that the woman was her great-aunt, and remembered having seen her when
very young.
Stories very similar in their general features to the preceding are far
from uncommon in the country, and in all the sorceress is represented
as a lady of rank.
A countryman met a lady entangled in the brambles on the top of a
hedge. He disengaged her, and was promised that as long as he kept the
secret he should find every morning, under a stone which she pointed
out to him, a piece of money.[170]
MAGIC BOOKS.
“O Faustus, lay that damnèd book aside
And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul,
And heap God’s heavy wrath upon thy head!
Read, read the Scriptures:--that is blasphemy.”
--_Tragical History of Doctor Faustus_, by Christopher Marlowe.
Many persons, although not absolutely considered as wizards, are looked
upon with no favourable eye from their supposed possession of books
relating to the black art, by the study of which they are thought to
be able to control the elements, to produce strange effects either for
good or bad on the bodies of man and beast, to discover hidden secrets,
treasure, etc.
These books are generally known by the name of _Albins_, probably
derived from that famous professor of magic, Albertus Magnus, many of
whose formulas for raising the Devil, etc., they are said to contain.
They are also called “_Le Grammaille_” or “_Grand-Mêle_,”[171] and a
distinction is made between the _Grand-Mêle_ and the _Petit-Mêle_.
Among the effects which the possessors of these books are said to be
able to produce is that of causing persons to walk in their sleep, and
to direct their steps towards any point to which the dabbler in magic
may wish them to go, but in order to accomplish this, it is necessary
that he should have previously drawn blood from the person on whom
he intends to practise his unlawful art. So small a quantity however
as that produced by the scratch of a pin is amply sufficient for the
purpose.
These books are said to be indestructible. If thrown on the fire they
remain unconsumed, if sunk in the sea, or buried in the earth, they
will be found again the next day in the cupboard or chest from whence
they were taken.[172]
[170] From Miss E. Chepmell.
[171] Mr. Métivier in his dictionary translates _Grand-Mêle_ as
_Grimoire_, or the book by which sorcerers pretend to raise the
dead, being derived from the old Norse word _grîma_, a spectre, a
witch, a word which is, he says, also the origin of “_grimace_.”
The _Grand-Mêle_ of the Guernsey folk was literally the _big book_,
just as the _Petit-Mêle_ was the little book, _Mêle_ being nothing
but a survival of the Gothic _Meli_--a writing, discourse, or song.
Also _Ma’l_, with the Norsemen, as _Veda_ with the Hindoos, and as
_Scripture_ with us, was simply the collective name of all the holy
books.
[172] From Elizabeth Matthieu.
EDITOR’S NOTES.
Nowadays the people, in speaking of the “bad books” as they frequently
term them, call them the “_Grand Albert_” and the “_Petit Albert_,”
the former being undoubtedly derived from “Albertus Magnus.” The
“Petit Albert” is an abridgment of the larger book, and is supposed to
be comparatively harmless, and, with proper precautions, some say it
may even be used by good Christians. The country people to this day
believe these books to be imperishable, and many is the tale they tell
of how they will neither drown, nor burn, and how in particular, one
old wizard’s books at Saints’ Bay had to be buried, and part of the
funeral service read over them, to keep them from reappearing on their
accustomed shelf.
Our old nurse, Margaret Mauger, has often told me the story of the
books belonging to an extremely clever old gentleman who owned an
estate in the country. At his death, when his daughters came to divide
his large library, they were horrified to find many “witch books” and
atheistical books included in it. These they set aside to be burnt,
and also a great many harmless but dull histories, biographies, and
sermons, which they did not wish to keep, and made one huge bonfire.
But (and it was one of the daughters who vouched for the truth of
this story) the good books would not burn with the bad books! A
frightful smell arose, and thick columns of black smoke, but none were
consumed, and they all had to be re-sorted, and made into two separate
piles,--the sheep and the goats--and then they all burnt readily
enough.--_From Margaret Mauger._
“In Denmark and some neighbouring countries it is believed that a
strange and formidable book exists, by means of which you can raise
or lay the Devil--called the _Book of Cyprianus_. The owner of it
can neither sell, bury or burn it, and if he cannot get rid of it
before his death he becomes the prey of the fiend.”--_Demonology and
Devil-Lore_, by Moncure Conway, Vol. 2., p. 282.
THE PRIOR OF LIHOU.
The small islet of Lihou lies on the western coast of Guernsey, from
which it is separated by an arm of the sea. An ancient causeway, which
is uncovered at half-tide, affords an easy access to the main-land, but
it is dangerous to attempt the passage when the tide is flowing, for
the coast is so flat that the water rises with great rapidity, and many
accidents have occurred. A church, the ruins of which are still to be
seen, existed here until the Reformation. It was dedicated to Notre
Dame de la Roche, and was served by a prior, who was appointed by the
Prior of St. Michel du Valle, a dependency of the great Abbey of Mont
St. Michel-au-peril-de-la-Mer, in the Bay of Avranches. The isle is
to this day looked upon with such veneration by the Norman and Breton
sailors employed in the coasting trade, that they never pass it without
saluting, by lowering their topmasts, and there is reason to believe
that it was a favourite resort of pilgrims. A house belonging to a
family of the name of Lenfestey, and situated at Les Adams, is said to
have been, in former days, the residence of the priest who officiated
at Lihou. A free-stone let into one of the exterior walls has a rough
delineation of a church incised on it, which is said to represent the
Priory Church of Lihou as it formerly existed.[173]
[Illustration: Stone supposed to represent the ancient Priory at
Lihou.]
A few years ago the remains of a skeleton were discovered in sinking
a well on the property, to which a certain number of houses in the
neighbourhood have a right of resorting for water. Many persons who
have gone to draw water at night have heard groans, thrice repeated, as
if from a person expiring, and these have generally been followed by
the death of some near relation of the hearer. Three days after Mrs.
Savidan heard the groans, a boat, in which were two of her relations
named Le Cras, was capsized in a storm and both perished.[174]
Notwithstanding the sanctity of the place, however, the old proverb of
“The nearer the church, the farther from God,” might at one time have
been applied to it, for it is related of one of the priors that he was
addicted to the black art. Neither the fear of God, nor the censures of
the church, could wean him from the fascinating study of magic, and the
_Grand-Mêle_ was far oftener in his hands than the Bible or breviary.
But wizards, it is well known, have often been the victims of their own
art, and so it chanced with the profane Prior of Lihou.
One morning, taking advantage of the receding tide, he crossed over to
Guernsey to seek an interview with another adept in necromancy, the
priest of the neighbouring Chapel of Ste. Apolline. He was accompanied
by his servant, to whom he had entrusted a ponderous tome, containing
the formulas by which he performed his incantations, and to whom he had
given strict orders on no account to open the volume or read a word
which it contained.
The visit over, the prior prepared to return to his convent, and
walked along leisurely, knowing as it was then spring tide that two
or three hours must elapse before the returning waves could bar the
passage to the islet. The servant lingered behind, and when he arrived
on the beach found his master already half way over. His curiosity
had been vividly excited by the repeated injunctions of his master
that he should abstain carefully from opening the book. He began to
think that it must contain something very wonderful, and that, as but
few minutes must elapse before their arrival at the convent, when the
mysterious volume would, without doubt, be instantly demanded by the
prior, if he did not seize this opportunity of acquainting himself
with its contents, no other occasion might ever present itself. He
yielded to the temptation, opened the book, and began to read. The
prior by this time had arrived at about the middle of the causeway, and
was astonished to find the tide rising rapidly and threatening to cut
off his further progress, either backwards or forwards. He felt that
some unnatural agency was at work, and, guessing how matters stood,
looked back to the shore which he had just left, and saw his faithless
servant comfortably seated on a heap of dried sea-weed, with the fatal
volume spread open on his knees. He was reading aloud, and the prior
caught enough of the words to know that his attendant had hit upon the
spell which causes the tides to rise out of their usual course, and,
moreover, that he was reading most leisurely.
In great fright he called out to the man to read on quickly to the end,
as he knew that then the waves would stop and return to their proper
limits. The servant was too much absorbed in his reading to pay any
attention to the directions given him, and the waves had by this time
reached above the prior’s waist. In mortal agony he called out for the
second time:--
“If thou canst not read forwards, read backwards!”
