Guernsey Folk Lore / a collection of popular superstitions, legendary tales, peculiar customs, proverbs, weather sayings, etc., of the people of that island

CHAPTER XII.
Folk Medicine and Leech Craft.

In days gone by, before the invention of Morrison’s pills, Holloway’s ointment, and other infallible remedies, no farm was without its plot of medicinal herbs, skilful combinations of which—secrets handed down from one old wife or village doctor to another—were supposed to be capable of curing all the ills to which poor suffering humanity is heir, to say nothing of the various diseases affecting horses, oxen, swine, and other domestic animals.

Nine varieties of herbs was the number usually cultivated, a number which, like three and seven, is generally supposed to have some occult and mystic virtues. As to the herbs themselves it is not easy at the present day, when old traditions are rapidly passing away, to obtain a correct list of them, but the following is as correct as we can make it.

La Poumillière, or Helleborus viridis. Métivier, in his Dictionary, page 401, says of this plant that it was originally held in great veneration by the Greeks and Romans. He also says that it was used in cases of consumption in cattle by our local veterinary doctors. They pierced the dewlap or the ear of the affected animal, and inserted in the hole one of the small roots of this plant. This induced an abundant suppuration, which sometimes proved beneficial.

La Cassidone, or French lavender. Boiste, in his dictionary, says that its flowers and leaves promote salivation. There is a proverb to the effect that:

Le Rosmarin, or rosemary. It is considered unlucky not to have a plant of rosemary in one’s garden, but it is a plant that should never be bought, but grown for you, and presented by a friend and well-wisher.

La Petite Sauche, or small-leaved sage.

Le Grànd Consoul, or comfrey. Of this the root is the part used.

La Rue. Rue, which was supposed to have a potent effect on the eyes, and bestow second sight.

L’Alliène, or wormwood.

La Marjolaine, or marjoram, and

La Campana, or vervain, the “holy herb” of the Druids.

This list by no means exhausts the plants possessed of healing powers.

George Métivier, in his Souvenirs Historiques, chapter IV. and II., speaks of a sacred briar, called “pied-de-chat,” worn as a waist-belt as an infallible talisman against witchcraft. When a man was afflicted with boils, he had to pass, fasting and in silence, for nine consecutive mornings, under an arch of this same briar. The green sprigs of broom, however, are believed to be equally efficacious in averting the evil influence of spells.

In planting a bed of the smaller herbs, to render them thoroughly efficacious they should be planted under a volley of minor oaths, such as “goderabetin” or “godzamin.” It is not expedient that the oaths should be too blood curdling.

George Métivier alludes to this, and says he himself knew old gardeners who made a constant practice of this prehistoric method, and quotes Pliny, Vol. X., p. 77: “He was enjoined to sow (basil) with curses and oaths, and then, so that it should succeed, to beat the ground.”

Editor’s Note.—“Mal de Poule.”—In St. Martin’s parish lived an old woman who had an infallible cure for sick headaches. The patient was put to bed, and a live chicken, with its beak stuffed with parsley, enveloped in a cloth, was tied on his head. She then muttered a prayer over it, and tied it again, still more firmly, round the patient’s forehead. As the chicken died the headache ceased.—From Miss Thoume.

King’s Evil.

That the belief in touching for King’s Evil prevailed in the island is evident from the following extracts.

“Extraits des Comptes des Diacres de l’Eglise de la Ville, contenus dans un Livre en la possession du Procureur des Pauvres de cette paroisse, endossé ‘Aux Pauvres de la Ville.’”

“Le Vendredy, 24 Aout, 1677, l’on a trouvé dans le tronq la somme de deux cents vingt livres tournois en or, argent, sols marquez, et doubles. Item, vingt et quatre livres tournois, qui ont été données à la veuve de Nicolas Corbel pour son enfant, qui est incomodé des ecrouëlles, et qui s’en va à Londres pour estre touché de sa Ma^té.”

“Le 26 Aout, 1678, a été tiré hors du tronq la so͠e de trente livres tournois, qui ont été delivrés à Caterine de Garis, fem͠e de Jean Hairon, pour aller en Angleterre y faire toucher par Sa Majesté une fillette qui est affligée des ecrouëlles. La d_te so͠e luy ayant été alloüée par consentement des officiers de l’Eglise.”

