The Latter-Day Legends of the Devilish Dogs

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n                      As previously mentioned here, wendon’t really have a tradition of were-wolf stories in Britain, probably becausenwolves were thought to have been exterminated in the Middle Ages. There is anlegend that the last one was killed at Humphrey Head, Lancashire in about 1390,nbut bounties were paid, and other records exist of wolves being killed, intonthe late fifteenth century. 

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nJoseph Strutt, in his The sports and pastimes ofnthe people of England from the earliest period, including the rural andndomestic recreations, May games, mummeries, pageants, processions and pompousnspectacles (1801), writes that they were probably exterminated, or at leastnexceedingly rare,  by the reign of HenrynVII (1457-1509) and that 

nBut what we lack in wolf talesnwe more than make up for with those of strange dogs. 

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nI have written about thenGabriel Ratchets here, and touched lightly on the Lancashire Boggart there, butnthere is more to tell. Boggart, or Boggard, comes from the same root as Bogey,nBogle and Buggan, all names for sprites, imps or goblins, more often than notnmalevolent. The form taken by the boggart varies, sometimes it appears almostnlike a small human or gnome but people seldom see them, although they oftennspook cattle, horses and other livestock. Sometimes they live in houses,nusually in the eaves, or barns, and sometimes out in the country – there is a BoggartnHole Clough about 5 miles north east of Manchester (a Clough is a steep sided,nwooded valley by a stream. 

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nIn Yorkshire, North East Lancs and the Lakes, it isncalled a Gill or Ghyll). A boggart haunted Townley Hall, Burnley and claimed anmember of the Townley family every seven years, in punishment for the harm donento the poor of the district by a Sir John Townley, who enclosed, or ‘lay-in’,nsome common land into his estates. The ghost of Sir John can be heardnlamenting,

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nAnother common tale is that ofnthe Boggart Flitting (to flit, in Lancashire, is to move house). Anfamily, in desparation at their boggart’s pranks, packed their belongings on anwagon and prepared to flit, when they heard the boggart cry, “Owd on. I’mncomin’ too!” so, realising there was no escape, they abandoned the plan,nunpacked the cart and moved back in again. A common Lancashire response, whennsomeone says, “I’m coming too,” is to reply, “Aye, Like t’Clegg Ho’nboggart.” 

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nSometimes, the boggart is a headless woman, whose head chasesnunfortunate travellers (one of these haunts the lanes around Longridge). 

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nTwonpoachers, out rabbiting one night around Houghton Tower, were returning home innthe dawn light when a voice was heard coming from the sack that one wasncarrying, “Where are ta, Lad?” The reply came from the other’s sack, “Inna sack, on a back, goin’ up Houghton Brow.” The poachers had caughtnboggarts not rabbits. They dropped the sacks and fled.

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nBut boggarts can appear as dogs,nusually black dogs with glowing red eyes. These haunt the moors, the tops andnthe fells, where they prey on unwitting travellers. There is one of these onnPendle, a great Devil Dog as big as a sheep, which roams the slopes and cloughsnlooking for victims. This is the boggart that spoke to Alizon Devize andnoffered to lame John Law, the Halifax peddler, and also spoke to her brother,nJohn, asking him for his soul. Another black dog haunts Cliviger Gorge, anterrible, shaggy beast with large paws and eyes like saucers, when he walks itnsounds like splashing water, and he is called ‘Trash’, but sometimes he wails,nand is called ‘Skriker,’ and whoever hears his ‘skriking’ will surely die soon. 

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nIn Yorkshire, between Skipton and Harrogate on the moors and near to Washburnnwater, are the ruins of Dobb Park Lodge, once a grand four-storey Tudor mansionnbut now uninhabitable. Below the house was a dungeon, from which unearthlynnoises were heard to issue, but no one dared approach until one day a local,nhis resolve strengthened by a good draught of ardent spirits, took a lanternnand descended into the darkness. After following the twists and turns of ansubterranean tunnel, he came at last to a vast hall, almost as large as anchurch, where the finest music he had ever heard was playing, with a great firenburning in the grate, before which he saw an enormous black dog. To hisnamazement, the dog began to speak in a human voice, saying that if he meant tonleave the place alive, he must do one of three things; 

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nHe looked at the chest, which seemed too large to move, and henlooked at the sword, which was almost as big as himself, and then he looked atnthe glass, sparkling and fine, with a long stem. He took this up and started tondrink, but the liquid was scalding hot and burned his lips and tongue. Fearingnit would scald away his insides, he spat it out and dashed the glass down,nwhereupon the lid of the chest flew open and in it he could see many thousandnpounds in gold, and the sword was drawn by an unseen hand and hovered beforenhim. Suddenly, the fire and his lantern went out, the music ceased, and anterrible screeching and wailing filled the darkness. Terrified, he passed outnand awoke in pitch-black silence. He picked his way back along the tunnel andneventually made his way back out into the sunlight. No one has dared to go intonthat dungeon since, and for all I know, there is still a chest of gold downnthere.

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