​If we know where we came from, we may better know

where to go. If we know who we came from we may 
better understand who we are. Anon

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This page includes:

* Finding my French Huguenot Ancestors

* A Huguenot Family Escape from France to England

* Finding Jim Hewlett

* A New College Brat

* Mourning Brooch

*A Parallel Life: Lady Jane Franklin

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I knew little to nothing about my maternal or paternal ancestry until I began researching it in 1988. I am pleased to know my roots. I am European: my ancestors are English, Irish and French, and each line is validated by DNA testing. My research was collated and privately published in ‘A Still Point’ (2018).

 

My father’s ancestry is relatively straightforward: his father’s line originates from Ireland, and at some time, his ancestors migrated to Poplar in London. His grandfather, William Henry Hunt, a ship’s sawyer, emigrated to Australia with his wife, Margaret Beattie, in 1855 on the S.S. Thames. They eventually settled on a farm at Fern Bank in Gippsland, near Warragul.

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His mother’s line of Collings originated in Essex and Buckinghamshire, England and later settled in Westminster, London, close to Kensington Palace. His grandfather, Thomas George Collings, was a master tailor who migrated with his wife, Clara Elizabeth Pearce and four children to Australia in 1865 on the second voyage of the clipper ‘City of Adelaide’.

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My mother’s line is more complex and of greater interest: her mother’s line originated near Bermondsey in East London (see Section 1), and her father’s line originated from France.

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Finding My Great Grandfather - Russell Beuzeville Hewlett

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One Sunday afternoon in the mid-1970s, over a cup of tea, I asked my mother and her sister questions about their paternal ancestors. They seemed comfortable with that and were both forthcoming. Owen, also present, quickly found a pen and paper and took notes.

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Looking back now at the information they gave me, I can see that much of it was telescoped; they linked many unrelated facts like a child adds a dose of imagination to what he has heard to create a story. What I did learn was that their father's name was James Philip Hewlett, a hairdresser and surgical instrument maker, and that he married my maternal grandmother, Helen Laura Foley, in Launceston, Tasmania. That piece of information was all I needed to launch my research, which I pursued with great enthusiasm for thirty years, visiting ancestral places in England and France and meeting new cousins in person and online from around the world.

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In 1987, I was in Launceston with friends, and our car was parked outside the entrance to the Launceston City Library. While waiting, I saw a sign directing people to the local history section, and on impulse, I decided to ascertain what records were held there. It was almost closing time, and a kindly lady at the reception desk, who was packing up her belongings ready to leave, decided to stay behind and help me. I told her my story, and she found my grandparents' marriage record.

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Helen Laura Foley, the bride, was born near Walhalla in Gippsland and was 27 years old at the time of the marriage. The groom certainly was James Philip Hewlett. He was 22 years old, born in Oxford, England and was a hairdresser and surgical instrument maker. His father was listed as Russell Beuzeville Hewlett. The name ‘Beuzeville’ intrigued me; it sounded European.

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Finding My French Huguenot Ancestors

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Sometime later, I enrolled in a short family history course at the Melbourne Council of Adult Education. During a tea break, I leafed through a genealogical magazine that was scattered among others on a nearby table. While scanning a list of advertisements, I came across a man in Tasmania, Stuart Sargent, who was researching Hewlett’s of Oxford. He kindly gave me some information, which included the name of my 3rd great-grandmother, Esther Beuzeville Hewlett. He told me that she was descended from French Huguenots and was an author who had written many books.

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This information remained on hold until I searched the catalogues at the British Library during my visit to London in 1996. More than 40 of her books were held there. One, ‘Memorials of Practical Piety’ was about the lives and deaths of her two sisters, Marianne and Bridget, daughters of Peter and Marie Beuzeville of Henley-on-Thames. When staying in Oxford a few weeks later, I ventured to Henley with a photocopy of Esther’s book in my hand.