“Le 26^me de Mars, 1688, par ordre de Messrs. les Collecteurs des Pauvres de la Ville, j’ay balay a Anne, fem͠e de Pierre De Lahee, 12 livres tournois pour luy aider à aller faire toucher son enfant du Mal du Roy, et est des deniers des Pauvres.”

CHAPTER XIII.
Story Telling.

When, in former days, neighbours were in the habit of meeting together on such occasions as “la grande querrue,” “la longue veille,” or the more ordinary “veillées,”—at which the women of the neighbourhood, young and old, used to assemble in turn at each other’s houses, and ply their knitting needles by the light of a single lamp and the warmth of a single hearth, thereby economising oil and fuel,—it was customary to break the monotony of the conversation by calling on each of the company in turn to relate some tale or anecdote. Most of these are simple enough, but in the mouth of a skillful story-teller are still capable of exciting a laugh among the unsophisticated audiences to whom they are addressed.

A favourite class of stories were those in which the inhabitants of the sister islands of Jersey, Alderney, and Sark, were held up to ridicule, and the following tales, trifling and absurd as they are, may suffice to give some idea of this sort of narrative.

How the Men of Alderney Sowed, and What Came of It.

Once upon a time, before the lighthouse on the dangerous reef of the Casquet rocks was erected, a vessel was wrecked on Alderney. Such occurrences in those days were not uncommon, but so cut off from intercourse with the rest of the world were the inhabitants of the island, that they were, for the most part, totally ignorant of the nature and value of the goods which the waves so frequently cast up on their inhospitable shores, and it is related that when a Dutch East Indiaman, laden with cinnamon, was wrecked on the coast, the people rejoiced in the seasonable supply of fuel that was afforded them, and employed the precious bundles of aromatic bark in heating their ovens.

On the occasion, however, to which our present story refers, among the articles saved from the wreck there was a barrel, which, on being opened, was found to contain a number of small packages carefully done up in paper. Some of these were opened and proved to be needles of various sizes, but the oldest inhabitant had never seen anything of the sort, and many were the speculations as to what they could possibly be. A general meeting of the islanders was called to deliberate, and many conjectures were hazarded. At last the opinion of an old grey-headed man prevailed. He expressed it to be his firm conviction that the strange commodity could be nothing else but the seed of some new kind of herb or useful root, and that the best thing to be done was to make choice of one of the most fertile spots on the Blaies, and to proceed forthwith to plough and sow.

His advice was received with acclamation, and immediately acted upon, but alas for their hopes! Spring came, and nothing but an unusually fine crop of weeds—always too common—appeared on the carefully-tilled land.[219]

How the Jerseymen Attempted To Carry Off Guernsey.

It is not easy to understand why it should be so, but it is nevertheless a fact that the inhabitants of Jersey, although conceiving themselves a far superior race, have always looked with eyes of envy and jealousy on the smaller and less pretentious island of Guernsey. Perhaps the greater commercial prosperity which the possession of a good roadstead and port conferred on the latter at a time when Jersey could boast of neither, and the advantages arising in consequence from a freer intercourse with strangers, in days when these islands were almost cut off from the rest of the world, may have contributed to produce and keep alive these feelings. Certain it is that the Jerseymen have at all times had the reputation of being always ready, when an opportunity presented itself, to play a bad turn to their neighbours of Guernsey.

It is said that three audacious mariners, who had come over from the larger island with a cargo of agricultural produce, after disposing of their wares to good advantage, and having indulged perhaps a little too freely in the excellent cider of the place, conceived the bold design of carrying away the island with them and joining it on to Jersey! Could they succeed in effecting the annexation, what credit would they not gain for themselves! What advantages would not accrue to their native isle!

Their hated rivals—for so, as true Jerseymen, they looked on the quiet industrious inhabitants of Guernsey—would be obliged to acknowledge their superiority, and submit quietly to the supremacy of the larger isle.

