Editor’s Notes.
Nowadays the people, in speaking of the “bad books” as they frequently term them, call them the “Grand Albert” and the “Petit Albert,” the former being undoubtedly derived from “Albertus Magnus.” The “Petit Albert” is an abridgment of the larger book, and is supposed to be comparatively harmless, and, with proper precautions, some say it may even be used by good Christians. The country people to this day believe these books to be imperishable, and many is the tale they tell of how they will neither drown, nor burn, and how in particular, one old wizard’s books at Saints’ Bay had to be buried, and part of the funeral service read over them, to keep them from reappearing on their accustomed shelf.
Our old nurse, Margaret Mauger, has often told me the story of the books belonging to an extremely clever old gentleman who owned an estate in the country. At his death, when his daughters came to divide his large library, they were horrified to find many “witch books” and atheistical books included in it. These they set aside to be burnt, and also a great many harmless but dull histories, biographies, and sermons, which they did not wish to keep, and made one huge bonfire. But (and it was one of the daughters who vouched for the truth of this story) the good books would not burn with the bad books! A frightful smell arose, and thick columns of black smoke, but none were consumed, and they all had to be re-sorted, and made into two separate piles,—the sheep and the goats—and then they all burnt readily enough.—From Margaret Mauger.
“In Denmark and some neighbouring countries it is believed that a strange and formidable book exists, by means of which you can raise or lay the Devil—called the Book of Cyprianus. The owner of it can neither sell, bury or burn it, and if he cannot get rid of it before his death he becomes the prey of the fiend.”—Demonology and Devil-Lore, by Moncure Conway, Vol. 2., p. 282.
The small islet of Lihou lies on the western coast of Guernsey, from which it is separated by an arm of the sea. An ancient causeway, which is uncovered at half-tide, affords an easy access to the main-land, but it is dangerous to attempt the passage when the tide is flowing, for the coast is so flat that the water rises with great rapidity, and many accidents have occurred. A church, the ruins of which are still to be seen, existed here until the Reformation. It was dedicated to Notre Dame de la Roche, and was served by a prior, who was appointed by the Prior of St. Michel du Valle, a dependency of the great Abbey of Mont St. Michel-au-peril-de-la-Mer, in the Bay of Avranches. The isle is to this day looked upon with such veneration by the Norman and Breton sailors employed in the coasting trade, that they never pass it without saluting, by lowering their topmasts, and there is reason to believe that it was a favourite resort of pilgrims. A house belonging to a family of the name of Lenfestey, and situated at Les Adams, is said to have been, in former days, the residence of the priest who officiated at Lihou. A free-stone let into one of the exterior walls has a rough delineation of a church incised on it, which is said to represent the Priory Church of Lihou as it formerly existed.[173]
Stone supposed to represent the ancient Priory at Lihou.
A few years ago the remains of a skeleton were discovered in sinking a well on the property, to which a certain number of houses in the neighbourhood have a right of resorting for water. Many persons who have gone to draw water at night have heard groans, thrice repeated, as if from a person expiring, and these have generally been followed by the death of some near relation of the hearer. Three days after Mrs. Savidan heard the groans, a boat, in which were two of her relations named Le Cras, was capsized in a storm and both perished.[174]
Notwithstanding the sanctity of the place, however, the old proverb of “The nearer the church, the farther from God,” might at one time have been applied to it, for it is related of one of the priors that he was addicted to the black art. Neither the fear of God, nor the censures of the church, could wean him from the fascinating study of magic, and the Grand-Mêle was far oftener in his hands than the Bible or breviary. But wizards, it is well known, have often been the victims of their own art, and so it chanced with the profane Prior of Lihou.
One morning, taking advantage of the receding tide, he crossed over to Guernsey to seek an interview with another adept in necromancy, the priest of the neighbouring Chapel of Ste. Apolline. He was accompanied by his servant, to whom he had entrusted a ponderous tome, containing the formulas by which he performed his incantations, and to whom he had given strict orders on no account to open the volume or read a word which it contained.