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What to look for? A church? A cemetery? I was indeed an amateur researcher. We found a non-conformist church, Christ-Church, a beautiful red brick building on Reading Road, but it was locked. We found the general cemetery. What next? After a meal at a local pub, we began our journey back to Oxford and stopped at Reading Road due to traffic congestion. Christ-Church was on my left. Out of the corner of his eye, Owen spotted gravestones next to a boundary fence. We turned the car around when we were able and walked back to them. It was apparent there were no graves, only tombstones leaning against a fence. We later found out they belonged to people buried in church vaults beneath Reading Road.

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The sun had set, and darkness was falling, but undaunted, I began reading names as I crawled on hands and knees. Eventually, I came across a large black headstone with the names ‘Peter Beuzeville’ and ‘Marie Beuzeville’ etched into the marble. I was excited; these were my 4th great-grandparents and the parents of the author of the book I was holding. We took photos, made notes, then, when darkness had fallen, went to the parsonage next door and rang the doorbell. Greeted warmly by the Rector, we were invited inside, and I told my story. He was interested and later sent me a copy of a book, ‘This Glorious Henley’, which included a history of the church. He also gave me the name and contact details of the church archivist, who, in the days that followed, gave me access to the original church minute books.

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I now had sufficient information to research my French Huguenot Heritage. Following the Beuzeville line took me back to Jehan Gobelin in Paris, a dyer of wool for weaving large tapestries.  He established the Manufacture de Gobelins on the Left Bank of the River Seine in 1450. Jehan had invented a brilliant red dye that others could not replicate. Being an astute businessman, he became wealthy.  In about 1468, his daughter, Mathurine, married Severin Canaye, a Master Tapestry weaver from Florence, Italy and a dynasty was born! The firm was sold to King Louis XIV, and the French Government still owns it. I visited the Manufactory in 2006 and saw several tapestries being woven.  I have seen Gobelin wall tapestries in the Vatican Museums, Versailles, and a room at the Louvre dedicated to them.

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Both the Canaye and Gobelin families were amongst the first Huguenots in Paris and worshipped at the Protestant Temple at Charenton. Their homes became a place of refuge for many Huguenots escaping persecution from the Catholic Church, and several members of the Canaye family were tortured. One was beheaded; others fled to Switzerland.

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My primary French surnames are Gobelin, Guillemard, Beuzeville and Roussel, all Huguenots; all are of the Nobility. All escaped from France to England after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685.

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A Huguenot Family Escape from France to England

 

The following is an account of the escape of Marguerite Roussel and three of her children to England. I cannot be verified, but it has been passed down through Roussel descendants for 300 years.

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Her husband, Laurens, remained under house arrest in Pont Audemer, near St. Germain in Normandy. He died there and was buried in his garden because Huguenots were prohibited from being buried in holy ground.

Marie, in her early twenties and disguised as a peasant girl, departed with her two brothers, Etienne and Francois, concealed in panniers on a donkey, and travelled to Calais, where they met their mother and embarked for England. 

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Marie, then in her early twenties, was disguised as a peasant girl, and her two little brothers were placed in the panniers, one on each side of the donkey. The little boys were implored, whatever happened, not to move or make a sound, or the cruel soldiers would surely kill them. Then they were covered with a thickly piled-up layer of fresh vegetables, and before dawn, Marie started off leading the donkey with its precious load.   A trustworthy serving-man followed at a distance, ready to give aid if required, but until then pretending to have no connection with the market girl and her donkey.

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The journey to Calais was safely accomplished, but there was one terrifying incident. As Marie was entering a wood, a party of soldiers who had been ‘Huguenots hunting’ rode out of it.   Probably because Marie was an attractive girl, rather than because he really suspected her, the captain drew her up and began questioning her about where she was going and what she had in her baskets.   She concealed her terror and said she was on her way to the market at the next town and had nothing in her baskets but vegetables, as he might see for himself.   ‘We’ll soon prove that,’ said the man and, unsheathing his sword, plunged it right down into the pannier where the tiny Francois was curled up, and then rode off laughing.

