A blight seemed to have fallen upon the place.  Roger Nowell, who had visited it a few months ago, could scarcely believe his eyes, so changed was its appearance.  His inquiries as to the cause of its altered condition were every where met by the same answer—­the poor people were all bewitched.  Here a child was ill of a strange sickness, tossed and tumbled in its bed, and contorted its limbs so violently, that its parents could scarcely hold it down.  Another family was afflicted in a different manner, two of its number pining away and losing strength daily, as if a prey to some consuming disease.  In a third, another child was sick, and vomited pins, nails, and other extraordinary substances.  A fourth household was tormented by an imp in the form of a monkey, who came at night and pinched them all black and blue, spilt the milk, broke the dishes and platters, got under the bed, and, raising it to the roof, let it fall with a terrible crash; putting them all in mental terror.  In the next cottage there was no end to calamities, though they took a more absurd form.  Sometimes the fire would not burn, or when it did it emitted no heat, so that the pot would not boil, nor the meat roast.  Then the oatcakes would stick to the bake-stone, and no force could get them away from it till they were burnt and spoiled; the milk turned sour, the cheese became so hard that not even rats’ teeth could gnaw it, the stools and settles broke down if sat upon, and the list of petty grievances was completed by a whole side of bacon being devoured in a single night.  Roger Nowell and Nicholas listened patiently to a detail of all these grievances, and expressed strong sympathy for the sufferers, promising assistance and redress if possible.  All the complainants taxed either Mother Demdike or Mother Chattox with afflicting them, and said they had incurred the anger of the two malevolent old witches by refusing to supply them with poultry, eggs, milk, butter, or other articles, which they had demanded.  Master Potts made ample notes of the strange relations, and took down the name of every cottager.

At length, they arrived at the last cottage, and here a man, with a very doleful countenance, besought them to stop and listen to his tale.

“What is the matter, friend?” demanded Roger Nowell, halting with the others.  “Are you bewitched, like your neighbours?”

“Troth am ey, your warship,” replied the man, “an ey hope yo may be able to deliver me.  Yo mun knoa, that somehow ey wor unlucky enough last Yule to offend Mother Chattox, an ever sin then aw’s gone wrang wi’ me.  Th’ good-wife con never may butter come without stickin’ a redhot poker into t’ churn; and last week, when our brindlt sow farrowed, and had fifteen to t’ litter, an’ fine uns os ever yo seed, seign on um deed.  Sad wark! sad wark, mesters.  The week efore that t’ keaw deed; an th’ week efore her th’ owd mare, so that aw my stock be gone.  Waes me! waes me!  Nowt prospers