The roaring waves this time effectually drowned his voice. The servant
read on, but long before he had arrived at the end of the incantation,
the sea had covered the profane priest, and the demon whom the magic
lines had evoked carried off his prey.[175]
[173] EDITOR’S NOTE.--Mr. S. Carey Curtis, who is an architect, has
made some very interesting plans of the ruins of Lihou Priory, and
has shown their correspondence with the architecture of the building
depicted on this stone. I will quote his exact words:--
“There is built into the wall of a house, on the Paysans Road, a
sculptured stone, which corresponds so exactly with what might have
been the Chapel of Lihou that I have, on the plan, restored the chapel
on those lines. All the principal features work in exactly, the tower,
the windows, the roof, etc.,--all except the door, of which there is
positively no trace; but possibly, in view of the various coats of
paint on the stone, it is merely a fancy of one of the many artists
who have retouched it. Of the ruins which remain there is sufficient
to show what its measurements once were. Of the tower, about twelve
feet is still standing, a large portion of the north wall, and several
smaller pieces; these all show that it consisted of a nave about
thirty-four by twenty-three feet inside measurement, and a choir or
sanctuary about thirty-four by twenty feet. There is enough of the
north wall still standing to shew where the spring of the vaulting
began, and thus, approximately, the height of the walls and roof. The
corner of the chancel arch pier is a Caen stone, with a plain beading
on it; there is also trace of a porphyry column on the south side of
the sanctuary, and under the site of the altar is a paving of Malachite
green and buff tiles, some of which still remain; they measure six and
a quarter inches square and were laid alternately.”
The lettering has been explained as standing for “H … Dominus Lihou
Mel,” “H … priest of Lihou Mel, (as Lihou was called in ancient times)
in 1114.”
[174] From Mrs. Savidan.
[175] From Dr. Lukis, to whom the story was told by an old woman at
l’Erée.
EDITOR’S NOTES.
A somewhat similar story was told me in 1896 by Mrs. Le Patourel, who
had heard it from her mother-in-law. A schoolmaster, either at St.
Pierre-du-Bois or at Torteval, was given to witchcraft, and owned one
of these “bad books.” He took it one day to his school and, by an
oversight, left it on his desk. It was a lovely day, and, impatient to
be out, he omitted to lock it up, and hurried home to get his dinner.
Whilst in the middle of eating it, quite suddenly a terrific storm
came on, such thunder and lightning as had never before been seen in
the country, and was most unaccountable in such a hitherto lovely
weather. It seemed to be at its worst just over the school. Terrified,
remembering the book he had left there, he rushed back and there he
found one of the boys reading this book out loud. He snatched the book
from his hand, and asked him to show him where he had begun, and where
he had read to, and then began at once to read _backwards_ from where
the boy had left off. As he read, the storm began to lull, and when
he reached the place where the boy had begun to read, the storm had
stopped as suddenly as it begun. (This is possibly another version of
the story of “Satan and the Schoolmaster,” related in the chapter on
the Devil.)
Mrs. Le Patourel also knew a man who had once owned a “_Grand Albert_”
and used it, and, repenting, tried to burn it, but it is well known
that if you have once used one of these books you can never rid
yourself of it, try as you will. He heated his oven red hot, and put
the book within it. Two minutes afterwards he looked up and saw the
book, unsinged even, in its old place on the dresser. My cousin Miss
Le Pelley sends me a story told her by an old servant Judy Ozanne, how
some very religious people, going into a house found a “_Grand Albert_”
on the poûtre (the centre beam) in the kitchen, so they threw it into
the fire, but in vain, for “it went back to its old place and stayed
there!”
A WIZARD ON THE WEST COAST.
We all know how dangerous it is to possess books which treat of the
arts of magic and sorcery, or to tamper in any way with these forbidden
practices.
It came to the ears of a former rector of St. Pierre-du-Bois or
Torteval, that one of his parishioners, of the name of Sarre, not
only owned such books, but was in the habit of reading and studying
them. Indeed, if there was any truth in public rumour, many of Sarre’s
neighbours had been sufferers from the improper use he made of the
knowledge thus unlawfully acquired. The good rector thought it his
duty to remonstrate with his parishioner, and to point out to him
the sinfulness of his conduct, and the danger he was incurring of
forfeiting both body and soul to the Prince of Darkness; but all his
good advice was, for a long time, treated with contempt. At last,
what the rector’s charitable remonstrances had been unable to effect
was brought about by Sarre’s own fears. The presence of a large black
cat, which followed him wherever he went, and was with him night and
day, began to alarm him. It was useless to attempt to drive the beast
away; it cared neither for threats nor blows. In short Sarre began to
be seriously alarmed lest his assiduous study of the forbidden volumes
should, at last, have brought, if not Satan, at least one of his
familiars, to dog his steps continually, and to watch an opportunity of
seizing on his prey.
Under these circumstances he thought it most prudent to get rid of the
books, and, with this intent, went one night to the extreme verge of
low-water mark at spring-tides, dug a hole in the sand, and buried the
accursed volumes. The rising tide soon covered the spot, and Sarre
returned home with his mind at ease. His feeling of security was not
destined to be of long duration, for, on entering his door, he was met
by the black cat, who, erecting his tail, and rubbing himself against
his master’s legs, manifested his joy at seeing him again. The next
object that his eyes rested on were the books he had just buried,
carefully placed on their accustomed shelf, and as dry as if they had
never left it. A profound melancholy seized him; he ceased to occupy
himself in his usual avocations, and wandered about the cliffs and
sea-shore in a disconsolate state, till, at last, he disappeared. Those
who were charitably disposed, surmised that, in his despair, he had
thrown himself over one of the lofty precipices of Pleinmont into the
sea, but there were not wanting others who suggested that the master,
into whose service he had entered, had at last claimed his own, and
carried him off bodily.[176]
[176] From Mrs. W. T. Collings, wife of the late Seigneur of Sark.
THE WIZARD’S DEATH.
A certain man of the name of Robin, who lived near Les Capelles, in
the parish of St. Sampson’s, had risen from being a day labourer to be
the possessor of what, in Guernsey, passes for a considerable landed
estate. Riches are sure to create envy, and more particularly is this
the case when a man has been prosperous in the world and has arrived
at a rank and station to which he was not born. The poor hate him
because he has acquired a title to consideration, which his origin, as
humble as their own, can never confer. The rich pretend to despise him
because he is wanting in the accidental circumstance of birth. All
concur in attributing his success in life to luck, to want of honesty,
to anything but intelligence, industry, and good conduct. It will
not, therefore, be thought surprising if calumny was busy at work to
blacken the character of one, who, like Robin, had been so fortunate in
his undertakings. He was openly spoken of by his neighbours as being
addicted to sorcery.
It was well known that he possessed the art of taming the most
refractory bulls, and it therefore followed as a matter of course that
he had also the power of bewitching other cattle. Sometimes, when a
cow was sick, and all the usual nostrums of the village farrier had
failed in effecting a cure, recourse was had, as a last resort, to
Robin, who was generally successful. What conclusion was more natural,
than that he, who could so easily remove a malady, had also the power
of inflicting it? Besides, it was whispered about by some of those
who contrive to be well informed of all that passes, even in the
most secret recesses of their neighbours’ houses, that Robin would
sit for hours together, shut up in his private room, with a pack of
cards before him, with which he appeared to be playing some game. No
adversary was seen, but what game can be played by one man alone?
It was clear to the most obtuse that another was present, although
invisible to mortal eye, and who could this be but the great enemy of
human souls?
At last old age came on; Robin became more and more infirm, and was at
last confined to his bed. During his illness his attendants were much
annoyed by the continual creaking and cracking of an ancient oaken
press, which stood in the corner of the room, and which he would not
allow them on any account to open or meddle with. Of course they all
thought that this chest contained untold gold, for he was known to be
extremely avaricious--in fact he was one of those “who would cut a
double[177] in two” as the saying is. He was frightfully hard on all
his workmen, exacting every moment of their time. So far did he carry
this, that it is said he only allowed them five minutes to take their
noon-day meal, which, according to the universal custom at that time,
was furnished by the employer, and eaten at his table. It was commonly
believed that one source of his wealth was the discovery of a buried
treasure in one of his fields. There was a well on his property which
was intermittent, at times overflowing, and at others not having above
an inch or so of water in it. It was supposed to conceal a treasure,
and a man was sent down to examine it, but no sooner had he begun to
bale out the water than it returned with such violence that he was
obliged to be drawn up to avoid drowning. When Robin was dying, his son
urged him to give something to the poor, but his constant answer was:--
“_Je n’en counis pouïnt_.” (“I do not know any.”)