 

Not a sound or a movement came from the pannier, and for a sickening moment, Marie felt sure her little brother had been killed. As soon as the soldiers were out of sight, Marie hastened to the shelter of a wood. She pulled the vegetables out of the basket to find Francois bleeding profusely from a wound on his arm. “I didn’t cry,” said the brave child.

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Meanwhile, Marguerite Roussel, carrying what valuables she could secrete, had arrived in another disguise in Calais, and at the appointed place, mother and children met once more.   A boat had been hired to take them across the Channel, an open boat, for which they paid thirty guineas.   When some distance from the land, he declared that unless they doubled his fee, he would take them back again. Marguerite boldly retorted that if he did so, she would denounce him for aiding heretics to escape - an offence scarcely less dangerous than being one. The tables were thus shrewdly turned; he carried out the original contract and landed them on English soil, the whole possessions of the Roussels being one trunk containing some 500 pounds' worth of money, plate, and valuables.

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Imagine that crossing, not a few hours, but days, in an open boat, cold, wet, probably seasick, with a wounded child who would be feverish and fretful. And, in the back of their minds, would have been agonising thoughts of a husband and father left behind. They faced a future in an unknown land with strangers whose language they could not speak!  

 

My branch of the Roussel family is descended from the young boy, Francois (1680-1734), the hero of the escape. He is the great-grandfather of Esther Beuzeville, the author. Esther married James Philip Hewlett I, a Chaplain at both Magdalen and New Colleges, Oxford. His eldest son, James Philip Hewlett II, followed him into Holy Orders and was the incumbent at St. Mary’s Church, Purton, Wiltshire. James Philip Hewlett III died when he was a teenager.

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Finding my Grandfather

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James Philip Hewlett IV was my grandfather, who deserted my grandmother and her three daughters in 1902. He changed his surname to ‘Hoyle’ and travelled to the high country in Southern New South Wales, and worked delivering mail by horseback to remote cattle stations. While there, he met Lavinia Marvell at Adelong, and the couple migrated to Wagin in Western Australia. 

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Enlisting under this alias, my grandfather served in WWI and worked as a medical orderly in London Hospitals. Unfortunately, while serving, he suffered a flare-up of tuberculosis and almost died. Realising the severity of his illness, he had his War Service Record amended to his birth name to ensure that his partner in Wagin could claim a War Widows’ Pension after his death. Having the surname ‘Hewlett’ enabled her to steal my grandmother’s identity; however, she retained her original birth date, which helped me to find her family and trace her origins. I felt an eerie sense of presence when visiting her tombstone, which bears my grandmother Helen Laura Foley's name.​ The couple had two sons, Herbert Edward and James Philip Hewlett, 5th. Herbert was already deceased.

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Finding Jim Hewlett

 

I found my half-uncle James Philip Hewlett 5th by chance: I had ordered two War Service Records from the Records office in Canberra, one for Elsie’s husband and the other for my grandfather. The Records office phoned me with a query about the first, and during that conversation, I inquired whether my grandfather’s record had been found. I asked where he had been buried and was told that there was no record of a grave. I then rang the War Graves Commission, and that information was verified, but I was told that there was a record for a James Philip Hewlett currently living in Perth, born in Wagin, Western Australia.

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Realising that this James Philip Hewlett was most probably a son of my grandfather, I contacted him by phone. I shall never forget making that call, nervously dialling the number, and knowing I was about to speak with an elderly man and perhaps share some surprising news with him. I was apprehensive lest I shock him if he was, indeed, one of my Hewletts.

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The call was answered, and a strong male voice said, “Good evening, Jim Hewlett speaking.” I introduced myself and explained that I was researching my family history, and told him that we may share the same ancestors. As I told my story, he listened without interruption. I completed my explanation and, after a lengthy silence, Jim said: “I am James Philip Hewlett the 5th”.

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Three days later, Owen and I arrived in Perth for a face-to-face meeting with Uncle Jim. As Owen and I arrived in a rental car at the retirement village where Jim lived, a man sitting on a low fence rose to his feet. I knew at once that this was ‘Jim Hewlett’. Recognition was instantaneous! He looked familiar and had many characteristics of my mother’s younger sister and his half-sister, Elsie.

