Chapter X: Witchcraft (3)

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.

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.”)

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.

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.”