They were not long in putting their project into execution. Maître Ph’lip, the captain of the boat, gave directions to his cousin Pierre to make fast a hawser to one of the needle-like rocks that stand out so boldly from the extremity of St. Martin’s Point. The order was obeyed, the wind was fair, all sails were hoisted and they steered towards Jersey, singing out in full chorus:—

They made sure that Guernsey could not resist the tug, and that the morning light would find it stranded in St. Ouen’s Bay. But they had miscalculated the strength of the hawser. It snapped short, and the sudden jerk sent them all sprawling to the bottom of the boat, too much bruised and discomfited to think of renewing their bold attempt.[220]

The Jersey Gallows.

In Guernsey it is told as a joke against their neighbours the Jerseymen, that when there was a question of rebuilding the gallows, hitherto a wooden structure, but falling to pieces from rottenness, the Procureur de la Reine recommended that the uprights should be of stone, as more desirable, and strengthened his argument by saying, “It will last for ever, and serve for us and for our children.”

Proverbial Stories.

The terse form of an aphorism is not only one in which the proverbial philosophy of a people may be expressed. The idea is frequently expanded into a short tale or fable, and in this shape is often alluded to and understood, although perhaps the story or anecdote is unknown or forgotten.

To give an example. The meaning of the words “A Cat’s Paw” is perfectly comprehended by many, who possibly have never heard or read of the fable of “The Cat, the Monkey, and the Chestnuts.”

A few of these stories, as they are related in Guernsey, are given below.

La Délaissance.

Although scarcely a year passes without some fact coming to light which shows the folly and imprudence of the proceedings, it is by no means uncommon for old people to make over by a legal instrument, called “Contrat de Délaissance,” the whole of their property to a child or other relative, on condition of being maintained for the rest of their days in a manner befitting their station in life. They have generally cause to repent the deed, for, even if kindly treated, there is a feeling of dependence, and a want of liberty of action, which cannot fail to be irksome to one who has hitherto been his own master, and free to act in any way he pleased.

It is related that a man who had given over his estate, and all that he possessed, to an only son, ordered, after a time, a strong coffer, with a secure lock, to be made. The son indulged him in the fancy, wondering what he could want the box for, but hoping perhaps that he might have kept back some hoard of money or other valuables he wished to secure. The old man kept his own secret. Not a soul but himself knew what the box contained. At last he died. The son hastened to open the coffer, hoping to find a treasure. What was his astonishment and disappointment at finding only a large mallet, such as is used for driving in the stakes to which the cattle are tethered. A writing attached to it explained the old man’s meaning. The person who related the story had forgotten the exact words, but it was a rude rhyme, beginning thus:—

“Ce maillot—ou un plus gros s’il le faut.”[221]

The substance of the whole was that the mallet would be advantageously employed in knocking out the brains of the man who was fool enough to dispossess himself, during his lifetime, of the control of his own property.[222]

The following legend, from the supplement to the Illustrated News, February 7th, 1874, seems to have a common origin with the preceding.

Jehan Connaxa was one of the merchant princes of Antwerp, who is supposed to have lived in the fifteenth century. His only children were two daughters, whom he had married to young noblemen. Not content with the handsome dowries he had given them on their marriage, and too impatient to wait for the time when all his vast wealth would become theirs by inheritance, they persuaded him to make it over to them during his life-time. For a short period he was treated with due consideration, but it was not long before he began to find that his presence in the houses of his sons-in-law was irksome to them and their wives; and at last he was plainly told that he must not expect any longer to find a home with them. Under these circumstances he hired a small residence, and turned over in his mind how he could manage so as to recover the position in his daughters’ houses which he had formerly occupied. At last he hit on this expedient. He invited his sons-in-law and their wives to dine with him on a certain day, and, when he was quite sure they would come, he went to an old friend, a rich merchant, and borrowed from him the sum of one thousand crowns for twenty-four hours, telling him to keep the transaction a profound secret, but to send a servant to his house the next day at a certain hour to fetch it back. Accordingly, the next day, when his daughters and their husbands were seated at his table, a message came that his friend had sent for the sum of money he had promised. He pretended to be displeased at being interrupted in the midst of his meal, but left the table, went into an adjoining apartment, and returned with a sack of money, from which he counted out the full sum of a thousand crowns, and delivered it to the messenger. The astonishment of his guests, who were not aware of how the money had come into his possession, was extreme, and, believing him to be still the owner of unbounded wealth, his sons-in-law insisted on his taking up his abode with them alternately for the rest of his days. Each vied with the other in showing him every attention, hoping thus to secure the greater share of the inheritance. He always brought with him a heavy strong box with three locks, which was supposed to contain untold wealth. At last, the time when he was to quit this world arrived, and on his death-bed he sent for his two sons-in-law and the Prior of a neighbouring Convent of Jacobins, and delivered to them the three keys of the box, which, he said, contained his will, but with strict injunctions that it was not to be opened till forty days after his funeral had elapsed. Wishing, however, as he said, to do good while he was yet alive, he begged his sons-in-law to advance a large sum for immediate distribution among the poor, and also to pay another large sum to the Prior to secure the prayers of the Church for his soul. This was done willingly, in anticipation of the expected rich inheritance, and the old man was sumptuously buried. At the expiration of the forty days the box was opened with due formality, and was found to contain a heap of old iron, lead, and stones, on the top of which was a large cudgel, with a parchment rolled round it, on which was written the will in these terms:—“Ego Johannes Connaxa tale condo testamentum, at qui sui curâ relictâ, alterius curam susceperit, mactetur hâc clavâ.”