 

Jim welcomed us warmly and invited us inside his unit, where he had prepared lunch. During the meal, he handed me a dark green hardcover book, battered and worn, with the spine partly missing. “These are poems my father wrote. I don’t have any children, so they belong to you.” I opened the book and found his collection written in beautiful copperplate script. As I quickly scanned some of the poems, I realised that many were autobiographical: several referred to my grandmother, his wife, and their marriage woes. A number graphically revealed the emotions of a father grieving the loss of his daughters, and these touched me deeply.

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Reading the poems and knowing Uncle Jim gave me a broad perspective of my grandfather’s life and revealed something of James Philip Hewlett, the man. Through this means, I have received a measure of grandfathering, and for this I am grateful.

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Until I contacted him, Jim did not know any living relatives aside from his brother, Herbert Edward, and his son (both deceased). His wife had predeceased him, and he had no children. Jim had no prior knowledge of his father’s marriage to my grandmother, nor the existence of three half-sisters born in Melbourne ninety years earlier. He had not read the poems.

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Jim made several visits to Melbourne and attended our second son's wedding. Owen and I made several visits to Perth, and I travelled with Jim to Kellerberrin, east of Perth, to visit his deceased wife's relatives. In 2008, I honoured him with a eulogy at his funeral in Fremantle, Western Australia.

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To say that I was delighted to have found Jim would be an understatement. I was ecstatic. Not only was he living, but he also had a lively mind and the ability to assimilate information quickly. He was an active man even at the age of eighty years: running a business, having recently driven his car on a round trip from Perth to the Kimberly Ranges, a distance of several thousand kilometres, and was at the time in the process of building a long picket fence for his sister-in-law.

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It is surprises like this that keep one researching, delving deeper into details and broadening the scope of the search across more and more side branches of the main lines. I have selected a few more to share.

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A New College Brat

 

After graduating from the Choir School of New College School, Oxford, my 3rd great-grandfather, James Philip Hewlett 1st was sitting in his usual place in the Choir Stalls at a Chapel service on April 26, 1796. He was bored, so he hastily wrote a note and placed it in the crevice of the broken wing of an oak angel at the end of the choir stalls. It begins with the words ‘When this you find, recall me in your mind’. It includes the names of the New College Choristers present, the names of two College Clerks, and a Chaplain who was the Master of New College at the time.  It is believed he may have continued singing in the New College choir after matriculating at Pembroke on March 29. 1797. He later gained his BA at Magdalen College in 1800 and his MA, also at Magdalen, in 1803.

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In 1900, the Reverend William Tuckwell, a New College man, in his 'Reminiscences of Oxford', recorded his discovery of the note during Chapel renovations in 1899 and treated it as the work of one of the 'New College brats' whom he refers to as ‘naughty’.

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In 1996, Jonathan Edmunds, a headmaster of New College Choir School, published ‘New College Brats: A History of the Life and Education of the Choristers of New College, Oxford’.  The source of his title is Hewlett’s note of 1796. He says ‘we do have insight into the mind of a chorister from a delightful document, a piece of paper that was stuffed into a statue and, luckily for us, found and retained’.

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Edmunds continues, ‘There are undoubtedly interesting facets to this document. Firstly, how was it that a chorister was able to write such a long piece while, supposedly, attending to his duties at divine service? One can only suppose that attendance among those of importance in the college was such that nobody noticed. (. . .) Most striking of all is the liveliness of Hewlett’s piece. There are no suborned boys. If he is typical, then they have character and a capacity to make something good of their lot. This was affirmation indeed!"