His last hour was, however, rapidly approaching, and he desired
the press to be opened, and certain books which it contained to be
thrown on the hearth where a large fire was blazing. His orders were
obeyed, but, to the great astonishment of the servants and attendants,
instead of being consumed in the flames, the books extinguished the
fire![178] Fresh faggots were, by the orders of the dying man, heaped
on the hearth, and kindled, and, at last, the mysterious books, if not
consumed, at least disappeared. The press had ceased to creak from the
moment the books were taken out of it, and shortly afterwards Robin
breathed his last.
A storm of unusual violence was raging at the time, but the most
singular circumstance remains yet to be told. A crow of unusual size
was seen to hover over the house, and finally alighted on the roof,
and, it is said, that on the day of the funeral, as the corpse was
leaving the house, it flew down and perched on the coffin. In vain did
the bearers endeavour to drive it off; it held its ground, and even
when the body was lowered into the grave it would not quit the station
which it had chosen, but suffered itself to be covered with the mould
by the sexton.[179]
[177] A _double_ is the smallest copper coin in Guernsey currency,
value one-eighth of a penny.
[178] EDITOR’S NOTE.--In _Traditions et Superstitions de la Haute
Bretagne_, Tome I., p. 304, M. Sebillot tells the story of a priest,
who, at the request of a penitent “sorcier,” tries to burn _Le Petit
Albert_:--“Il le mit dans le foyer pour le brûler; mais le livre
sautait dans le feu comme s’il avait voulu en sortir. Le prêtre le
repoussait dans les flammes avec sa canne, et il brûla longtemps sans
se consumer.”
[179] From Miss Elizabeth Chepmell, Nancy Bichard, and Rachel Duport.
EDITOR’S NOTE.
“In German Switzerland, a crow perching on the roof of a house where
a corpse lies, is a sure sign that the dead is damned.” Swainson’s
_Folk-Lore_, p. 84.
“In Germany ravens are believed to hold the souls of the damned,
sometimes to be the evil one himself.” Idem., p. 90. “The raven was
indeed, from of old endowed with the holy awfulness of the Christian
dove in the Norse mythology. Odin was believed to have given this bird
the colour of the night, that it might the better spy out the deeds of
darkness.” _Demonology and Devil-Lore_, by Conway, Vol. 2., p. 368.
THE WITCH OF CAUBO.[180]
Among the many bays with which the sea-coast of Guernsey is indented,
few have a wilder aspect than that of Caûbo; not that it is surrounded
with bold cliffs and precipices, like those of the southern coast,
for, on the contrary, the sea is only prevented from inundating
the neighbouring land by the banks of sand and shingle which the
ever-restless waves have thrown up, or by the sea walls which the
industry of man has raised to form a barrier against them.
Its charm consists in the wildness of its scenery[181]--the rugged
promontory of “La Roque du Guet,” surmounted by an old watch-house and
battery to the south; the point of land known as “Les Grandes Roques,”
with its outlying reefs, the scene of many a wreck, to the north; the
chain of rocks stretching right across the bay to the westward, and
seeming to bar all access to the land. All this, whether seen when,
with a westerly wind, the heavy waves are sweeping in with resistless
force from the broad Atlantic, or when, on a calm summer’s day, the
sun’s rays “like light dissolved in star-showers” pour down on the
brilliantly blue water, from which the innumerable jagged peaks arise,
from any of which one might expect to “have sight of Proteus rising
from the sea, or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.” The shores
are alternately picturesque and rugged, or else smiling valleys of
green fields overhung with trees, and with a few old thatched houses in
the background, and, until lately, were inhabited almost exclusively
by a race of poor hardy fishermen, to whom every passage through the
intricate and rugged rocks of the bay are well known, but who are by no
means exempt from the superstitions that seem to attach particularly
to a sea-faring life.
Of late some extensive quarries have been opened in the hills that lie
eastward of the bay, from one of which the dark granite steps leading
to the western entrance of St. Paul’s Cathedral were hewn. The quarries
have brought other labourers to reside in the neighbourhood, and it
is from a brother of one of these--a Cornishman--that the following
particulars have been obtained.
The quarryman now in question, when he first determined on seeking work
at Caûbo, had much difficulty in finding a cottage to suit him; but,
at last, tempted by the low rent asked for one, which had remained
untenanted for a long time, he made up his mind to take it. Other
labourers had lived formerly in the house, but generally, after a short
residence, they had left it as soon as they could find a decent excuse,
without assigning any definite reason. The quarryman had not been
long settled in his new habitation when he and his family began to be
alarmed by strange and unaccountable noises, particularly at night. He
spoke to some of the neighbours on the subject, and, at last, with some
difficulty--for it was evident that there was a great unwillingness
to speak on the subject,--he ascertained that the house had the
reputation of being bewitched, and that an old woman living in the
immediate vicinity was commonly reported to be the cause of the nightly
disturbances. Some of the previous tenants went so far as to say that
on stormy nights, when the wind was blowing a full gale from the
south-west, and all were gathered round the hearth, lamenting the sad
condition of the poor mariners and fishermen out at sea, and praying
for the safety of the shipping exposed to the pitiless blast, they
had seen the old sorceress come down the chimney in a cloud of smoke
and soot, pass through their midst, and vanish through the key-hole,
causing all the doors in the cottage to slam, and leaving a villainous
smell behind her. Other tales, no less veracious, are told of her.
A woman, scrupulously clean in her person and attire, against whom
the witch had a previous grudge, chanced to make use of some not very
complimentary expressions in speaking of her, and instantaneously her
clothes were covered with vermin of the most loathsome description. A
neighbour, who had offended her, was never able, either by fair means
or foul, to get his cattle past the witch’s dwelling, but was obliged
to take another and much longer way in leading them to and from their
pasturage, to the grievous loss of his time and temper.
Two strong horses, harnessed to the empty cart of another man with whom
the sorceress had lately had a quarrel, though urged by word and whip,
were unable to move it an inch forward. It was well known to all that
it was by means of books of magic that she was enabled to perform these
and still greater marvels; and her brothers, good respectable men, who
were aware of her evil deeds and ashamed of the disgrace her conduct
brought on the family, finding that all their remonstrances were in
vain, and that they could not persuade her to abandon her evil courses,
had attempted to destroy the books, and so deprive her, in some degree,
of her power of doing mischief.
On one occasion, during her absence from home, they got possession
of the unhallowed volumes, and, lighting a large fire on the hearth,
placed them in the midst of the flames, and heaped up fuel around them,
until, to all appearance, they were reduced to a heap of ashes.
They were rejoicing in the success of their undertaking, but, alas,
their joy was of short duration. They soon found that all their labour
had been in vain, and that they had consumed their fuel to no purpose;
for, chancing to cast their eyes on the top of an old chest of drawers
which stood in one corner of the room, where the books, when not
actually in use, were always to be found, what was their dismay to
see them lying there uninjured and looking as if they had never been
touched. Fire, it was clear, had no power over them. So they determined
to try what effect the other elements, earth and water, might have.
It chanced to be one of the lowest spring-tides in the year, so they
carried the books down to dead low-water mark, dug a deep hole in the
sand, placed the books in it, and watched until the flowing tide had
covered the spot with three or four feet of water.
They then returned home, and on entering the cottage naturally turned
their eyes towards the usual resting-place of the books. There they
were, without a vestige of sand on them, and as dry as bones. After
these two attempts they gave up all hopes of ever getting rid of the
unholy tomes; indeed it is well known that there is but one method of
destroying such books; it is by burying them with their owner when
death shall have delivered the world from his or her presence.
It is fortunate that there are men and women who have the gift of
counteracting the spells of wizards and witches; and it so chances
that not many doors from the house where the witch of Caûbo dwelt
there resided an old man whose knowledge enabled him to frustrate her
evil designs, and whose services were readily given to those who may
require them. These things are said to have happened as lately as
the year 1874, and are a proof that, in some quarters at least, and
notwithstanding the boasted enlightenment of the nineteenth century,
faith in witchcraft is as rife as ever. Can it, however, be wondered
at, if ignorant peasants should believe in what they think they have
Scriptural warrant for considering an article of faith, when learned
men and educated women are found ready to give in to all the delusions
of spiritualism.