The visit over, the prior prepared to return to his convent, and walked along leisurely, knowing as it was then spring tide that two or three hours must elapse before the returning waves could bar the passage to the islet. The servant lingered behind, and when he arrived on the beach found his master already half way over. His curiosity had been vividly excited by the repeated injunctions of his master that he should abstain carefully from opening the book. He began to think that it must contain something very wonderful, and that, as but few minutes must elapse before their arrival at the convent, when the mysterious volume would, without doubt, be instantly demanded by the prior, if he did not seize this opportunity of acquainting himself with its contents, no other occasion might ever present itself. He yielded to the temptation, opened the book, and began to read. The prior by this time had arrived at about the middle of the causeway, and was astonished to find the tide rising rapidly and threatening to cut off his further progress, either backwards or forwards. He felt that some unnatural agency was at work, and, guessing how matters stood, looked back to the shore which he had just left, and saw his faithless servant comfortably seated on a heap of dried sea-weed, with the fatal volume spread open on his knees. He was reading aloud, and the prior caught enough of the words to know that his attendant had hit upon the spell which causes the tides to rise out of their usual course, and, moreover, that he was reading most leisurely.
In great fright he called out to the man to read on quickly to the end, as he knew that then the waves would stop and return to their proper limits. The servant was too much absorbed in his reading to pay any attention to the directions given him, and the waves had by this time reached above the prior’s waist. In mortal agony he called out for the second time:—
“If thou canst not read forwards, read backwards!”
The roaring waves this time effectually drowned his voice. The servant read on, but long before he had arrived at the end of the incantation, the sea had covered the profane priest, and the demon whom the magic lines had evoked carried off his prey.[175]
[173] Editor’s Note.—Mr. S. Carey Curtis, who is an architect, has made some very interesting plans of the ruins of Lihou Priory, and has shown their correspondence with the architecture of the building depicted on this stone. I will quote his exact words:—
“There is built into the wall of a house, on the Paysans Road, a sculptured stone, which corresponds so exactly with what might have been the Chapel of Lihou that I have, on the plan, restored the chapel on those lines. All the principal features work in exactly, the tower, the windows, the roof, etc.,—all except the door, of which there is positively no trace; but possibly, in view of the various coats of paint on the stone, it is merely a fancy of one of the many artists who have retouched it. Of the ruins which remain there is sufficient to show what its measurements once were. Of the tower, about twelve feet is still standing, a large portion of the north wall, and several smaller pieces; these all show that it consisted of a nave about thirty-four by twenty-three feet inside measurement, and a choir or sanctuary about thirty-four by twenty feet. There is enough of the north wall still standing to shew where the spring of the vaulting began, and thus, approximately, the height of the walls and roof. The corner of the chancel arch pier is a Caen stone, with a plain beading on it; there is also trace of a porphyry column on the south side of the sanctuary, and under the site of the altar is a paving of Malachite green and buff tiles, some of which still remain; they measure six and a quarter inches square and were laid alternately.”
The lettering has been explained as standing for “H … Dominus Lihou Mel,” “H … priest of Lihou Mel, (as Lihou was called in ancient times) in 1114.”
Editor’s Notes.
A somewhat similar story was told me in 1896 by Mrs. Le Patourel, who had heard it from her mother-in-law. A schoolmaster, either at St. Pierre-du-Bois or at Torteval, was given to witchcraft, and owned one of these “bad books.” He took it one day to his school and, by an oversight, left it on his desk. It was a lovely day, and, impatient to be out, he omitted to lock it up, and hurried home to get his dinner. Whilst in the middle of eating it, quite suddenly a terrific storm came on, such thunder and lightning as had never before been seen in the country, and was most unaccountable in such a hitherto lovely weather. It seemed to be at its worst just over the school. Terrified, remembering the book he had left there, he rushed back and there he found one of the boys reading this book out loud. He snatched the book from his hand, and asked him to show him where he had begun, and where he had read to, and then began at once to read backwards from where the boy had left off. As he read, the storm began to lull, and when he reached the place where the boy had begun to read, the storm had stopped as suddenly as it begun. (This is possibly another version of the story of “Satan and the Schoolmaster,” related in the chapter on the Devil.)
Mrs. Le Patourel also knew a man who had once owned a “Grand Albert” and used it, and, repenting, tried to burn it, but it is well known that if you have once used one of these books you can never rid yourself of it, try as you will. He heated his oven red hot, and put the book within it. Two minutes afterwards he looked up and saw the book, unsinged even, in its old place on the dresser. My cousin Miss Le Pelley sends me a story told her by an old servant Judy Ozanne, how some very religious people, going into a house found a “Grand Albert” on the poûtre (the centre beam) in the kitchen, so they threw it into the fire, but in vain, for “it went back to its old place and stayed there!”
