APPENDIX A. Ghosts.
Referred to on [page 288].
The Ghost of Mr. Blondel.
At “Les Mourains” we have seen that the ghost was “laid” by the means of the clergy of the parish, (see page 288) and it is evident by the following stories that the laying of spirits frequently formed part of the duties of the clergy in Guernsey in the last century.
The house Colonel Le Pelley now inhabits at St. Peter-in-the-Wood, was formerly owned by an old Mr. Blondel, who, on his death bed, gave instructions to Mr. Thomas Brock (then Rector of the parish and grandfather of the present Rector, Mr. H. Walter Brock), to toll the big bell to announce his decease.
This was not done, but Mr. Blondel’s spirit determined to show that promises to the dying were not to be trifled with! All the parish of St. Pierre-du-Bois were ready to affirm that the ghost was to be seen climbing up the Church tower; and in the Rectory kitchen the china on the dresser would make a clattering noise and finally be swept by the unseen hands on to the floor.
Life at the Rectory became so unendurable under these circumstances that Mr. Brock finally decided to “lay” the ghost, and confine it to its own house. So he went to “Prospect Place,” as the house is now called, with twelve others of the local clergy. They shut every door and window, and blocked up every crevice, key-hole, etc., through which the spirit might pass. They then prayed in every room, after which having driven the spirit out of each room in succession, they locked it up in a cupboard, with either the key of the Church door or a specially-made silver key (Miss Le Pelley could not find out which, some say one, and some another), but the ghost has not troubled the Brock family since.
The old servants now living in the house firmly believe that the ghost still inhabits the cupboard, and affirm that its groans can still be heard.[341]
[341] From Miss E. Le Pelley.
The Old House at St. George.
Judith Ozanne, an old woman, who is servant at the Le Pelleys’, tells the following story.
Her uncle, an old Mr. Ozanne, remembered the last Mr. Guille who inhabited the original “St. George,” the old house which has been replaced by the modern building which is now known as “St. George.”
This Mr. Guille left instructions that the old house was never to be pulled down, as a spirit had been shut up in one of the cupboards; but his son found the old house quite unsuitable for his bride to live in, so he pulled it down, and built the present house, and the consequence was that the poor homeless spirit was forced to wander about the garden. Judith’s uncle saw him often on moonlight nights, wandering among the trees around the pond.
All the family saw him too, and decided that something had to be done. So they had a “conjuration” as they call a laying of the spirit, and tried to induce it to enter an underground cellar, and shut it down by means of a trap door.
But Mr. Ozanne would never say whether or no they were successful. Judith Ozanne finishes the story by saying, “And I should like to know what would happen to Mr. Blondel’s spirit if this house were burnt down?”[342]
Many of the old Guernsey “haunted houses” had their ghosts locked up in cupboards. Mrs. Le Poidevin, who in her youth had been an “ironer,” and had gone round from house to house ironing after the weekly washing at home had taken place, related that the famous haunted house at the Tour Beauregard was also in possession of a ghost locked up in a cupboard, a cupboard whose doors, in spite of many efforts, would not open, and from which the most fearful groans and dismal wailings were heard to arise. Mrs. Le Poidevin also used to go as ironer to the old house at the top of Smith Street, now pulled down, belonging, to the de Jersey family. In this house also was a ghost locked up in a cupboard, and Mrs. de Jersey, a very strong minded old lady,—in defiance of superstition—insisted on having this cupboard door forced open, and the ghost escaped! After that the house was rendered almost uninhabitable by the frightful noises that were heard all over it. No one could get any sleep, and not a servant could be found to stay in the house. So finally Mrs. de Jersey decided to have the clergy called in, and one of the maids described to Mrs. Le Poidevin the ceremonies that ensued.
She said that every outer door was locked, all the crevices between the window sashes were wedged up, and every keyhole was plugged up. Then the minister of St. James’ and some of the other clergy prayed in every room, and she thought they read something about “casting out devils.” Finally the ghost was locked up with the key of the Church door.[343]
[342] From Miss E. Le Pelley.