Le Raté.

When the means of education were not so good or so plentiful in Guernsey as they are in the present day, it was customary, with the better class of farmers, to send their sons to school in England for a year or two, in order that they might acquire, together with a more correct knowledge of the English tongue, such acquaintance with the ways of the world as might fit them to enter upon the active duties of life on their return home. This object, we may suppose, was to a certain extent gained, but, like the monkey who had seen the world, many of these youths returned to their native isle with an inflated idea of their own consequence, and affecting to despise and ignore all that had been familiar to them from their earliest childhood.

It is said of one of these young men, that, after a residence of no long duration in England, he pretended, on his return, to have completely forgotten the names of some of the most common farming implements, and, indeed, to have almost lost the use of his mother tongue. His father was in despair, for it was evident that if the boy could not converse with the labourers, he would be of little or no assistance in directing the farming operations. A lucky accident set the father’s mind at rest on this score. His son, in passing through the farmyard, put his foot on a rake that was lying on the ground, partly hidden by some straw. The handle flew up and hit him a smart blow on the forehead, upon which, forgetting his pretended ignorance, he exclaimed, in good Guernsey-French, “Au Guyablle seit le râté,” (“Devil take the rake.”) His father, who was standing by, congratulated him on the miraculous recovery of his memory, and begged him henceforth not to forget “sen râté.” The proverbial saying “Il n’a pas roublliaï sen râté,” (“He has not forgotten his rake,”) is still applied to a person who remembers what he learned in his youth.[223]

Le Cotillon de Raché Catel.

The evils that may result from being over particular, and the wisdom of letting well alone, are exemplified by the story of Rachel Câtel and her petticoat. This respectable matron or spinster—for tradition gives us no clue to her state in life—was engaged in fashioning a petticoat. She cut it out, and found it somewhat too long. She cut again, and now it was too short. When, therefore, a thing has been spoilt by too much care or meddling, old people will shake their heads and say:—“Ch’est coum le cotillon de Râché Câtel. A’ le copit et il était trop long. A’ le copit derechef, et il était trop court.”

The Cat and the Fox. A Fable.

One day a cat and a fox were travelling together and chatting of one thing and another as they jogged on their way.

At last says the cat to the fox:

“You are always talking of your cleverness. How many cunning devices have you to escape from your numerous enemies?”

“Oh!” answered the fox, “j’en ai une pouquie, (I carry a whole sack full,) but you, Mistress Puss, pray tell me, how many have you?”

“Alas,” replied the cat, “I can boast but of one.”

Shortly after this conversation they saw a large fierce-looking dog advancing towards them. It was but the affair of a minute for puss to climb into the nearest tree and hide herself among the branches, while Reynard took refuge in the entrance of a drain that was close at hand.