We all know how dangerous it is to possess books which treat of the arts of magic and sorcery, or to tamper in any way with these forbidden practices.
It came to the ears of a former rector of St. Pierre-du-Bois or Torteval, that one of his parishioners, of the name of Sarre, not only owned such books, but was in the habit of reading and studying them. Indeed, if there was any truth in public rumour, many of Sarre’s neighbours had been sufferers from the improper use he made of the knowledge thus unlawfully acquired. The good rector thought it his duty to remonstrate with his parishioner, and to point out to him the sinfulness of his conduct, and the danger he was incurring of forfeiting both body and soul to the Prince of Darkness; but all his good advice was, for a long time, treated with contempt. At last, what the rector’s charitable remonstrances had been unable to effect was brought about by Sarre’s own fears. The presence of a large black cat, which followed him wherever he went, and was with him night and day, began to alarm him. It was useless to attempt to drive the beast away; it cared neither for threats nor blows. In short Sarre began to be seriously alarmed lest his assiduous study of the forbidden volumes should, at last, have brought, if not Satan, at least one of his familiars, to dog his steps continually, and to watch an opportunity of seizing on his prey.
Under these circumstances he thought it most prudent to get rid of the books, and, with this intent, went one night to the extreme verge of low-water mark at spring-tides, dug a hole in the sand, and buried the accursed volumes. The rising tide soon covered the spot, and Sarre returned home with his mind at ease. His feeling of security was not destined to be of long duration, for, on entering his door, he was met by the black cat, who, erecting his tail, and rubbing himself against his master’s legs, manifested his joy at seeing him again. The next object that his eyes rested on were the books he had just buried, carefully placed on their accustomed shelf, and as dry as if they had never left it. A profound melancholy seized him; he ceased to occupy himself in his usual avocations, and wandered about the cliffs and sea-shore in a disconsolate state, till, at last, he disappeared. Those who were charitably disposed, surmised that, in his despair, he had thrown himself over one of the lofty precipices of Pleinmont into the sea, but there were not wanting others who suggested that the master, into whose service he had entered, had at last claimed his own, and carried him off bodily.[176]
A certain man of the name of Robin, who lived near Les Capelles, in the parish of St. Sampson’s, had risen from being a day labourer to be the possessor of what, in Guernsey, passes for a considerable landed estate. Riches are sure to create envy, and more particularly is this the case when a man has been prosperous in the world and has arrived at a rank and station to which he was not born. The poor hate him because he has acquired a title to consideration, which his origin, as humble as their own, can never confer. The rich pretend to despise him because he is wanting in the accidental circumstance of birth. All concur in attributing his success in life to luck, to want of honesty, to anything but intelligence, industry, and good conduct. It will not, therefore, be thought surprising if calumny was busy at work to blacken the character of one, who, like Robin, had been so fortunate in his undertakings. He was openly spoken of by his neighbours as being addicted to sorcery.
It was well known that he possessed the art of taming the most refractory bulls, and it therefore followed as a matter of course that he had also the power of bewitching other cattle. Sometimes, when a cow was sick, and all the usual nostrums of the village farrier had failed in effecting a cure, recourse was had, as a last resort, to Robin, who was generally successful. What conclusion was more natural, than that he, who could so easily remove a malady, had also the power of inflicting it? Besides, it was whispered about by some of those who contrive to be well informed of all that passes, even in the most secret recesses of their neighbours’ houses, that Robin would sit for hours together, shut up in his private room, with a pack of cards before him, with which he appeared to be playing some game. No adversary was seen, but what game can be played by one man alone? It was clear to the most obtuse that another was present, although invisible to mortal eye, and who could this be but the great enemy of human souls?
At last old age came on; Robin became more and more infirm, and was at last confined to his bed. During his illness his attendants were much annoyed by the continual creaking and cracking of an ancient oaken press, which stood in the corner of the room, and which he would not allow them on any account to open or meddle with. Of course they all thought that this chest contained untold gold, for he was known to be extremely avaricious—in fact he was one of those “who would cut a double[177] in two” as the saying is. He was frightfully hard on all his workmen, exacting every moment of their time. So far did he carry this, that it is said he only allowed them five minutes to take their noon-day meal, which, according to the universal custom at that time, was furnished by the employer, and eaten at his table. It was commonly believed that one source of his wealth was the discovery of a buried treasure in one of his fields. There was a well on his property which was intermittent, at times overflowing, and at others not having above an inch or so of water in it. It was supposed to conceal a treasure, and a man was sent down to examine it, but no sooner had he begun to bale out the water than it returned with such violence that he was obliged to be drawn up to avoid drowning. When Robin was dying, his son urged him to give something to the poor, but his constant answer was:—
“Je n’en counis pouïnt.” (“I do not know any.”)