[343] From Mrs. Le Poidevin.
In Moncure Conway’s book on Demonology and Devil-Lore, Vol. I., p. 102, he says:—“The key has a holy sense in various religions.” I have not been able to find out the exact formula used by the clergy, but in the Sarum Office, and also in the first Prayer Book of Edward VI., an exorcism is given to be used at the Baptism of Infants, in which the evil spirit is addressed as follows:—“Therefore, thou accursed spirit, remember thy sentence, remember thy judgment, remember the day to be at hand, wherein thou shalt burn in fire everlasting, prepared for thee and thy angels,” etc. This was founded on the ancient exorcisms, and was only left out in the revision of 1552, in deference to the criticisms of Bucer.
The Ghosts of La Petite Porte.
La Petite Porte is the sandy bay immediately underneath Jerbourg. Tradition derives its name “the little door” from an incident which is said to have occurred in 1338. In those days the French had made one of their periodical inroads on the island, and were in possession of its principal fortresses. Eighty-seven men of St. Martin’s parish, headed by l’honorable “Capitaine Jean de la Marche,”[344] attempted to dislodge them, but were defeated at Mare-Madoc, in the Hubits, and fled down to La Petite Porte, where they embarked for Jersey, and founded a colony at St. Ouen’s. An old Jersey manuscript goes on to say that Charles II., during his sojourn in Jersey, was so touched by the recital of the bravery and fidelity of these men, that he granted to the “South” Regiment of Militia, the old “Regiment Bleu,” a special “aiguillette d’argent.” Later authorities disprove this, on the grounds that there were not, at this epoch, either regiments or uniforms, and that the “royal blue facings and silver lace” quoted as “being borne at present by the South Regiment of Militia” did not exist two centuries ago!
But among the old country people, to the present day, the bay known as “Moulin Huet” is invariably called “Vier Port” (old harbour), and if one mentions “Moulin Huet Bay” they will tell you that the name “Moulin Huet” only applies to the old mill, (now destroyed, and the site turned into a picnic house), and that it was “Les Anglais” who transferred the name of the mill to the bay just below, so that “La Petite Porte,” being just the other side of the bay, might easily have been originally “Petit Port”—(Little Harbour.)
Bounded by the “Tas de Pois,” the most magnificent rocks in the Channel Islands, it is noted for its beauty, and, from its long expanse of sand, is the best place for sand-eeling. But about the beginning of last century no sand-eelers dared approach this spot by night. Screams, shrieks, and groans were heard there, night after night, and finally it was shunned after dark by the whole island. There was no difficulty in the people’s minds in accounting for these sounds. Two such awful tragedies were connected with this bay and its environs that it was an “embarras de richesse” to decide which of the ghosts of the two men who had been murdered in this vicinity it could be!
The first of these stories has already been published in a little book, now out of print, called Anglo-Norman Legends or Tales of the Channel Islands, N.D., under the title of “John Andrew Gordier,” and has also been taken as the foundation of “Rachel Mauger, a Guernsey Tragedy,” published some years ago in Clarke’s Guernsey Magazine, where also, in the number for May, 1883, the same story is given in a condensed form, as taken from a newspaper cutting, and is preceded by the following note, signed “J. Y.
“The following striking narrative, relating to the origin of a drama celebrated in its day (the tragedy of “Julia”), became known to the writer through an old newspaper cutting preserved in a family scrap book. The newspaper of which we speak must be at least fifty years old (in 1883), and it related events which were then long past.”
A book called The Locket, by Mrs. Alfred Marks is based on the same tradition.
Though these events must have happened nearly two hundred years ago, there are still some recollections of them lingering in the minds of the very old people, who preface them by saying “J’ai ouï dire à ma gran’mère!”