Unluckily the drain narrowed so suddenly that his body only was concealed, and his long bushy tail was left exposed. The dog seized on this, and caused poor Reynard to cry out pitifully for help. Puss, from her safe retreat among the branches, looked down, and called out to her unfortunate companion:

“Now’s the time to make use of your many devices, délie donc ta pouque!” (“Why don’t you untie your sack?”)[224]

The Farm Servant and the Weeds.

The Guernsey workman is industrious and thrifty, working hard when it is on his own account, but apt to be slow and disinclined to do more work than what is absolutely necessary to save his credit, when employed by others. There is a certain amount of calculation in this. Idleness or laziness are not the only motives. He knows that so long as the job in hand lasts, he will be paid his day’s wages, and therefore he is not in a hurry to get it finished. His calculations go even a little beyond this; for a master workman to whom an indifferent person made the remark that the work he was executing was not of a quality to last many years, made the ingenuous reply, “Do you suppose I would willingly take the bread out of my children’s mouths?” implying that if the work were done in too substantial or durable a manner, there would be nothing left for those who were to come after him to gain their living by.

A good story is told among the country people, of a farm labourer, who, when put to clear out the weeds from a field, was observed always to leave some of the most thriving standing. One day his master remonstrated with him, and got for answer, “Weeds are bread.” No reply was made at the moment, but when meal-time came, and the soup was served out, a bowl full of weeds was handed to the workman with the remark:—“Since weeds are bread, eat that, for you get no more to-day.” It is said that the lesson was understood, and that for the future the farm servant performed his allotted task in a more conscientious way.[225]

CHAPTER XIV.
Historical Reminiscences.

Cadwalla and Brian.

Although the following story is entirely forgotten in Guernsey, and indeed may possibly never have been popularly known in the island, it is entitled, from its legendary and romantic character, to a place in this collection. It is related by Geoffrey of Monmouth in his British History, Book XII. Ch. 4.

It is necessary to premise that Edwin, the first of the Anglo-Saxon Kings who embraced Christianity, having quarrelled with Cadwalla, Sovereign of North Wales, attacked and defeated him at Widdington, near Morpeth. Edwin pursued Cadwalla into Wales, and chased him into Ireland. These events happened about the year 630 A.D. The story itself shall be told in the words employed by Geoffrey in his account of Cadwalla’s exile, as we find them translated in Bohn’s “Antiquarian Library.”

“Cadwalla, not knowing what course to take, was almost in despair of ever returning. At last it came into his head to go to Salomon, King of the Armorican Britons, and desire his assistance and advice, to enable him to return to his kingdom. And so, as he was steering towards Armorica, a strong tempest rose on a sudden, which dispersed the ships of his companions, and in a short time left no two of them together. The pilot of the King’s ship was seized immediately with so great a fear, that, quitting the stern, he left the vessel to the disposal of fortune, so that all night it was tossed up and down in great danger by the raging waves. The next morning they arrived at a certain island called Garnareia,[226] where, with great difficulty, they got ashore. Cadwalla was forthwith seized with such grief for the loss of his companions, that, for three days and nights together, he refused to eat, but lay sick upon his bed. The fourth day he was taken with a very great longing for some venison, and, causing Brian (his nephew) to be called, made him acquainted with it. Whereupon Brian took his bow and quiver, and went through the island, that if he could light on any wild beast, he might make booty of it. And when he had walked over the whole island without finding what he was in quest of, he was extremely concerned that he could not gratify his master’s desire, and was afraid his sickness would prove mortal if his longing were not satisfied. He, therefore, fell upon a new device, and cut a piece of flesh out of his own thigh, which he roasted upon a spit, and carried to the King for venison. The King, thinking it to be real venison, began to eat of it to his great refreshment, admiring the sweetness of it, which he fancied exceeded any flesh he had ever tasted before. At last, when he had fully satisfied his appetite, he became more cheerful, and in three days was perfectly well again. Then, the wind standing fair, he got ready his ship, and, hoisting sails, they pursued their voyage and arrived at the city Kidaleta (St. Malo). From thence they went to King Salomon, by whom they were received kindly and with all suitable respect; and, as soon as he had learned the occasion of their coming, he made them a promise of assistance.”

