Carillon Magazine

Issue 14

The Prophetess of York

John Critchley (Doncaster)

My story, not a happy one, began one crisp, cold Christmas Eve; I choosing that day to take a stroll through the part of York known as Queen's Staithe. There, I along with many others, stood to listen to a young woman by the name of Hannah Beedham, I believe she was nineteen years of age at the time. The speaker having climbed upon a cart to address the throng.

Normally I would have kept on walking, maybe called at one of the public houses for hot whisky or brandy, but there was such conviction in that young woman's voice.

"I, Hannah Beedham have walked with God," she shouted and looked me straight in the eyes before continuing."Aye, a tell thee all, God Almighty on't High Himself. I, Hannah Beedham has had her a glorious vision. "

     The crowd mocked and cat called mostly and one gentleman with red hair bellowed, "Supped too many gins tha

has, moor likely. Vision? Nay."

 A thin faced fellow by his side said,"Lass is nowt but a Jill-flirt from Hagworm's Nest. What would God be wanting wi' the likes o'thee?"

The young woman smiled and roared a worthy reply, "Aye, a be from Hagworm's Nest. A dun't deny me humble beginnings, nor that a be a common sinner o' this town o' York."

"Get dahn," said the thin-faced man,"stop meking fools o' us, and thiself lass. God Almighty indeed! Wonder He dun't strike thee dahn on't very spot, and all us daft enough t' listen t' tha drunken rantings.

A tall and finely dressed middle aged man spoke out next. He said, "What did the Lord say to thee, Hannah Beedham? I be a journalist from the York Courant. Our readers must know of thy vision."

"He told me when a shall meet Him agen," said the woman.

"Pray, when shall that be?" Said the scribe.

"A shall tell all gathered here," said Hannah, "Shall be on't first day o' eighth month o' this year o' the Lord."

The journalist scribbled something down as the thin faced man almost screamed, "Gin, a tell thee, gin. That o' opium. Liar! Witch! Witch and liar!"

"Any particular time? Did He tell thee the time of thy parting breath?" asked the scribbler.

"Aye, nine o'clock," said Hannah.

"In the morn' or be that nighttime? "Asked the journalist.

"Nighttime, sir," said Hannah.

The red haired man suddenly burst out laughing and addressed the journalist thus, "Tha must be as daft as yon' Jill-flirt."

The thin faced man yelled, "A say let's hang us a witch."

"Nay," said the red haired lout, "Tha burns witches, hanging dun't kill 'em.

Flames is what's required."

"Fools!" hissed the journalist.