[180] Caûbo = “Sic Armorici Coet-Bo = La Baie du Bois, Sinus
Sylvestris, il y a une Coet Bo sur la côte du Bretagne.” MS. note by
Mr. Métivier.
[181] EDITOR’S NOTE.--It must be remembered that none of Sir Edgar’s
MSS. are dated later than 1874, and therefore that none of the
greenhouses, suburban villas, and workmen’s cottages which have so
spoilt our island scenery were then built.
THE WITCH OF THE VILLE-ÈS-PIES.[182]
There lived in the last century at La Ville-ès-Pies, in that part of
the parish of St. Michel-du-Valle known as “Le Clos,” an old lady,
whose maiden name it is not necessary to recall any more than that
of the really worthy man who had the misfortune to be joined with
her in the bonds of wedlock. Suffice it to say that both belonged
to respectable families. It was notorious, however, to all the
neighbourhood that she was addicted to the execrable practice of
witchcraft; indeed she made no mystery of it, for she was proud of the
fear she inspired, and clever enough to turn it to her own advantage;
knowing well that the time was past when the suspicion alone of being
an adept in the black art was sufficient to condemn a person to the
stake.
The place whither she was said to be in the habit of resorting to meet
her infernal master, and to dance and revel at night with others, who,
like herself, had entered into a league with the Prince of Darkness,
was that group of rocks and islets near Herm, known by the name of “Les
Houmets d’Amont.”[183]
On these occasions she was in the habit of attiring herself in her very
best array, and a pair of silver slippers formed a principal part of
her adornment. How she came, in her nocturnal flight, to drop one of
them, is not known, but it was picked up on one of these rocks by a
fisherman, recognised as her property, and honestly returned to her.
Perhaps the finder did not like to run the risk of appropriating the
precious metal to his own use.
It is said that, not content with serving Satan herself, she laid a
spell on her children as soon as they were presented to her after their
birth, and so consecrated them for ever to the service of her infernal
master.
The husband, a good pious man, by some means discovered this, and, when
his wife was on the point of being delivered of her last child, a son,
he begged the midwife in attendance to be careful, as soon as the child
made its appearance, and before the unnatural mother could set eyes on
it, to sign it with the holy sign of the cross. This precaution saved
the infant. The unholy mother’s spell had no power over him, and, as he
grew up, he was enabled, by God’s grace, and by the pious teaching of
his father, to withstand all the temptations which were laid in his way
by his brothers and sisters, who depicted to him in glowing terms the
amusements they indulged in, when, in the form of hares, they frolicked
on moonlight nights around the mill which stands on the hill around the
Ville-ès-Pies.[184]
[182] A MS. note by Mr. Métivier explains this name by saying that this
was an old residence of Friars, robed in black and white, and hence
known as “Les Frères Pies,”--the Magpie Friars.
[183] “_Houmet_, from the Swedish _holm_, is a peninsula, or a grazing
ground down near the water.”--_Métivier’s Dictionary._
[184] From Mr. Thomas Hocart Henry.
THE SICK PRINCESS AND THE WIZARDS.
In ancient days, (in what reign is not mentioned), when the island was
as yet but thinly peopled, and considerable tracts of country were
destitute of habitations, a peasant and his wife, who had been passing
the day in town, were overtaken on their way home by a violent storm of
wind, rain, and thunder. They pressed forward, hoping to reach their
cottage before night should set in, but, the storm increasing, they
were fain to seek shelter in an old ruin that stood by the roadside.
Scarcely had they entered, before they heard on all sides of the
building the cries of “Ké-hou-hou,” which are uttered by the sorcerers
when on their nocturnal flights. They then remembered that it was
Friday, the day on which the powers of darkness have the most power,
and that all the wizards and witches of the island were reported to
hold their weekly meetings in that place. It was too late to think of
retreating, but they were not yet discovered, and there were still
hopes of their escaping detection. Fear quickened their invention.
Looking round they saw an oven, into which they both crept, and the
woman, by spreading her black petticoat over the entrance, effectually
concealed them. They had scarcely time to do this, before a tumultuous
crowd of wizards entered the building. They conversed with great
delight on all the mischief they had caused, and appeared to derive
much pleasure from the misfortunes which afflicted mankind.
One of them mentioned the illness of the King of England’s only
daughter, which the most eminent of physicians of the realm had been
unable to cure, or even to discover the cause of. “Neither will they,”
said one, who appeared to be the chief, with an infernal laugh, “for I
alone know the cause and the remedy.”
They pressed him to tell, but for a long time he refused. At last,
wearied out by their entreaties, he said--“A hair, which this Princess
has accidentally swallowed, has twined itself round her heart, and,
unless speedily removed, must cause her death. There is but one means
of cure--a piece of skin of pork with some of the bristles attached to
it, must be well secured by a string. Let the Princess swallow this,
and the hair will become entangled in the bristles, and may thus be
drawn up.”
Shortly afterwards the meeting broke up, without a suspicion that their
conversation had been overheard, and as soon as the day dawned, the
countryman and his wife returned to town and made known their adventure
to the authorities. A boat immediately set sail for England, with
a messenger bound for the King, and the advice of the wizard being
followed, the Princess was soon restored to health. A considerable sum
of money was sent over as a present to the man and woman by whose means
the discovery had been made, with which they were enabled to buy a farm
and stock it.
[Illustration: “Mill Pond at the Vrangue.”]
The manner in which they had acquired their riches soon became known,
and, tempted by the hopes of gain, a man concealed himself in the oven
of the ruined house near the Catioroc one Friday night. He had not long
lain there before the wizards entered, but before a word was uttered
they made a strict search through the house, and soon discovered the
trembling man, whom they obliged to take the oaths of allegiance
to their infernal master, to the eternal ruin both of his soul and
body.[185]
[185] From Miss E. Chepmell.
See an incident somewhat similar in Chambers’ _Popular Rhymes of
Scotland_, in the tale of Sir James Ramsay, of Bamff.
See also Suzet’s _Veillées Bretonnes, Comte de Cocherard et Turquin_,
p. 258, and _Folk-Lore Record_, Vol. III., part 1., p. 40.
EDITOR’S NOTE.--This story is also told in _Folk-Lore of Guernsey and
Sark_, by Louisa Lane-Clarke (2nd Edition, 1890, p. 24). She makes
certain alterations in the narrative and her version of the cure for
the Princess is:--“If they cut a small square of bacon from just _over
the heart_, tied it to a silken thread, and made the Princess swallow
it, then jerked it up again, the hair would stick to it, and come away
from _her heart_, and she would recover.”
On the 16th May, 1900, the late Mrs. Murray-Aynsley read a paper on
“Guernsey Folk-Lore,” to the Folk-Lore Society of England, and she also
quoted this story, evidently taken from Mrs. Lane-Clarke’s version,
only told in slightly different words.
A WITCH IN DISGUISE.
Sorcerers have the power of taking the forms of different animals, but
when thus disguised cannot be wounded but by silver.
A Mr. Le Marchant, “des grent mesons,” had often fired at a white
rabbit which frequented his warren, but without success. One day,
however, beginning to suspect how the case really stood, he detached
his silver sleeve button from his wrist-band, loaded his gun with it,
took a steady aim, and fired.
The rabbit immediately disappeared behind the hedge. He ran up, and,
hearing some person groaning as if in great pain on the other side,
looked over and recognised a neighbour of his, a lady of the Vale, who
was lying with her leg broken and bleeding profusely from a fresh wound.
COLLAS ROUSSÉ.[186]
_Une histouaire du bouan vier temps._
Un bouan houme et sa femme avaient autefais une p’tite ferme ès
environs du Vazon; Collas Roussé et sa femme, Nency Guille, étaient des
gens tranquilles, qui faisaient d’ leux mûx pour elvaïr leu famille,
mais i’ l’taient r’ nomaï pour changier leux forme à volontaï.
Une belle séraïe d’étaï nou vit un biau lièvre dans l’ gardin du
Probytère qui dansait autouar d’une vaque qu’ était la fiquie.