His last hour was, however, rapidly approaching, and he desired the press to be opened, and certain books which it contained to be thrown on the hearth where a large fire was blazing. His orders were obeyed, but, to the great astonishment of the servants and attendants, instead of being consumed in the flames, the books extinguished the fire![178] Fresh faggots were, by the orders of the dying man, heaped on the hearth, and kindled, and, at last, the mysterious books, if not consumed, at least disappeared. The press had ceased to creak from the moment the books were taken out of it, and shortly afterwards Robin breathed his last.
A storm of unusual violence was raging at the time, but the most singular circumstance remains yet to be told. A crow of unusual size was seen to hover over the house, and finally alighted on the roof, and, it is said, that on the day of the funeral, as the corpse was leaving the house, it flew down and perched on the coffin. In vain did the bearers endeavour to drive it off; it held its ground, and even when the body was lowered into the grave it would not quit the station which it had chosen, but suffered itself to be covered with the mould by the sexton.[179]
[178] Editor’s Note.—In Traditions et Superstitions de la Haute Bretagne, Tome I., p. 304, M. Sebillot tells the story of a priest, who, at the request of a penitent “sorcier,” tries to burn Le Petit Albert:—“Il le mit dans le foyer pour le brûler; mais le livre sautait dans le feu comme s’il avait voulu en sortir. Le prêtre le repoussait dans les flammes avec sa canne, et il brûla longtemps sans se consumer.”
Editor’s Note.
“In German Switzerland, a crow perching on the roof of a house where a corpse lies, is a sure sign that the dead is damned.” Swainson’s Folk-Lore, p. 84.
“In Germany ravens are believed to hold the souls of the damned, sometimes to be the evil one himself.” Idem., p. 90. “The raven was indeed, from of old endowed with the holy awfulness of the Christian dove in the Norse mythology. Odin was believed to have given this bird the colour of the night, that it might the better spy out the deeds of darkness.” Demonology and Devil-Lore, by Conway, Vol. 2., p. 368.
Among the many bays with which the sea-coast of Guernsey is indented, few have a wilder aspect than that of Caûbo; not that it is surrounded with bold cliffs and precipices, like those of the southern coast, for, on the contrary, the sea is only prevented from inundating the neighbouring land by the banks of sand and shingle which the ever-restless waves have thrown up, or by the sea walls which the industry of man has raised to form a barrier against them.
Its charm consists in the wildness of its scenery[181]—the rugged promontory of “La Roque du Guet,” surmounted by an old watch-house and battery to the south; the point of land known as “Les Grandes Roques,” with its outlying reefs, the scene of many a wreck, to the north; the chain of rocks stretching right across the bay to the westward, and seeming to bar all access to the land. All this, whether seen when, with a westerly wind, the heavy waves are sweeping in with resistless force from the broad Atlantic, or when, on a calm summer’s day, the sun’s rays “like light dissolved in star-showers” pour down on the brilliantly blue water, from which the innumerable jagged peaks arise, from any of which one might expect to “have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.” The shores are alternately picturesque and rugged, or else smiling valleys of green fields overhung with trees, and with a few old thatched houses in the background, and, until lately, were inhabited almost exclusively by a race of poor hardy fishermen, to whom every passage through the intricate and rugged rocks of the bay are well known, but who are by no means exempt from the superstitions that seem to attach particularly to a sea-faring life.
Of late some extensive quarries have been opened in the hills that lie eastward of the bay, from one of which the dark granite steps leading to the western entrance of St. Paul’s Cathedral were hewn. The quarries have brought other labourers to reside in the neighbourhood, and it is from a brother of one of these—a Cornishman—that the following particulars have been obtained.