The story runs thus:—About the end of the seventeenth century there was an extremely beautiful girl, living at the Varclin, in St. Martin’s parish, called Rachel Mauger. The Maugers were of a good old Guernsey family, and were, in those days, extremely well-to-do. She was engaged to John Andrew Gordier, a native of Jersey, though of French extraction. One day he sent her word that he was going to sail over from Jersey to see her, and intended landing at La Petite Porte, which was the nearest place to her house. She started to go to meet him. But he never appeared, and she had to return home, fearing that some accident had happened to him. What really had happened was this: There was a wealthy merchant, in St. Peter Port, named Gaillard, who had long wished to marry Rachel; he had formerly been her father’s clerk, so they had been much thrown together, but she did not reciprocate his affection.
The day Mr. Gordier sailed over to Guernsey, Gaillard was down in the bay of La Petite Porte, having previously been refused admission to the Mauger’s house, on the ground that Mr. Gordier was expected, and they were all busy preparing for his reception. Brooding over his wrongs, he looked up, and saw his rival just on the point of landing. Mad with jealousy he waited behind the rocks till he saw him preparing to ascend the winding path which leads to the top of the cliff, then he rushed out, and stabbed him twice in the back with the knife he always carried, and, doubling him up, thrust the body into a cave close by with a particularly small entrance. The cave is still pointed out, and is on the western side of the bay, just below the path, leading from La Petite Porte to Moulin Huet. Before leaving the body, Gaillard searched it, and abstracted a peculiarly-shaped locket from one of the pockets, which Gordier was bringing as a present to his fiancée.
Of course the disappearance of Gordier led to a search, and his body being finally discovered in this cave by some boys, his murder was made manifest. His mother finally resolved to come over and visit her intended daughter-in-law, whom she found in a most depressed and excitable condition, and evidently dying of a broken heart. United to the shock of her lover’s death, she had been exposed to the incessant persecution of her relations, who were determined that she should marry Gaillard, and had insisted that she should accept the locket that he had stolen from Gordier’s corpse, and, with a refinement of malice, had pressed on her. So unstrung was the unfortunate Rachel that she did nothing but sink into one fainting fit after another on seeing Mrs. Gordier, and when the latter, struck with horror on seeing this jewel on her watch-chain, asked her how she had come into possession of a locket which had, she knew, been made specially for her in Jersey by her son’s orders, the unhappy girl turned deadly pale, and, murmuring the word “clerc,” fell in a dead faint to the ground. The final shock, and sudden conviction that they had been harbouring her lover’s murderer, being too much for her in her enfeebled condition, she died in a few moments.
Mrs. Gordier misinterpreted the poor girl’s grief, and, thinking it proceeded from a guilty conscience, intimated that it evidently shewed that Rachel was an accomplice in the murder. Naturally the Maugers were most indignant at such an unworthy aspersion on their daughter, and, after a violent scene, asked her to prove her statements. She replied that the jewel their daughter was then wearing was one which was purchased by her son before leaving Jersey, and she proved the fact by touching a secret spring and shewing his portrait concealed in the locket. The Maugers, knowing that Gaillard had been the donor of this jewel, and connecting “clerc,” the last word Rachel’s lips had uttered, with him, as being her father’s clerk, immediately sent for him. On being confronted with the jewel, and asked to explain how it came into his possession, he replied that he had purchased it from a Jew, named Levi, who had for years paid periodical visits to the island as a pedlar. So Levi was then considered to be undoubtedly guilty, and was taken into custody, but then, remorse, the fear of public shame, and also the conviction that, Rachel being dead nothing made life worth living, so wrought on the miserable Gaillard, that the morning of the day on which Levi was to be brought before the Royal Court, he was found dead, stabbed by his own hand.