La vaque se mins a r’ gardaïr le lièvre qui toute suite se bûti su ses
dœux pattes de derriere faisant des pernagues coum si voulait invitaïr
la vaque à dansaïr d’auve li. Les gens n’ savaient pas qui en craire ou
qu’est que vela qui voulait dire. Ls’ uns disaient que ch’était Collas
Roussé ou sa femme, d’autres pensaient q’nou f’rait mûx de l’ tiraï,
d’autres enfin disaient que l’lait d’là vaque s’rait gataï et q’la
vaque jamais n’vaudrait sa tuache.
Le lecteur, Pierre Simon, qui s’trouvait la par écanche, s’en fut tout
doucement pres du lièvre, l’attrapi et s’mis à l’frottaï à r’brousse
pel, les uns li criaient d’li teurtre le cô, l’ s’autres d’li rompre
les gambes, “et pis nou verrait bien vite si chen ’tait pouint Collas
Roussé ou sa femme.” L’s ’uns disaient qu’ils avaient vœu le lièvre
v’nir dret du Vazon, mais qu’il avait ieux la malice, de prendre un
ch’min detournaï, d’autres vaisins étaient d’avis de prendre le prumier
lait d’la vaque et de l’ mettre à bouidre su une bouane fouaie d’vrec
et q’nou verrait bientot Collas Roussé et sa vieille v’nir d’mandaï
une goutte de lait bouailli; c’h’tait là la vraie manière d’les
decouvrir. Pierre Simon fut bien bllamaï de toute la contraie pour
avé laissi la bête écappaï, mais i disait pour raison qu’les lièvres
étaient sujets à des maux d’ têtes coum d’autres personnes et que
ch’tait pour chunna qu’il l’avait frottaï. Il aïmait la soupe de lièvre
coum d’autres, mais que ch’nérait pas étaï bien d’sa part de prendre
avantage d’la paure bête.
Le bouan vier Mêssier en pâlant d’ l’affaire disait: “Je n’ voudrais
pas dire du mà’ d’ personne, seit keriature ou cheva’, mais j’ai mes
pensaïes au sujet de Collas Roussé et sa femme, l’annaie passaie coum
j’allais r’muaïr nos bêtes de bouan matin qu’est que j’vis sinon daeux
biaux lièvres a rôguer ma raie-grasse. J’fis du bruit, et i s’en furent
couarant d’vier le Vazon, et un matin j’mécryi “Tu devrais en aver
honte Collas.”
Eh bien, chu jour là is’en furent derriere le prinseux, trav’sirent le
belle, et, j’n’ments pouint, j’ cré qui passirent par d’sous l’us. Mais
terjous, que j’aie tort ou raison, ni Collas ni sa femme n’out peux me
r’gardaïr en fache d’pis chu jour-là.
Jamais n’ou ne me fra craire que g’nia point bien de qué que nous
n’serait expliquer. J’en ai ouï d’bien des sortes d’pis m’en jâne
temps. Jai souvent ouï la raeue du prinseux tournaï a mignet que
g’niavait fils d’âme par dehors; j’ai vaeux not’ cat aquand i’ ventait
gros assis l’ dos tournaï au faeu, guettant l’us et la f’nêtre coum si
s’attendait à véer quiq’un entraïr, et parfais i poussait de drôles
de cris, j’vous en reponds, et not t’chen s’mauchaï derriere ma caire
quand j’disais mes perières, parfais i’ braq’tait dans s’en dormir
coum s’il’ tait a s’battre d’auve d’autres t’chens; o’ch’est m’n avis
que des câts et des t’chens vés l’s affaires d’une autre manière que
nous, et j’cré que ch’est grand piti que tous cheux qui s’dementent de
changier de forme n’aient affaire à yeux.”
UN LURON.
_A story of the good old times._
An honest man and his wife had formerly a little farm in the
neighbourhood of Vazon; Collas Roussel and his wife, Nancy Guille, were
quiet people, who did their best to bring up their family properly, but
they were noted for being able to change their forms at will.
One fine summer’s evening people saw a fine hare in the rectory garden,
which was dancing round a cow which was tethered there.
The cow began to look at the hare, who at once rose up on his hind
legs, gambolling as if he wished to invite the cow to dance with him.
The people did not know what to think or what it could all mean. Some
said that it was either Collas Roussel or his wife, others thought
it would be better to fire at it, and the others finally said that
the cow’s milk would be spoilt and that she would never be worth
slaughtering.
The clerk, Pierre Simon, who was there by chance, crept quietly near
the hare, caught it, and began to rub up its fur the wrong way. Some
cried out to him to wring its neck, others to break its legs, “and then
we will see very quickly whether it is Collas Roussel or his wife or
no.” Some said that they had seen the hare come straight from Vazon,
but that it had had the artfulness to take a circuitous route. Other
neighbours advised that the first milk the cow should give after this
should be taken, and put to boil on a good vraic fire, and that one
would soon see Collas Roussel and his old woman come and ask for a
cup of boiled milk. That was the best way of finding them out. Pierre
Simon was much blamed by all the country side for having allowed the
beast to escape, but he said, as an excuse, that hares were subject
to headaches as much as other people and it was for that that he had
rubbed it. He liked hare soup as well as anyone, but that it would not
have been right of him to take advantage of the poor beast.
The good old herdsman in talking over the affair said: “I would not
speak ill of anyone, be it creature, man, or horse, but I have my own
ideas on the subject of Collas Roussel and his wife. Last year as I was
moving our cattle early in the morning, what should I see but two fine
hares nibbling my rye grass. I made a noise, and they ran off towards
Vazon, and one morning I cried out “You should be ashamed of yourself,
Collas.”
Well, on that day they went behind the cider press, crossed the
court-yard, and, I am not lying, I believe that they passed under the
door. But ever since, whether I am wrong or right, neither Collas or
his wife, have been able to look me in the face.
Never will you make me believe that there are not many things that are
not explained to us. I have heard of all sorts since my young days.
I have often heard the wheel of the cider press turn at midnight,
when there was not a soul about. I have seen our cat when it blew
hard, sitting with his back turned to the fire, watching the door and
the window as if it expected to see some one enter, and sometimes it
uttered curious cries, I assure you, and our dog would hide himself
behind my chair when I said my prayers. Sometimes he barked in his
sleep, as if he were fighting with other dogs. Oh, it is my opinion
that cats and dogs see things in a different way to what we do, and I
think it is a great pity that all those who deny that people can change
their forms, cannot refer to them.”
A TRIFLER.
[186] The above Guernsey story of animal transformations I found cut
out and placed with Sir Edgar MacCulloch’s MSS. in its Guernsey-French
form. I think it better to give both the Guernsey-French and its
English translation, the former being the language in which all these
old stories are handed down to us.
THE MILLER AND THE DUCK.
A miller, one day passing by his mill-pond at the Vrangue, was
attracted by the noise and struggles of a very beautiful duck. He
soon perceived that something was wrong, and that, unless the bird
was speedily relieved, it must perish. He accordingly, with some
difficulty, succeeded in extricating the duck from the water, and took
it into the mill, where, after wiping it dry, and endeavouring to
arrange its ruffled feathers, he deposited it in a place of safety and
left it. Returning shortly afterwards, he was astonished to find its
place supplied by a very beautiful and richly-dressed lady, who thanked
him for his humanity, and assured him, but for his assistance, she must
inevitably have been drowned, promising him at the same time, that as
long as he kept the adventure secret, he should, whenever he was in
want, find a sum of money deposited on his mill stone.[187]
[187] From Miss E. Chepmell.
The transformation of princesses into ducks by magical arts is a very
common incident in the fairy tales of Norway and Sweden and Denmark.
See Thorpe’s _Yule-tide Stories_.
MAHY DE LA CATTE.
