mile from the city of York, from which the following is taken:—

Here lyes she who never ly’d,

Whose skill often has been try’d.

Her prophecies shall still survive,

And ever keep her name alive.

The title-page of the other volume containing her prophecies is faced by a woodcut, which represents Henry VIII. seated on his throne, his feet resting on the back of Pope Clement, who is prostrate in the dust, his broken tiara lying on the ground near him, to the great grief of a whole army of monks on the king’s left hand, among whom is Cardinal Pole. This latter dignitary is assisting the Pope to rise, and on the other side Bishop Fisher is tendering his hand to support his head. On the king’s right hand stands Cranmer, who is presenting him with the Bible, and behind him Cromwell. The imprint runs thus: “Printed by T. P., for Fr. Coles, and are to be sold at his shop, at the signe of the Lambe, in the Old Bailey, neare the Sessions house, 1663.”

In this collection of her prophecies, those to which most prominence are given, are those having reference to Cardinal Wolsey, the fate of the messengers sent to her by the king, and the treatment of religious institutions by this monarch.

“When she heard that King Henry the Eighth should be king, and Cardinall Wolsey should be at Yorke, she said that Cardinall Wolsey should never come to Yorke, which the King and the Cardinall hearing, being angry, sent the Duke of Suffolk and the L. Darcy to her, who came with their men disguised to the King’s house, near Yorke; where leaving their men, they went to Mr. Besley in Yorke, and desired him to goe with them to Mother Shipton’s house, where when they came they knocked at the doore, she said, Come in, Mr. Besley, and those honourable lords with you, and Mr. Besley would have put in the Lords before him; but shee said, Come in, Mr. Besley, you know the way, but they doe not. This they thought strange that shee should know them and never saw them; then they went into the house, where there was a great fire, and they dranke and were very merry. Mother Shipton, said the Duke, if you knew what we came about you would not bid us so welcome; shee said the messenger should not be hanged: Mother Shipton, said the Duke, you said the Cardinall should never see Yorke; Yea, said shee, I said he might see Yorke, yet never come at it. But, said the Duke, when he comes to Yorke thou shalt be burned: Wee shall see that, said shee, and plucking her handkercher off her head, she threw it into the fire, and it would not burne; then she tooke her staff and turned it into the fire, and it would not burne; then she tooke and put it on againe. Then said the Duke, What nieane you by this? She replyed, lf this had burned I might have burned. Mother Shipton, quoth the Duke, What thinke you of me? My Lord, said she, the time