A letter was found on the table in his room confessing his guilt and reading thus: “None but those who have experienced the furious impulse of ungovernable love will pardon the crime which I have committed, in order to obtain the incomparable object by whom my passions were inflamed. But, Thou, O Father of Mercies! who implanted in my soul these strong desires, wilt forgive one rash attempt to accomplish my determined purpose, in opposition, as it should seem, to thy Almighty Providence.”[345]
[344] “L’honorable Jean de la Marche, du bas, Commandant-en-Chef de la paroisse de St. Martin, voyant l’isle de Guernesey révoltée contre son Roi, et servant de préférence sous les drapeaux Français; ce vaillant homme, dis-je, ému par un esprit vraiment loyal, et secondé par l’honorable Messire Pierre de Sausmarez, James Guille, Jean de Blanchelande, Pierre Bonamy, Thomas Vauriouf, et Thomas Etibaut, qui allèrent partout chercher des secours, et tâchant de détruire tous les factieux, et animés d’un désir d’assister à leur bienfaiteur pour reprendre le Château Cornet, assistés par les braves habitants de la petite Césarée; la paroisse de St. Martin leva et envoya quatre-vingt-sept hommes, qui se joignirent aux dites honorables personnes, sous le commandement du dit noble Jean de la Marche, du bas; ce nombre était autant que la paroisse de St. Martin pût en fournir dans ce temps là. Ayant été attaqués au Mont Madau (dit les Hubits) ils firent retraite et s’embarquèrent à la petite Porte (qui porte ce nom à cause de cette aventure) sur de frèles barques, parmi les rochers, et arrivèrent enfin à Jersey, et se joignirent sous le commandement de Messire Renaud de Carteret, Grand Gouverneur des Iles, et se battirent vailleusement sous les drapeaux de sa Majesté, après avoir échappé à la fureur d’une mer orageuse. St. Martin était la seule paroisse de cette isle de Guernesey, qui se garda sous l’obéissance du Roi, pour lesquels bons services, il plut à sa Majesté Charles II., leur accorder à leur requête le galon d’argent comme le plus noble. C’est alors que plusieurs habitants de St. Martin donnèrent leurs services pour leurs vies au susdit Renaud de Carteret, Gouverneur-en-Chef, et conçurent un tel mépris pour leurs pays qu’ils habitèrent Jersey. Lisez pour cela le discours que Charles II. donna au Parlement à son retour, et l’estime et l’éloge qu’il fait de ces héros.”—From an old document entitled “Touchant La Preséance d’Honneur chalengée, par Guernesé.”
[345] From Mrs. Le Patourel, Mr. Tourtel, and from my father, who had heard it from his father, and collated with the printed versions of the story.
Le Seigneur de Damèque.
This second story is not at all well known, except among some of the very old people at St. Martin’s. I will not mention the names of the murderers, as descendants of the family still survive, and are among the most respected of the country people.
At the end of the eighteenth century many French noblemen fled over here, to escape the terrors of the French revolution. Among them was a Seigneur de Damèque. (I have no idea whether or not whether this is the correct spelling of his name, but it represents the pronunciation of the people). He came out to St. Martin’s parish, and took a house at Le Hurel, just above Le Vallon. He was very proud and reserved, made no friends, and was always seen going for long solitary walks, or pacing down “Les Olivettes,” (the old name for what is now known as “the water lane”) or underneath “Les Rochers,” the cliffs on which the Manor House of Blanchelande now stands, and resting by the “douït” where the pond at Le Vallon now is, but which, in those days, was public property.
He was always very richly dressed, and was supposed to have hidden hoards of wealth, as well as to carry large sums of money on his person. There were two or three brothers who lived together in a house near Le Varclin, who, tempted by his supposed riches, and thinking that his isolation would prevent his disappearance being noticed or enquiries being made, decided on following him on one of his solitary rambles and on murdering him. These brothers had always borne a bad reputation; they gambled and drank, and were the “vauriens” of an otherwise respectable family.
So, one evening, they followed him, as, passing above La Petite Porte, he entered into the narrow lane, overgrown with trees and thorn bushes, which leads to Jerbourg Point. There they closed upon him, and, being two or three to one, murdered him, and, after having robbed the body of his watch, rings, etc., buried the corpse under some of the heaps of stones which lie on the waste lands at the top of the cliff.
Some wonder was caused at Le Hurel when he failed to appear, but the rumour was started that he had been seen sailing away in a little fishing boat he used to hire for the season, from Bec du Nez, and which the murderers had had the forethought to scuttle and sink. The country people thought he had returned to his native land, and all interest in the matter dropped.