An old sea captain, of the name of Mahy, who for many years had
navigated a cutter between Guernsey and England, had, at last, by
industry and perseverance, amassed a sufficient competency to enable
him to give up his arduous and dangerous profession, and pass the
remainder of his days in peace on shore. At least, so he hoped, but,
alas! the expectation of happiness, which poor mortals indulge in,
is often doomed to be disappointed, and often by apparently trivial
causes. Who could have guessed that a cat would have embittered the
remaining days of the old sailor? Yet so it was. The mischievous
tricks of this imp of Satan rendered his life almost unbearable; not a
moment’s rest could he enjoy in his own house. In vain did he attempt
to drive the troublesome brute away. If ejected by the door, she
returned immediately by the window, or down the chimney. It was useless
to attempt to catch her; she never slept, and her activity was so great
that she escaped every blow aimed at her. One day, as he was sitting by
his fireside, the tricks of the cat became unsupportable; if he dozed
off for a moment, his wig was twitched off his head; if he laid down
his pipe, puss was watching her opportunity to give a sly pat and knock
it off the table; the moment his glass of grog left his hand, it was
sure to be upset. At last his patience being quite exhausted, he seized
the poker and gave chase, but with as little effect as ever. Puss
contrived to elude him, and managed so well that blows, aimed at her,
fell on the furniture and crockery. After leading him several times
round the room, she escaped into the passage, and seated herself on the
“hecq” or half door, which was formerly to be found in almost every
house. Mahy seized a gun that was lying on the bacon-rack, and aimed at
the cat, exclaiming at the same time, “Now I have you!” The cat paused,
turned round, and, in a voice which domestic jars and curtain lectures
made by far too familiar to him, said, very quietly and distinctly,
“Pas _acouâre_.” (“Not yet.”)
[Illustration: “Old Mill House at La Vrangue, at the beginning of the
Nineteenth Century.”]
He then, for the first time, remembered that he had never seen puss and
his wife at one and the same moment, and the unpleasant truth flashed
across his mind that his good woman was one of those who frequent the
weekly entertainments given by his Satanic Majesty on Friday nights at
Catioroc, Pleinmont, le Cimetière de Torteval, and elsewhere.
Soon afterwards, Mrs. Mahy’s identity was revealed in another manner.
It is well known to housekeepers who retain the good old custom of
having their linen washed and ironed at home, that an amount of
gossip, scarcely to be credited, goes on on these occasions. The women
employed, moving as they do from house to house, pick up all the news
that has arisen during the week, and, meeting every day with fresh
companions, retail what they have heard, and gather new information
in return, from every direction. Of course the characters of the
neighbours, and even of their employers, are not spared, and for
this latter reason, perhaps, it is that a certain degree of mystery
frequently pervades these conversations, and that listeners and
eavesdroppers are discouraged. A sort of freemasonry prevails, and it
is only by a rare accident that the scandal and gossip retailed at the
washing tub or ironing board find their way to the parlour. Great,
therefore, was the astonishment of the discreet and prudent workwomen,
whose avocations took them to the houses in the neighbourhood of Madame
Mahy’s dwelling, to find that their most confidential communications
were repeated, and could in most cases be traced to that good lady.
They had never detected her listening; they felt convinced that none
among them could be so treacherous as to betray their secrets. They
determined to keep a sharp look-out, and at last the mystery was
solved. A young ironer, of more keen observation than her companions,
had remarked that, in whatever house they worked, the same old tabby
cat was to be seen seated before the fire, and apparently dreaming away
her existence. Her suspicions were aroused. She watched puss closely,
and was convinced at last that, even when apparently dozing, pussy was
listening attentively to what was going on. She was not long in forming
a plan to prove whether her conjectures were correct. She took up a
flat iron from the hearth, and, under the pretence of cleaning and
cooling it on the mat, approached the unsuspecting cat and suddenly
applied it to her nose. Puss jumped up and suddenly disappeared with a
yell, which, as the conclave of gossips declared, resembled far more
the cry of a woman in pain than the miauling of a cat. Next day it was
rumoured abroad that poor Madame Mahy, while sitting before her fire,
had been overtaken with sleep, and falling forward had burnt her face
severely on the bars of the grate! “You know,” said the old woman who
related the story, “that Capt. Mahy never passed for a conjuror. He
ought however to have had more wit than to tell these stories to his
friends over a glass of grog, for, although he did not say that he had
recognised his wife’s voice, or that he did not believe that she had
dozed over the fire, they had already made the remark that Mrs. Mahy
and the cat had never been seen together, and were not long in drawing
their conclusions and publishing them to the world. The story soon
found its way to those hot-beds of gossip, the public bake-houses, and
from thence over all the town.”[188]
[188] From Miss Martineau, to whom the story was related by Mrs.
Jonathan Bichard, of L’Ancresse, and also from Rachel Du Port.
EDITOR’S NOTE. TWO WITCHES AND TWO CATS.
In the Vale parish, very many years ago, lived a father and daughter,
Nico and Denise Roberts. Denise was an extremely pretty girl, and
Pierre Henry, the richest man in the parish, wanted to marry her.
There were two old maiden ladies who were neighbours of the Roberts’,
and were excessively jealous of all the attention and admiration
Denise received. They both considered that they were still young and
fascinating, and one was considered to have designs on old Roberts, and
the other on Pierre Henry himself.
They both had the reputation of being witches by all the neighbours,
principally because they were never seen without two black cats, and
they even used to go so far as to take these two cats with them, when,
in the evenings, as was their frequent custom, they would take their
knitting and go and sit for hours in the Roberts’ kitchen. Denise
used to implore her father not to encourage “_ces daeux vieilles
sorilles_,”[189] knowing well that they were trying to poison his mind
against Pierre Henry, but he paid no attention to his daughter, as they
amused him by telling him all the gossip and scandal of the place, and
he used to sit and let them whisper to him on one side of the hearth,
while Pierre and Denise sat on the other; but all the time the two
latter were talking, they were annoyed by the cats brought in by old
Margot and Olympe Le Moine, and this went on evening after evening.
If Pierre tried to move his chair nearer to hers, one of the cats
would climb up and manage to thrust its claws in his leg. If he bent
forward to whisper to her, the other cat would jump on her shoulder,
and prevent Denise from attending to what he was saying. After some
time he grew convinced that all this could not be accidental, so, one
evening, just as the largest of the two cats had perched itself on
Denise’s shoulder at the most inopportune moment, he whispered in its
ear “_Margot, tu quérrâs_” (“Margot, you will tumble down.”) At that
moment, Margot Le Moine, who was sitting at the other end of the room,
fell off her chair in a dead faint, and the cat gave a yell and darted
up the chimney. This finally convinced old Roberts as to the true
character of his friends, and he swore that never again should these
two “_quéraudes_” darken his doors, and, soon after, Denise Roberts and
Pierre Henry were married.[190]
[189] Métivier translates _sorille_ as a term of reproach, derived
probably from the Bas-Breton _sorelh_, wizard, _sorelhés_, witch.
[190] From Mrs. Charles Marquand, who had heard it from Denise Roberts’
first cousin.
THE TRANSFORMED WIZARD.
It is one of the greatest characteristics of wizards and witches that
they have the power of assuming any form they please.
A man, who kept a large number of cows, observed that they were
gradually pining away, that they failed to give the usual quantity of
milk, and that no care that he could bestow on them availed aught in
improving their condition. One or two of them had already died, and he
feared that all the others would soon follow their example. The summer
had set in, and at that season the cows are left out all night in the
field, but when in the early morning the farmer went to look after
them, he generally found them thoroughly exhausted, and looking as if
they had been hard driven all night.
At last he began to suspect that the poor animals were under the
influence of some spell, and he determined to watch, in order to
discover, if possible, what means were used to bring the cows into
the condition in which he found them. It seems rather a singular
circumstance that wizards and witches, with all their cleverness, do
not appear to be able at times to see things which are passing under
their very eyes. Perhaps their eagerness to do mischief blinds them to
the danger of discovery. At all events, the farmer, who had concealed
himself, as soon as the daylight had well departed, in a cattle shed
that stood in one corner of the field, remained undisturbed, with his
eyes intently fixed on the cows, who were lying down, quietly chewing
the cud.
About midnight his attention was attracted by a large black dog, which
jumped over the hedge separating his field from that of a neighbour
with whom he had lately had a quarrel. The dog approached the cows,
stood up on his hind legs, and began to dance before them, cutting such
capers and somersaults as the farmer had never seen before. No sooner
had the cows seen the dog than they also stood upright, and imitated
all his movements. The farmer crept stealthily out of the field, went
home, loaded his gun with a silver coin, which he cut into slugs,--for
it is a well known fact that no baser metal than silver will wound a
sorcerer,--returned to the field, where he found the dance still going
on as fast and furious as ever, and fired at the dog, which ran off
howling, and limping on three legs.