In 1997, two hundred years after the note was written, one of my sons and I were privileged to view the original note in the archives of the Bodleian Library, Oxford. The paper is very fragile and yellowed with age, but the writing on each side is clear and distinct. ​​

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Christ Church Henley-on-Thames

 

I arranged for a memorial tablet to be placed on a wall of Christ Church, Henley-on-Thames, in 1997.  Our second son and I, along with Owen, were present for the dedication service. It reads, ‘To the memory of Peter and Mary Beuzeville, Marianne, Bridget, Esther, Samuel and Charlotte. Erected by Descendants in Australia.

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Several years later, I received a phone call from Ken Jago, the Church Archivist, to let me know that the church Council had decided to discard all headstones on the property. Via email, I contacted descendants in several countries, and a protest was mounted. The group included the current Managing Director of Allen & Unwin, a book publisher, because one of the stones belonged to an Unwin ancestor. His presence gave weight to the cause, and the headstones were saved. The outcome was the creation of a lovely memorial garden on church grounds where about 15 headstones now stand. At the same time, a brass plaque to the memory of the Unwin, Byles, Soundy and Beuzeville families was placed in the footpath over their burial vault. These families are connected through blood, marriage and business.

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Mourning Brooch

 

The names of two of the children on the plaque dedicated in Christ Church, Henley, are also engraved on a mourning brooch that had belonged to Mary Beuzeville: Charlotte, aged five, and Samuel, eight, who had died from smallpox in 1787, within a week of each other.

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An antique dealer in America contacted me in 2005, telling me it was for sale and sending high-resolution photographs. I tried to stop myself from falling in love with the idea of having it and did my best to quell my excitement. The asking price was high and not negotiable. What to do? At the time, the US dollar and Australian dollar exchange rate was almost at parity, which made the purchase possible. But how could I know that it was genuine? How could I know if the seller had integrity? I did a police check online, paying for the information, which was extensive. I decided to take a chance, as this opportunity would most likely never present itself again.

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The brooch arrived in the mail. It is a long oval shape, beautifully crafted in pink gold, with an inset of ivory etched in sepia tones depicting a kneeling woman next to a marble pillar, watching two birds flying heavenwards, holding a small box. I held it and thought of Marie and her great sorrow when she lost these two precious children; only three of her fourteen children survived, Esther, my 3rd great-grandmother and her two older sisters, Bridget and Marianne.

 

Temple de Bolbec, Normandy

 

Late one afternoon in 1997, Owen, Stuart and I arrived at Bolbec, Normandy, and I went to the tourist office to get a map of the district. A young lady there, who could not speak English, recognised some ancestral names I mentioned and escorted me, with Stuart and Owen, to the Office of the Mayor. He could not speak much English, phoned his wife, Maddy Roussel, a professor at a nearby university who did speak English, and we were invited to their home. All of a sudden, we were important and treated with deference.

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The following morning, we met Maddy Roussel again at the town hall to find that she had arranged an itinerary for our day. She took us to a nearby chateau to meet the Guillemard family, who invited us back for dinner that evening. After introducing us to various dignitaries in the town of Bolbec, she told us to be at a particular street address on the same day at 2 p.m. We arrived to find a group of people standing in the street, some with large cameras. I assumed we were joining a tour group. A door opened, and my name was called.

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We were greeted by the Pastor and two Elders of the Protestant Temple, who ushered us into the church office.  The Pastor handed me a copy of a Guillemard family tree and reproductions of original church minute books documenting bequests from my ancestors. I had no idea what was happening. No one spoke fluent English, but slowly I understood.

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We had arrived just six weeks before the bicentenary of the church's celebration. A worldwide search had failed to find descendants of my sixth great-grandfather, Jacques Guillemard, and my sixth great-uncle, Rev. Samuel Beuzeville, both of whom left money in their wills to fund the construction of the church in 1797.

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We were shown into the church, followed by the people who had been waiting outside. To our surprise, they were newspaper reporters and cameramen who were there to interview Stuart and me. That happened, and photos were taken. Headlines read, ‘Australian Tourists a Gift from God’. Some months later, after the Bi-Centenary celebrations, I received in the mail a delightful poster commemorating the occasion and newspaper accounts of the proceedings. The poster is framed and hangs in my study.