Haunted Lane near Jerbourg.
But there was one man to whom M. de Damèque’s disappearance meant much. In Paris he had left a dear friend, a Dr. Le Harrier. These two men wrote to each other regularly, and when M. de Damèque’s letters suddenly ceased, letters came to Le Hurel from this doctor, asking for explanations—letters which were never answered. Among M. de Damèque’s jewellery was a beautiful and most uncommon watch, with either his coronet and monogram or his coronet and arms displayed on the case. One day, some years after his disappearance, Dr. Le Harrier, walking through the streets of Paris, saw this unmistakable watch hanging in a jeweller’s shop. He went in and asked the man how it had got into his possession, and the man told him it had been brought by some men from Guernsey, who had been trying to sell it in England, Holland, and Belgium, and finally had left it with him to dispose of. Dr. Le Harrier bought the watch, and, taking the men’s address, started at once for Guernsey. When he arrived he made enquiries, and, finding that these men bore a bad reputation, took some constables with him and went to the house. There they found them sodden with drink, and, haunted by fear and remorse when they saw the watch, they sank down on their knees and confessed everything, and were led off then and there to prison.
The next thing to be done was to disinter the bones of the murdered man and give them Christian burial. Heavily handcuffed the brothers were taken to the spot, accompanied by various members of the clergy, a doctor, who had to certify that every bone was there, (this is a point much dwelt upon by every teller of the story), Dr. Le Harrier, and all the people of St. Martin’s. Then the bones, being found, were placed in a coffin, and reverently buried in St. Martin’s churchyard.
After the last spadeful of earth had been put in the grave, and while handcuffed prisoners and all the bystanders were still present, an old St. Martin’s man, named Pierre Jehan, got up and made the following speech, which I have written down word for word as the people still tell it.
“Autrefois quand on enterrait des dépouilles mortelles on y envoyait des rameaux et des bouquets de fleurs. Aujourd’hui on ne voit rien de tout ça.”
“Autrefois on aurait donné un quartier de froment en fonds d’héritage pour porter le nom de ——. Aujourd’hui on en donnera quatre pour ne le pas porter.”
(“Formerly when burying a corpse one sent branches of trees and bouquets of flowers. To-day there is nothing of that.”
“Formerly one would have given a quarter of wheat rent to bear the name of ——. To-day one would give four not to bear it.”)
The shock and the shame were such that the brothers were seized by what the people call “a stroke,” and to the relief of their relations died in prison before being brought for trial.
That the ghosts of these two murdered men should revisit the scenes of the crime was only to be expected, but finally, when La Petite Porte was shut to sand-eelers by reason of “ces cris terribles,” some of the neighbours and fishermen began to wonder whether nothing could be done to lay these unquiet spirits and free the bay from its supernatural visitants.
There was a man called Pierre Thoume, who lived at Les Blanches, most popular in the parish, being ready to go everywhere and join in everything, though he was emphatically a “bon Chrétien.” He was a distant relative of the murderers of M. de Damèque, and, having heard these noises at various times, it was borne in upon him that perhaps if he could find out what the ghost wanted, he could fulfil its wishes, and so let it rest in peace. He even prayed for guidance, and more and more he felt it to be his duty to go and meet the ghost face to face. At first some other men said they would join him, but when the appointed night came their spirits failed them, and no one arrived at the rendezvous. Undaunted, and armed only with his Bible, Mr. Thoume sallied forth alone at midnight. I think it is difficult to realise what moral and physical courage it must have involved to go forth alone to encounter the supernatural, fully persuaded of its unearthly character.
Early in the morning he returned to his home, looking very white, and with a curiously set expression on his face. His wife and daughters, who had waited up for him, rushed at him to know what had happened, but he said, “You must never ask me what has happened, what I have seen, what I have done. I have sworn to keep it a secret, and as a secret it will die with me, but this I can tell you, you may go to La Petite Porte at any hour of the day or night, and never again shall any ghost haunt it, or noise or scream be heard.” And to this day the noises have utterly ceased.
