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.