The quarryman now in question, when he first determined on seeking work at Caûbo, had much difficulty in finding a cottage to suit him; but, at last, tempted by the low rent asked for one, which had remained untenanted for a long time, he made up his mind to take it. Other labourers had lived formerly in the house, but generally, after a short residence, they had left it as soon as they could find a decent excuse, without assigning any definite reason. The quarryman had not been long settled in his new habitation when he and his family began to be alarmed by strange and unaccountable noises, particularly at night. He spoke to some of the neighbours on the subject, and, at last, with some difficulty—for it was evident that there was a great unwillingness to speak on the subject,—he ascertained that the house had the reputation of being bewitched, and that an old woman living in the immediate vicinity was commonly reported to be the cause of the nightly disturbances. Some of the previous tenants went so far as to say that on stormy nights, when the wind was blowing a full gale from the south-west, and all were gathered round the hearth, lamenting the sad condition of the poor mariners and fishermen out at sea, and praying for the safety of the shipping exposed to the pitiless blast, they had seen the old sorceress come down the chimney in a cloud of smoke and soot, pass through their midst, and vanish through the key-hole, causing all the doors in the cottage to slam, and leaving a villainous smell behind her. Other tales, no less veracious, are told of her.
A woman, scrupulously clean in her person and attire, against whom the witch had a previous grudge, chanced to make use of some not very complimentary expressions in speaking of her, and instantaneously her clothes were covered with vermin of the most loathsome description. A neighbour, who had offended her, was never able, either by fair means or foul, to get his cattle past the witch’s dwelling, but was obliged to take another and much longer way in leading them to and from their pasturage, to the grievous loss of his time and temper.
Two strong horses, harnessed to the empty cart of another man with whom the sorceress had lately had a quarrel, though urged by word and whip, were unable to move it an inch forward. It was well known to all that it was by means of books of magic that she was enabled to perform these and still greater marvels; and her brothers, good respectable men, who were aware of her evil deeds and ashamed of the disgrace her conduct brought on the family, finding that all their remonstrances were in vain, and that they could not persuade her to abandon her evil courses, had attempted to destroy the books, and so deprive her, in some degree, of her power of doing mischief.
On one occasion, during her absence from home, they got possession of the unhallowed volumes, and, lighting a large fire on the hearth, placed them in the midst of the flames, and heaped up fuel around them, until, to all appearance, they were reduced to a heap of ashes.
They were rejoicing in the success of their undertaking, but, alas, their joy was of short duration. They soon found that all their labour had been in vain, and that they had consumed their fuel to no purpose; for, chancing to cast their eyes on the top of an old chest of drawers which stood in one corner of the room, where the books, when not actually in use, were always to be found, what was their dismay to see them lying there uninjured and looking as if they had never been touched. Fire, it was clear, had no power over them. So they determined to try what effect the other elements, earth and water, might have. It chanced to be one of the lowest spring-tides in the year, so they carried the books down to dead low-water mark, dug a deep hole in the sand, placed the books in it, and watched until the flowing tide had covered the spot with three or four feet of water.
They then returned home, and on entering the cottage naturally turned their eyes towards the usual resting-place of the books. There they were, without a vestige of sand on them, and as dry as bones. After these two attempts they gave up all hopes of ever getting rid of the unholy tomes; indeed it is well known that there is but one method of destroying such books; it is by burying them with their owner when death shall have delivered the world from his or her presence.
It is fortunate that there are men and women who have the gift of counteracting the spells of wizards and witches; and it so chances that not many doors from the house where the witch of Caûbo dwelt there resided an old man whose knowledge enabled him to frustrate her evil designs, and whose services were readily given to those who may require them. These things are said to have happened as lately as the year 1874, and are a proof that, in some quarters at least, and notwithstanding the boasted enlightenment of the nineteenth century, faith in witchcraft is as rife as ever. Can it, however, be wondered at, if ignorant peasants should believe in what they think they have Scriptural warrant for considering an article of faith, when learned men and educated women are found ready to give in to all the delusions of spiritualism.
[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.
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]
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.
“Mill Pond at the Vrangue.”
The manner in which they had acquired their riches soon became known, and, tempted by the hopes of gain, a man concealed himself in the oven of the ruined house near the Catioroc one Friday night. He had not long lain there before the wizards entered, but before a word was uttered they made a strict search through the house, and soon discovered the trembling man, whom they obliged to take the oaths of allegiance to their infernal master, to the eternal ruin both of his soul and body.[185]
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.
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.
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.