Pierre Thoume kept his vow, though his family, friends, and neighbours, implored him time after time, even on his death bed, to tell them what he had seen. His invariable reply was, “I have given my word, and I will not break it.”[346]
[346] From Mrs. Rowswell, Mr. Thoume’s daughter, Mrs. Le Patourel, Mrs. Charles Marquand, Margaret Mauger, Mr. Tourtel, and many others, inhabitants of St. Martin’s parish.
Les Câches.
There are two houses called Les Câches in St. Martin’s parish, situated one behind the other in the district so called, between the blacksmith’s forge at St. Martin’s and the Forest Road. Tradition says that they all formed part of one property, which extended as far as St. Martin’s Church, and was a nunnery, the nuns having a private lane of their own by which they could go to the church without the fear of meeting any men en route. There is a pond situated to the left of a long avenue which now leads to the front door of one of the houses, and for years it was believed that on a certain night of the year, a woman’s figure, dressed in grey, is seen walking up and down the avenue, weeping and wringing her hands, and then rushing to the pond. The story the people tell to account for this appearance is, that one of the nuns was discovered at the dead of night trying to drown her child and herself in the pond. They were rescued, but only for a worse fate, for the unfortunate woman and child were bricked up in a cupboard which is now situated in one of the outhouses, but is supposed to have been the old refectory. The people also tell in confirmation of this story that the night the ghost is seen this cupboard door flies open of itself though it is quite impossible to force it open at any other time.
It is possible that if this was an ecclesiastical establishment, it was one of those alien priories of which Sir Edgar MacCulloch says:—
“After the loss of Normandy the inconvenience of having so many valuable possessions in the hands of the enemy, led to the suppression of these priories, and in these islands, whenever there was war between England and France, alien ecclesiastics were compelled to leave.”
So probably the old conventual buildings, if there were any, were allowed to fall into ruins, and the land passed into the hands of the Patrys, and thence, through the marriage of Marguerite Patrys and Pierre Bonamy, into the possession of the Bonamys, who owned it for many centuries. There is an old document which tells the story of how the Bonamys first came to Guernsey.
“On their return from the Holy Land, whither they had accompanied the King of France, two brothers were driven by a violent storm, and thrown into a little bay, where their bark went to pieces. In gratitude for their preservation they made a vow to remain where Providence had placed them. One, a priest, founded a church, and the other married and founded the Bonamy family.” In 1495, John Bonamy, son of Pierre and Marguerite Patrys, was “Procureur du Roi” in Guernsey, and his old MS. memorandum book still survives, in which he describes a pilgrimage to Rome he made in 1504, through France and Italy.
The following extracts relative to building Les Câches have been deciphered from the old crabbed manuscript by Colonel J. H. Carteret Carey:—
1468.—Mo des gans quy mont aydy a caryer la pere … et des grant roquez … de le Cluse Luet—premez Gylome robert j jor &c.
1498.—Mo que je marchande de Colas Fyquet por ma meson, le but deverz le nort … par la some de viij escus.… Il comencest le xviijeme jor du moys de Maye—le Mardyt.
1504.—Mo que Gylome le Corvar et Colin Savage comancer acovyr ma grange landeman du jor Saint Appolyne. Acevest le jor Saint Aubin lan vc quatre, which may be translated:—
(1468.—Memo of the people who helped me to quarry the stone … and the big rocks … of “l’Ecluse Luet” [the Ecluse was the mill-dam in connection with the old watermill which gave its name to Moulin Huet Bay. It was situated in the hollow at the bottom of the water-lane of “Les Olivettes,” just above the old Mill House] first William Robert, one day, &c.)
(1498.—Memo. That I bargain with Colas Fyquet about my house, the end (to be) towards the north … for the sum of eight escus. They began the 18th of May—on Tuesday.)
(1504.—Memo. That William Le Corvar (&) Colin Savage, began to cover my barn the day following the day of Saint Appolyne [Feb. 9,] finished the day of St. Aubin [March 1,] 1504.)
