[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]
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.”)
“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]
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]
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]
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]
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.
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]
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]
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]
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.
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.”
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]
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]
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.
CHAPTER XI.
Charms, Spells, and Incantations.
As long as the popular belief in witchcraft exists—and with all the boasted light and civilisation of the nineteenth century it still holds its ground—there will be found those who imagine that the evil influence of the sorcerer may be averted by a counteracting spell, or by certain practices, such as carrying an amulet about one’s person, nailing a horse-shoe to the door of a house or the mast of a ship, etc.
With the ignorant and unlearned it is often useless to reason: they cannot understand nice distinctions, and if their faith be shaken or destroyed on one point, who can tell where the current of unbelief will stop? That there are persons who, by their illicit arts, can cause sickness to man or beast is firmly credited, but as there is no evil without a remedy, it is equally an article of popular belief that there are also those who are in possession of the necessary knowledge and power to counteract the evil designs and practices of the sorcerer.
As may readily be supposed these last are cunning and unprincipled wretches, who trade on the folly and superstition of their ignorant neighbours, and who, doubtless, are often the cause of the malady of the unfortunate cow or pig, which they are afterwards called in to advise about. Various charms and ceremonies are resorted to on these occasions, whereof the most potent appears to be that known as “la bouïture,” which consists in setting a number of ingredients to seethe together in a cauldron, of which the principal is the heart of some animal stuck full of pins. It is not easy to arrive at a correct knowledge of what is done, for great secrecy is generally observed, and the actors in these superstitious follies are afraid to divulge what takes place. The object of the charm seems to be either to avert the evil, or to discover the author of it. In the latter case, it often leads to serious misunderstandings between neighbours. There are, however, certain charms of a more innocent character, which can be resorted to without the intervention of a cunning man.
Shortly after the Rev. Thomas Brock took possession of the Rectory of St. Pierre-du-Bois, about the beginning of the nineteenth century, he was returning home one night from town, where he had been detained until a late hour. It was midnight when he reached the parsonage, and in the imperfect light he thought that he saw a number of persons assembled near the church porch. Astonished at so unusual a sight, and wondering what could possibly be the cause of such an assembly at that hour, he tied up his horse to the gate, and stepped over the stile into the churchyard. On drawing near he was witness to an extraordinary ceremony. Several of his parishioners, among whom he recognised many of the better sort, were walking in orderly procession round the church, and touching every angle as they passed. He addressed them and inquired what they were doing, but not a single word could he get in answer to his questions. Perfect silence was preserved until they came to the church-porch, where they all knelt down and recited the Lord’s Prayer. This was repeated more than once, and at last they left the place without satisfying the legitimate curiosity of their pastor. Determined to fathom the mystery, he called the next day on some of the principal actors in the ceremony, and then learnt, not without some difficulty, that it was intended to remove a spell that was supposed to be hanging over the son or daughter of one of the parties, and that a single word spoken by any of the persons engaged in the solemn rite, would have effectually broken the charm.
In reference to this charm it may here be mentioned that an old servant of the Rev. W. Chepmell, Rector of St. Sampson’s and the Vale, was suffering from an ulcer in the leg. To cure it she went round the church, stopping at each of the angles, and repeating a certain prayer. The Rev. H. Le M. Chepmell, D.D., who was a child at the time, remembers the circumstance, but does not know what the prayer was that was used on the occasion.
The forms which follow, and which, for the benefit of those who are unacquainted with French, have been translated as closely as possible, were found in a book of memoranda, household and farming accounts, recipes for medicines, etc., which once belonged to Sieur Jean Lenfestey, des Adams, in the parish of St. Pierre-du-Bois. It was written about the end of the last, and beginning of the present, century. The mystical words used in some of the spells have been given just as they were found in the manuscript. They appear to be a curious jumble of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, very much disfigured by having passed through the hands of ignorant, unlettered transcribers, or, perhaps, by having been transmitted orally from one to another, and, at last, taken down from dictation. It is quite impossible to say how long these spells and charms have been in use among the peasantry, whether they have been handed down by tradition from times before the Reformation, or whether—which is far more probable—they have been introduced in comparatively recent times by some of the farm-labourers, who, in times of peace, come to the island from the neighbouring coasts of Normandy and Brittany in search of work. It is only on the latter supposition that the invocation of St. Blaize and St. Nicodemus, the saying of a Mass, and the reciting of Paters and Ave-Marias can be accounted for, the indigenous population having been so thoroughly reformed as to have lost all recollection of these matters.
To Remove any kind of Spell, and Cause the Person who has Cast it to Appear.
Choose one of the animals whose death has been caused, taking care that there is no sign of life remaining in it: take out its heart, and place it in a clean plate: then take nine thorns of “noble épine”[200] and proceed as follows:—