The chronicler subsequently relates how Brian killed the second-sighted magician of Edwin. Cadwalla returned to Britain, and, with the aid of the Saxon Penda, King of Mercia, conquered and killed Edwin. He was afterwards triumphant in fourteen great battles and sixty skirmishes with the Angles, but finally perished, with the flower of his army, in battle with Oswald, ruler of the Saxon kingdom of Bernicia.

Duke Richard of Normandy and the Demon.

As the inhabitants of Guernsey may be presumed to be better acquainted with the chronicles of their own Duchy of Normandy than with those of the ancient Britons, it is not improbable that the following legendary tale, related of Duke Richard, surnamed “Sans Peur,” may be known to some of them. The Chronique de Normandie, printed at Rouen in 1576, gives it in words of which the following is a close translation:—

“Once upon a time, as Duke Richard was riding from one of his castles to a manor, where a very beautiful lady was residing, the Devil attacked him, and Richard fought with, and vanquished him. After this adventure, the Devil disguised himself as a beautiful maiden richly adorned, and appeared to him in a boat at Granville, where Richard then was. Richard entered into the boat to converse with, and contemplate the beauty of, this lady, and the Devil carried away the said Duke Richard to a rock in the sea in the island of Guernsey, where he was found.”

Perhaps the marks of cloven feet, which have been found deeply imprinted in the granite[227] in more than one spot in the island, may be attributed to this visit.

Archbishop Mauger.

If the two legendary tales, which we have just related, are unknown to the present generation, it is not so with the well-authenticated fact of the temporary residence in Guernsey of that turbulent ecclesiastic, Mauger, Archbishop of Rouen, uncle of William the Conqueror.

All the Norman chroniclers agree in telling us that, although the Pope had granted a dispensation, this audacious prelate ventured to excommunicate his Sovereign for having contracted a marriage with Matilda, daughter of the Count of Flanders, an alliance within the degrees of affinity prohibited by the Church. Mauger’s insolence did not remain unpunished. The Pope sent a Legate to Normandy, the bishops of the province were assembled, and his treason to his Sovereign, and contempt of the Papal authority, were punished by his deposition from his archiepiscopal throne, and banishment to the island of Guernsey. Some historians assign, as a further reason for his disgrace, the immorality of his life, and his prodigal expenditure, which led him, not only to waste the revenues of the Church, but even to sell the consecrated vessels, and the ornaments of the sanctuary.

Tradition points out the spot in the neighbourhood of that romantic little creek, known by the anglicised name of Saints’ Bay, but which, in ancient documents, is called “La Contrée de Seing,” where the deposed prelate lived during his enforced sojourn in Guernsey. Here, it is said, he became acquainted with a noble damsel named Gille, by whom he had several children, one of whom, Michael de Bayeux, accompanied Bohemond of Austria to Palestine, and distinguished himself greatly.

Common report accused Mauger of being addicted to magical arts, and of having intercourse with a familiar spirit called “Thoret,” a name which brings to mind the thunderer Thor, one of the principal deities of his Scandinavian ancestors. By means of this imp, it was believed, he had the faculty of predicting future events.

Having embarked one day, with the design of reaching the coast of Normandy, and having arrived at St. Vaast, he addressed the master of the ship in these words:—“I know for certain that one of us two will this day be drowned; let us land.” The master paid no attention to what was said, but continued his course. It was summer, the weather was extremely hot, and the Archbishop was attired in very loose raiment. The vessel struck, Mauger endeavoured to leave the ship, but, becoming entangled in his garments, fell into the sea, and was drowned before any assistance could be given. When the tide retired, search was made for the body, and it was found wedged in between two rocks, in an upright position. The sailors carried it to Cherbourg, where it was buried.

It is possible that the prelate might have been entirely forgotten in the place of his exile, had it not been that a very numerous family, bearing his name, still exists in the island, and claims to be descended from him. No name indeed is more common in the parish of St. Martin de la Belleuse, and especially in the neighbourhood of Saint, than that of Mauger. An authentic document, the “Extent” of Edward III., proves that a family of this name held land in this parish in 1331.[228] All who bear the name, even in the humblest ranks of society, have heard of the Archbishop, and pride themselves in their supposed descent from him. Nor is this belief confined to Guernsey, for in Jersey also, where a branch of the family has long existed, the same idea prevails.