In the parish of St. Martin’s they still tell a story of the old days when the Bonamys yet occupied Les Câches.
Years and years ago, there was an old Helier Bonamy,[347] who lived at the Câches. He was one of the richest men in Guernsey, and kept, as well as cows and horses, a large flock of sheep, there being much demand for wool in those days on account of the quantity of jerseys, stockings, &c., knitted over here. One night he and his daughter went to a ball in the town. Tradition even goes so far as to say that Miss Bonamy was dressed in white brocade. Before starting, Helier Bonamy summoned his herdsmen, and told them to keep a sharp look out after his sheep, for that there were many lawless men about. Helier and his daughter[348] walked home that night earlier than was expected.
As they turned into the avenue, between high hedges and forest trees, they heard the bleatings of sheep in pain. “Écoute donc, ce sont mes berbis” (Listen, those are my sheep), said Helier, and drew his daughter under the hedge to listen. Peeping through the bushes they saw his herdsman and farm labourers calling each other by name, drinking, talking and laughing, and, while cutting the throats of the defenceless sheep, chanting in chorus:—
“Rasons! rasons! les berbis
Du grand Bonamy,
S’il était ichin d’vànt,
Nou l’i en feraït autant!”
(Shear! shear! the sheep,
Of the great Bonamy,
Were he here before us,
We would do as much to him).
They crept up the avenue unobserved to the house, for Helier was afraid to confront all these men who had evidently been drinking heavily, alone and unarmed. The next day his herdsman came to him with a long face, and said that robbers had broken into the sheepfold in the night and killed all the sheep, and brought up the other men as witnesses. Mr. Bonamy said nothing, except that he would like all these men to accompany him down to the Court to there testify to the robbery. This they did, and when they got there and told their story, Mr. Bonamy and his daughter then turned round and denounced them. They were taken into custody, and hanged shortly afterwards at St. Andrew’s.[349]
There are several stories illustrating the re-appearance of people whose dying wishes had been disregarded by their survivors, and also of people wishing to tell their heirs where their treasure had been hid.
At the King’s Mills, a Mrs. Marquand died, and left instructions with her husband that her clothes were to be given to her sister Judith. After her death the widower did not do it, so every night her ghost came and knocked at her husband’s door. One night she rapped so loudly that all the neighbours opened their windows, and heard her say:—
“Jean, combien de temps que tu me feras donc souffrir, donne donc mes hardes à ma sœur Judi.”
(John, how much longer wilt thou make me suffer, give then my clothes to my sister Judy).
He gave the clothes the next day, and the spirit returned no more.[350]
Almost the same story is told of a Mrs. Guille, who gave orders that after her death a certain amount of clothes were to be bought and yearly distributed amongst the poor. This her husband neglected to comply with, so Mrs. Guille visited him one night, and told him that she would do so every night until the clothes were given. Mr. Guille hurriedly bought and distributed the clothes, and continued to do so yearly until he died.[351]
Miss Le Pelley also contributes the following ghost stories which are told at St. Pierre-du-Bois:—
“About the beginning of the century a man went to Gaspé (which the narrator said was Newfoundland, but is really on the mainland). While there, his father died suddenly, and the son came back to Guernsey to work the farm. One night his father appeared to him and told him that he would find “une petite houlette” (a little mug) on the barn wall, with something of value in it. Next morning the son went to look, and found a mug full of five franc pieces.”
“A widow in Little Sark had sold her sheep advantageously and hidden the money in the “poûtre” (the large central rafter which runs along the ceiling of the kitchen). Quite suddenly she died. Whenever her son walked about in Little Sark he met his mother, which made him feel very frightened, so one day he made his brother come with him, and together they met her, and plucked up courage enough to say:—‘In the name of the Great God what ails you,’ so then, having been spoken to first, she could tell them where her hoard of treasure was, and then disappeared, and was never seen again.”
The whole country-side is full of shreds of ghost stories and beliefs; many of these were probably due to, and encouraged by, the smugglers of olden days.