The next day his neighbour was seen with his arm in a sling, and it was
given out that, in returning from the town the previous evening, he had
fallen accidentally over a heap of stones, and so broken it. The farmer
had his own ideas, but wisely kept them to himself. His neighbour
had had a lesson; he found that he had to deal with a resolute man;
the cows were allowed to remain unmolested, and soon recovered their
pristine health and strength. This is said to have occurred in
Jersey.[191]
[191] From Reuben Wilkins.
LA DAME AU VOILE.
Some years have now elapsed since a family had reason to suppose that
recourse had been had to magic arts in order to injure them. Their
health declined, their cattle fell sick and died, their crops failed,
and everything went wrong with them. It was but too plain that they
were bewitched, and no chance remained of any amelioration of their
condition unless they could discover the author of their misfortunes.
They therefore determined, by the advice of a friend skilled in white
witchcraft, to perform a charm for the purpose of obliging the wizard
or witch to show himself. This charm is popularly called “_Une
bouïture_” or “boiling,” and consists in setting certain ingredients
to seethe in a large cauldron. The pot, duly filled, was accordingly
placed on the hearth with all the prescribed ceremonial.
No sooner did it begin to simmer than six mice entered the room,
walking in procession, two and two, and all deeply veiled. As soon,
however, as the pot boiled, the mice disappeared, and in their place
stood a lady whom they all knew full well.
Her name we have not been able to discover, our informant being
evidently unwilling to compromise herself by mentioning it, but she was
well known to the market women by the name of “La Dame au Voile,” and
bold would have been the farmer’s wife who would have refused to let
her have her wares at her own price.
Another version of the story says that the mice were caught and carried
to the office of “Le Procureur du Roi,” and that in the presence of
this legal personage they resumed their own shapes, and appeared as
three ladies and three women of the lower orders.[192]
[192] From Miss Martineau, to whom the story was related by an old
servant.
CASE OF A MAN WHO WAS BEWITCHED.
A man of the name of Collenette, living in the Castel parish, had sold
a lot of furze to another countryman, who was one of the drummers of
the North Regiment of Militia, but did not receive payment for it at
the time of striking the bargain. Some days afterwards, Collenette, on
his way to his work, was met by a neighbour to whom he owed a small sum
of money, who put him in mind of his debt. He excused himself for the
time, promising to pay as soon as ever he should receive his money for
the furze he had sold. He then proceeded to his work, which was that of
a quarryman, but the very first blow he struck the stone caused him to
start back in affright, for he distinctly heard a voice proceeding from
the rock, which said to him:--
“Thou hast told such an one that I did not pay thee for the furze. Thou
shalt suffer for this to the last day of thy life, but that day is
still distant.”
He looked about to see if any one was concealed near, from whom the
voice could proceed, but saw no one. He then returned to his work, but
every minute the same words rang in his ears. At noon he ate his meal,
which he had brought to the field with him, and then, as labourers
do, lay down on the grass to sleep. No sooner had he closed his eyes
than he was roused by the beating of a great drum close to his ears.
He started up, but could see nothing, and whenever he lay down the
drumming re-commenced.
This state of things continued, and the poor man, worn out by fatigue
and fright, fell into a lingering illness.
If by chance he fell asleep, he was soon awakened by a sensation
which he described as being as though a calf passed over his body,
immediately after which he seemed to be violently lifted from his
bed and thrown on the floor. It is even asserted that articles of
furniture, which were in the same room with him, were thrown about
without any visible agency.
[Illustration: Victor Hugo’s “Haunted House” at Pleinmont.]
His friends and neighbours kindly visited him, and endeavoured to
divert his mind from dwelling on his misfortunes, but all to no avail.
Whether in company or alone, he was equally tormented. At last, one
night, he escaped the vigilance of his friends, and the next morning
was found on the sea-shore, entangled in the mooring ropes of a fishing
boat, and drowned in two or three inches of water.[193]
[193] From Rachel Du Port.
JEAN FALLA AND THE WITCHES.
Nowhere is the life of a fisherman to be envied. In summer, when the
sea is calm, the days long, and the nights comparatively warm, it may
be endurable. The amateur may find pleasure in sailing over a sunny
sea, and the excitement of drawing in the lines or nets laden with fish
may prove a sufficient compensation for many minor hardships; but the
man whose means of subsistence depend on his precarious gains, who must
brave the perils of the waves at all seasons, at all hours, and in all
weathers, is to be pitied.
The coasts of Guernsey abound in fish of all sorts, and the earliest
authentic records of the island prove that for many centuries the
fisheries have been of great importance, and one of the main sources of
wealth to the inhabitants.
Considering the great number of boats kept, the dangerous nature of the
coast, the numerous rocks, the intricate currents and strong tides, it
is wonderful that so few accidents occur. The fishermen are skilful
navigators, and have full confidence in themselves; they fear not the
usual dangers of a sailor’s life, but they dread the supernatural
influences that may be brought to bear against them.
They--or even some member of their family--may have, perhaps quite
unconsciously, offended some old crone who has it in her power to
injure them in various ways. By her evil arts she may cause their
lines to become inextricably entangled in the sea-weed, or to come up
laden with dog-fish, blue sharks, and such-like worthless fish. Happy
indeed may the poor fisherman consider himself if the old woman’s spite
confines itself to such trifling annoyances, for has she not also the
power to raise storms? Is it not on record how Collette Salmon, wife of
Collas Du Port, caused the loss of a boat and the death of the whole
crew, merely because one of them asked her more than she thought was
right for three miserable dog-fish? Is it not well known how, when that
noted witch, Marie Mouton, was banished from the island for her evil
doings, the cutter that landed her at Southampton encountered a most
terrific gale on its return? And how the captain and crew were ready
to depose upon oath that during the height of the storm they had seen
Marie, sometimes perched on the top of the mast, and at other times
astride on the jib-boom, tearing the sails to shreds and tatters? Who
could be incredulous enough to resist such testimony as this? Certainly
not Jean Falla. He was a bold fisherman. Every rock and shallow from
the Hanois to the Amfroques were thoroughly well known to him. By night
or day could he steer his way through their most intricate passes. He
was not aware of having any enemy, but witches are easily provoked to
anger, and unwittingly he may have offended one of the sisterhood.
If he had done so, he had cause to repent his involuntary fault, and
to his dying day he never forgot the fright he had to undergo in
consequence.
He had left his moorings in the Bay of Les Péqueries early in the
morning. A more beautiful day had never risen on Guernsey. The sun
shone, a light breeze just ruffled the surface of the sea, the tide
served, fish were plentiful on the coast, and everything promised an
abundant catch. He sailed out alone, reached the fishing ground, took
his marks carefully, cast out his lines, and then anchored to await
the turn of the tide when the fish begin to bite. It was not long
before the gentle rocking of the boat and the warmth of the atmosphere
began to make him feel drowsy, and, knowing that an hour or two must
still elapse before he was likely to catch anything, he yielded to the
influence, and was soon sound asleep.
How long his sleep lasted he was never able to say, but the impression
on his mind was that scarce a quarter of an hour had elapsed before
he was awakened by one of the most terrific storms that he had ever
experienced. The boat was rolling fearfully, and rapidly filling with
water. To hoist a sail, to slip the cable, and to turn the boat’s
head in the direction of the land was his next endeavour, but at this
critical moment his courage almost failed him. In the howlings of
the storm he heard a peal of unearthly laughter above his head, and,
looking up, was horrorstruck at discerning, in the fast flying scud,
the form of an old woman perfectly well known to him, who appeared
quite at home in her elevated situation. She was accompanied by many
others who were strangers to him, but she was the leader of the party,
and it was evident that his fright and embarrassment were the cause of
their uproarious merriment. Who she was, he could never be prevailed
upon to say, and, no doubt, in this he acted wisely.
The wind fortunately favoured him. He made for the land, reached his
moorings in safety, ran his boat up high and dry on the beach, and
leaped ashore. A fresh peal of laughter from his aërial tormentors
spurred him on.
His house was at no great distance from the shore, but the way to it
by the road was circuitous. He took, therefore, a short cut across the
fields, passed over one or two hedges without accident, jumped over
another and alighted astride on the back of a cow that was quietly
chewing the cud on the other side, regardless of the turmoil of the
elements. The poor beast, roused so suddenly from her repose, started
up and rushed madly across the field, carrying her terrified load with
her. The middle of the field was crossed by one of those deep cuttings
which are made for draining the marshy lands of that district, and the
cow, brought suddenly to a stand, precipitated the unfortunate Jean
Falla head over heels into the muddy ditch.