There is also extant an imperfect pedigree of the house of Mauger, of Jobourg, near Cape La Hague, in Normandy, which connects them with the insular family, but endeavours to get rid of the stigma of illegitimacy, which would attach to the progeny of an ecclesiastic, by the invention of an imaginary brother, who accompanied Mauger in his banishment, and from whom, and not from the Archbishop, they pretend to deduce their descent. The family of Guille, long established in the island of Guernsey, and in the parish of St. Martin’s, claims the questionable honour of having produced the fair Gille, whose charms captivated the unscrupulous prelate.

There is one fact, however, of which the family of Mauger, of Guernsey, has just cause to be proud, and that is the daring and successful exploit of one of them in the service of the descendant of their ancient Dukes. An extract from a manuscript register of the Cathedral of Coutances, said to be preserved in the British Museum, tells us how, on Midsummer Night, in the year of grace 1419, Jacques Mauger arrived from Guernsey with his men, at the port of Agon, at the entrance of the river, and took by escalade the fortress of Mont Martin, near Coutances, and how Henry V., King of England, then in possession of the greater part of Normandy, rewarded the gallant act by a gift of the Seigneurie of Bosques, and the permission to bear henceforth on his shield the cross of the blessed knight of St. George, in a field argent, with his own paternal arms, two chevrons sable, in the first and fourth quarters, and, in the second and third the arms of Bosques, a lion rampant, also sable.

It may not be uninteresting to some to know that the Hampshire and Isle of Wight family of Major were originally Maugers from one of the Channel Islands, and that Richard Cromwell, son of the Protector, married one of them.

It may be as well to give here a copy of the pedigree of Mauger, of Jobourg, in Normandy.

“Extrait de la Généalogie de la Famille du Mauger à Jobourg en Normandie au Cap La Hague.

“Le Duc de Normandie, nommé Guillaume le Conquérant, éleva son cousin d’Evreux, nommé Mauger, à l’Archevêché de Rouen en la troisième année de son règne en Normandie. Le Seigneur Archevêque, menant une vie non conforme à sa dignité, attira sur lui la haine du Duc, son bienfaiteur, qui le fit reléguer a l’île de Greneseye; il prit terre en ce lieu avec son frère Gautier Mauger, sur la côte et paroisse de St. Martin, et après avoir passé quelques années en ce lieu il péri au ras de Bartleur, après avoir prédit sa mort. Son frère Gautier eut plusieurs fils naturels, dont deux nommés Léopold et Théodore: Léopold épousa Pauline de Carteret, fille et seule héritière de Samuel de Carteret, Ecuyer, Seigneur du Castel, et Théodore ne maria point, et laissa deux fils et une fille naturels, l’un nommé Paul, l’autre nommé Rodolphe, et la fille nommée Cléotilde. Les deux fils furent mariés; l’un épousa Sandirez Lampeirier ou Lampereur de Jersey, et Rodolphe épousa Marie Careye de Greneseye. Paul eut plusieurs fils, dont deux nommé Alexandre et Gautier, comme son premier père, lequel fut chassé de l’île de Jersey, avec deux des fils de Rodolphe qu’il avait eus de Marie Careye; les autres enfans sortis de Rodolphe furent à Greneseye, demeurant sur l’héritage de leur mère en l’année 1399. Gautier fit plusieurs acquêts à Jobourg à la Hague, où il établit sa demeure, après avoir quitté Jersey, et fut marié à une des filles de Pierre de Mary, Seigneur de Jobourg, en l’année 1418. Gautier engendra Toussaint et Jacques, le dernier repassa à Greneseye pour prendre possession d’un héritage par succession, et Toussaint resta à Jobourg; de Toussaint naquit Fabien; de Fabien naquit Chaille; et Chaille engendra Pierre; de Pierre Chaille, qui vivoit encore en 1570; à l’egard de Léopold, qui avait epousé Pauline de Carteret, nous n’avons point, pour le present, de connaissance de sa généalogie.

“Les Armoiries des Mauger (descendant de Guillaume le Conquérant, Duc de Normandie) sont une ancre et des roses au dessus du dit ancre. Tiré de la Heraudrie, et approuvé du dit Duc.”[229]