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Lady Jane Franklin

 

Owen and I were at Salamanca Place in Hobart one Sunday morning in 2006, browsing in a bookshop in which Ken McGoogan’s new book, Lady Franklin’s Revenge, was featured.

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I picked up a copy, and it fell open at Chapter 1. My eyes skimmed the double spread, and I noticed a familiar word, ‘Guillemard’. I’m descended from a Guillemard line; my interest was captured. I then began to read further, ‘Jane Griffin, born 1791 in London, could trace her family roots to the Huguenots,’ so can I. Her ancestors were of the French nobility and upper middle class, as are mine. Her father was the owner of a Manufactory in Steward Street, Spitalfields, East London, that produced silks and velvets. So was my 4th Great-Grandfather. He owned a silk Manufactory in the same street. Further research revealed that Esther Beuzeville, the author and my 3rd great-grandmother, and Jane Franklin are cousins.

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My study of Jane began in earnest; the more I read, the more significant my identification with her became. In 2013, when I received the gift of a recently published book about Jane, ‘The Ambitions of Jane Franklin’ by Alison Alexander, from a Beuzeville cousin, I ‘devoured’ it.

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Alexander describes Jane as determined, driven and self-absorbed, yet a sensitive woman who was always on the side of righteousness and truth and wanted the best for others. She was a wealthy woman in her own right, fitting in on a superficial level with the norms of the genteel society in which she lived, but fiercely pursuing her personal, sometimes idiosyncratic goals.

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When her husband, Sir John Franklin, became Governor of Van Diemen’s Land in 1837, Jane furthered his goals while attempting to remain on the sidelines in the traditional role of wife. At the same time, she devised schemes of her own to promote the well-being of the land and the people: convicts and free settlers alike. She did not discriminate.

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Encouraged by Elizabeth Fry, an English prison and social reformer, to whom she sent detailed reports on Tasmanian conditions, Lady Franklin attempted in 1841 to form a ‘Tasmanian Ladies' Society for the Reformation of Female Prisoners’, but attacks in the colonial press forced her to abandon the project. She gained popularity among the convicts with a scheme to rid the island of snakes, paying one shilling for each snake killed, costing her a total of six hundred pounds.

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Jane purchased land on the banks of the Tamar River, leasing allotments rent-free to free settlers for the first year, on condition they improve them and buy them within seven years. She purchased a farm of her own and employed workers to run it, keeping oversight in her own hands.

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She purchased 150 acres of land near Hobart Town for a botanical garden, which she named Ancanthe. There she built a natural history museum modelled on a Greek Temple, which is now the home of the Art Society of Tasmania. She also established a scientific society, a scientific journal, a boys’ college, a museum and an art gallery.

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Jane was the first woman to travel overland from Melbourne to Sydney, a journey undertaken in 1839 with an entourage that included two wagons, one of which contained Jane’s wardrobe and sleeping quarters, a maid, a servant, a doctor and a personal military escort. She was also a seasoned world traveller and explorer in her own right.

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In her final years, Jane initiated search parties to look for her husband, who had been lost in 1848 while trying to discover the North-West Passage. She mobilised the British Admiralty into sending its ships to search for him, and, between 1850 and 1853, sent four of her own expeditions, in some instances purchasing ships herself. They all failed.

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Jane arranged for a monument to be placed in Westminster Abbey in memory of Sir John Franklin, which was dedicated on July 31, 1875, just two weeks after her death. Alfred Lord Tennyson specially wrote one of the inscriptions: ‘Not here: the white north has thy bones; and thou, heroic sailor-soul, art passing on thine happier voyage now Toward no earthly pole’.

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It wasn’t until 2014 that a research team from the Canadian government finally found, due to the melting of Arctic ice, the two ships of the Franklin expedition.  The wreck of the HMS Erebus was discovered in the Victoria Strait near King William Island, and two years later, the Terror was found in a bay about 45 miles away.

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When I heard this news, I thought of my doppelganger, Jane Franklin.

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