Again the unearthly laughter resounded. A less resolute man than Jean
would have lost all presence of mind, but he remembered that he was
within a few perches of his own house. He scrambled out as well as he
could, reached his cottage door, which was fortunately open, entered,
closed the door behind him, and fell exhausted on the floor. Another
prolonged peal of laughter dying away in the distance was heard
outside, but Jean, once under his own roof, felt himself safe.
It was some time, however, before he recovered from his fright, and,
whatever his real feelings towards them may have been, he was observed
from that time forward to treat all old women with marked deference and
respect.[194]
[194] From my father, to whom the main incidents were related by Sieur
Jean Falla himself.
THE BLADEBONE.
Every careful and prudent person, before throwing away either the
bladebone of an animal, or an empty egg-shell, makes a hole in it, and
the reason assigned for this practice is to prevent an improper use
being made of either by witches; for it is firmly believed that they
have the power of employing both the one and the other as vessels to
convey them across the seas. No matter how tempestuous the weather
may be, how high the billows may be rolling, the magic bark makes its
way against wind and tide, with more speed and greater certainty than
the best appointed steamer that was ever launched. Those who avail
themselves of these means of conveyance seem to possess the power of
making their vessel assume the appearance of a handsome well-rigged
ship. It is related that in days long past, a respectable inhabitant
of the neighbourhood of La Perelle Bay, went out with the early dawn,
after a stormy night, to collect the sea-weed which the waves might
have cast on the shore, or to pick up perchance, some fragments of
wreckage, which are not unfrequently stranded on that dangerous coast
after a heavy gale from the westward.
He was surprised to see, in the yet uncertain light of the morning,
a large ship in the offing bearing down upon the land. He watched it
attentively, expecting every moment to see it strike on one of the
many sunken rocks that render the navigation of our seas so difficult
and perilous. To his astonishment the ship, as it neared the shore,
appeared to diminish rapidly in size. He was alarmed, but curiosity
got the better of fright, and he stood his ground manfully. The vessel
at last stranded close to the spot where he was standing, and, by this
time, it was reduced to the dimensions of one of those toy boats, with
which the children amuse themselves in the pools left on the beach by
the receding tide.
A man of dwarfish stature stepped on shore, and the countryman then
perceived that the mysterious vessel had assumed the form of the
bladebone of a sheep, enveloped in a mass of tangled sea-weed. Nothing
daunted, he addressed the mysterious stranger, and asked him whence he
came? What was his name? Whither was he going? The stranger either was,
or pretended to be, ignorant of the language in which he was addressed,
but to the last question answered: “Je vais cheminant”--(“I am going
travelling”).
He is said, however, to have remained in the island, to have built
himself a house on a spot called “Casquet,”[195] in the neighbourhood
of the place where he landed, and to have become the progenitor of a
family which bears the name of “Le Cheminant,” and of which many of the
members were famous for their skill as smiths.
It is not unlikely that in this tale we have the remains--strangely
altered by passing through the mouths of many successive
generations--of some one of the numerous legendary stories of the
early British saints, who, according to some of the hagiographers,
were in the habit of navigating from Brittany to Cornwall, and from
Wales to Ireland, on their mantles, in stone troughs, or on bundles of
sea-weed.[196]
[195] According to Métivier’s _Dictionary_--“Casquet”--(from the Latin
_Casicare_) means “Over-fall Rock,” and is the same as the _Casus
Rupes_ of Hearne and Leland.
EDITOR’S NOTE.--The name of the house is “La Perelle,” “Casquet” is
a nick-name. After the erection of a lighthouse on “Casquet” or “Les
Casquets,” the fishermen keeping their boats in Perelle Bay, nick-named
the house “Le P’tit Casquet,” because the inhabitants were in the habit
of sitting up late, and consequently there was light to be seen in the
house when they returned from sea late in the evening.--_From John de
Garis, Esq._
[196] From George Métivier, Esq., and Mrs. Savidan.
See in Thorpe’s _Northern Mythology_, Vol. I., p. 179, how Oller
crosses the sea on a bone.
A WITCH’S FORESIGHT.
It is generally believed that those who practise unlawful acts, however
clever they may be, are generally quite unable to foresee what is
likely to happen to themselves. That this is not invariably the case
the following story will show.
A woman, who had the reputation of being a sorceress, contrived to
live in comparative ease and comfort by begging from door to door,
few venturing to send her away without an alms for fear of incurring
her displeasure, and bringing down some misfortune on themselves or
their households. She presented herself one morning at the house of
a farmer in easy circumstances, whose wife was one not likely to be
imposed upon, and not by any means remarkable for liberality towards
the poor. The witch’s well-contrived tale of distress failed to make
an impression on the hard heart of the farmer’s wife, and the beggar
was dismissed without even a kind word: indeed, it is even said that
the odious epithet “_Caïmande_”[197] was applied to her. On turning
her back on the inhospitable door, she was heard to mutter between her
teeth, “You shall repent of this.”
[Illustration: Old Market Place and States Arcade.]
It was a fine morning in spring, and a hen that had hatched an early
brood of chickens, had brought them out into the sun, and was clucking
over her callow brood, and scratching the earth in search of seeds and
insects for them. The farmer’s wife was looking on with complacency,
and already calculating in her mind what the brood was likely to
fetch in the market. The proverb tells us that we must not reckon our
chickens before they are hatched. It seems that it is not wise to
reckon on them even after they are hatched. And this the farmer’s wife
found to her cost; for, scarcely was the witch out of the farm-yard,
before one of the chickens fell on its side, gave a kick or two, and
died. Its example was soon followed by all its brothers and sisters,
and, last of all, the bereaved mother also departed this life. The
farmer’s wife was at no loss to whose evil agency to impute this
untoward event, and hastened at once to consult an old neighbour, a
wise woman, who had the reputation of knowing how these unholy spells
were to be counteracted, and what means were to be adopted to prevent
the sorceress from doing any further mischief. She was advised to
lose no time in returning home; to extract carefully the hearts of all
the chickens, as well as that of the hen; to stick new pins or nails
into them, and to roast or fry them over a brisk fire, when, she was
assured, that not only would the witch be made to suffer unheard of
agonies, but that all power would be taken from her to do any further
mischief.
The farmer’s wife hastened home to follow the instructions given her
by the wise woman, but found, to her dismay, that the sorceress had
profited by her short absence from home to re-visit the farmyard and
that she had carefully removed every heart from the carcases.[198]
[197] Métivier derives this word--meaning “beggar”--from the old
French word “_guermenter_” to complain. The old Bas-Breton word was
“_c’harm_”--to utter cries.
[198] From Charlotte Du Port.
FORTUNE TELLING.
Persons who have the temerity to wish to pry into the secrets of
futurity are frequently punished for their curiosity by the exact
fulfilment of the prediction, although it may appear to be such as
could by no possibility come to pass. The following story may be taken
as an instance.
A young man applied to a woman, who pretended to be able to foresee
events, to tell him what was likely to happen to him hereafter. She
foretold that he had not long to live, but that he should be hanged,
drowned, and burnt. Not knowing how it was possible that all these
evils should come upon him, he made light of the prophecy, but the
event proved the truth of the soothsayer’s prediction. One night,
having allowed his fire to go out, and having no means at hand to
rekindle it, he ran across the fields to the nearest habitation to
beg a light. On his return, in jumping over a ditch, his foot caught
in some brambles, and he fell head foremost into the water, his legs
at the same time became so entangled in the bushes that he remained
suspended, and the torch which he held in his hand setting fire to his
clothes, he perished, as the fortune-teller had predicted, by hanging,
drowning, and burning.[199]
[199] From Rachel Du Port.
EDITOR’S NOTE.
Other Editor’s Notes on this subject will be found in Appendix B.
Compare “Damasc, Seigneur d’Asnières, excommunié par Hugues de
Saint-Calais, Evêque de Mans (A.D. 1136-1144). Damasc, averti qu’il
périrait par le feu et par l’eau, ne fit qu’en rire; mais un jour,
traversant en bateau la Sarthe pendant un orage, il fut foudroyé et
noyé.”--La Suze.--_Magazin Pittoresque_, 34me année, p. 312.