For instance a funeral procession was supposed to issue from an old lane south of Le Hurel—now blocked up—and no St. Martin’s man or woman would dare pass the place at night. But smugglers, creeping along between the overhanging hedges, with kegs and bundles on their shoulders, would have had just the same effect, especially to people who would have been far too frightened at an unexpected nocturnal appearance to stop and investigate the matter.
At the corner between Les Maindonneaux and the Hermitage, a tall figure was said to appear, and hover round the spot. When the road was widened and the wall round the Hermitage was built, a stone coffin was found full of very large bones. These bones were taken to the churchyard, and the burial service read over them, and since then no ghost has been seen.
Then, a little further on, around the pond of Sausmarez Manor, was seen an old man, dressed in a long grey coat, and a grey felt plumed hat. This is supposed by the people to be old Mr. Matthew de Sausmarez—“Le Grand Matthieu” as he is called,—but why he is supposed to return is unknown.
Even now-a-days, in quite modern most unghostly-looking houses, you hear tales of little old women, former inhabitants, being seen. In another house, where a suicide is known to have occurred, soft finger knocks are heard against the walls of one of the rooms, as of some one shut up in the room and seeking release; the door is opened, and nothing is to be seen. And in St. Martin’s the ghost of a woman, who only died a few years ago, is said to haunt the garden of the house in which she lived. Her daughter saw the appearance and was picked up in a dead faint from fright, but then the woman was supposed by all the neighbours to have been a witch, and, of course, as they say, the spirit of “une sorcière” could not rest quiet in consecrated ground.
I will close this chapter on ghosts with a story which is firmly believed and told by many of the country people. For obvious reasons I suppress all names.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, a very rich widower had a house in Smith Street. His first wife had left many small children, to whom in her lifetime she had been devoted, and spent many hours of her day in the nursery. The widower, after a short interval, married again, a young, pretty, and frivolous girl, who utterly neglected her step-children. Then the spirit of his first wife came back for a short time every morning, and washed and dressed them, the curtains of their beds were found pushed back in the mornings, and her silk dress was heard rustling up the stairs, and the children used to say “Mamma dressed us.”[352]
A man residing on the north-west coast had a brother who was drowned whilst out fishing. This man, wishing to do his best for his brother’s family, was sore perplexed some years afterwards, as the family ran great risk of losing their property, owing to the absence of a title deed which he knew to have existed, but which unfortunately had not been registered.
One day, when out fishing, he was greatly surprised to see his brother’s boat coming full sail close to him and just rounding to, with his brother at the tiller, and exclaimed:—“La! te v’lo et ta femme qu’est r’mariaïe!” (Lo! there you are and your wife married again!) The answer he received was:—“Le papier que tu trache est dans un taï endret sus la poutre,” (the paper you are looking for is in such a room, on the beam). Immediately everything disappeared.
Arrived ashore, he searched in the place indicated and found the missing document.[353]
[347] On referring to the Bonamy pedigree, the only Helier Bonamy who appears to have owned Les Câches, is a “Hellier, fils Pierre.” Peter Bonamy being a Jurat in 1548. Helier does not seem to have borne the best of reputations, for Nicholas Bermis writes of him to Bishop Horn: “Guernsey, December 13, 1575. He is a disorderly character, notorious for impiety and obstinacy.… Finally publicly excommunicated from the commune of the Church of God and of His Saints and given over to Satan until he should repent.”—Zurich Letters, Vol. II., p. 224.
[348] Even into the nineteenth century the old ladies would tell you how they walked home, lit by a three-candled lantern from “the Assemblys” and how the last dance was always given to the favourite partner, so that he might have the privilege of accompanying them.
[349] From Miss C. Tardif, who was told the story by her grandmother.
[350] Collected by Miss E. Le Pelley.
[351] Collected by Miss E. Le Pelley.
[352] From Mrs. Le Patourel, and also told to Miss Le Pelley by an old woman at St. Pierre-du-Bois.
[353] From John de Garis, Esq., of the Rouvêts, whose father was told the story by the man himself.
