In a certain part of Ontario (my stories being true, I
must be reticent as to localities and persons) the country is peopled
with Scotch Highlanders from Glenelg. If, as is often said, Scotch
people are superstitious, the Glenelg men are superlatively so. Every
nook and every grassy plot in that famous glen is haunted, and weird
tales belong to every family, high and low, handed down from father to
son. The Glenelg men in Canada whom I knew still have the traditional
tales, — the ancestral ones, I mean, — and are very willing to tell them
: but I greatly preferred to hear them recount the uncanny doings of
their own Canadian township. They are the third generation in this
country. It is an old part of Ontario,—one of the oldest, I think, for
in a long-discarded burying-ground I found inscriptions bearing date of
the last century. Although so long here, and tolerably fair farmers,
they are curiously backward, preferring in their daily life to talk
Gaelic; and it is even now very common to find children of eight without
a word of English. Most of the very old people have only their native
tongue. Their schools are so poor that it is difficult to believe one’s
self in Ontario, where the standard of education is so high. They are
handsome people, — nearly all very tall and well-built, bearing a family
likeness. The men have none of the farmer slouch so usual in most
country places; they are thorough Highlanders of the best type, and have
the traditional grace and condescension of manner, even when speaking to
an acknowledged superior. The impression of refinement is intensified by
their speech. They came to this country understanding only Gaelic, had
no schools until the present generation, and therefore received the
whole of their education in church. Their speech is Scripture English,
quaint, careful, and accurate. It was at first an astonishment to me, as
my knowledge of rural life in western Ontario had prepared me to expect
from farmers everywhere the horrible colloquialisms, nasal twang, and
most wonderful idioms which perhaps some Montrealers have noticed in the
townships, for it is the same there, I believe. It was a great pleasure
to me to listen to the polished old English, and I soon recognized the
cause, and was interested, and perhaps startled, to discover that the
beautiful speech of one of the least progressive counties of Ontario is
directly owing to the neglect of the government — in short, to their
want of education.
It was not long before I discovered with deep, silent
delight that the country-side was peopled with ghosts. It was never hard
to give a turn to the conversation that would result in the recital of
something weird or horrible, told with the bare simplicity of the doings
of the Witch of Endor, and not doubted in any particular by another than
myself. I remember that this difference between them and me threatened
to disturb my enjoyment. I am always uncomfortable if “in my company but
not of it,” and therefore always agree with every one unless positively
forbidden to do so by a company too intense for a happy existence. In
the present instance, as my infidelity was unsuspected, I was not
hindered from assuming the sentiment of the hour as a garment which I
heartily enjoyed wearing, and which soon belonged of right to me, — so
much so, in fact, that when the first of the following stories was
related in the deepening dusk in a most ghostly hollow behind a
graveyard, it was I who, when deep-drawn breaths announced the finale,
suggested that we arm ourselves with cudgels and hasten home across the
fields. And we did it, too, no one laughing ; it was not an hour for
laughter. We walked in Indian file, following the cow-path, and I think
that I surreptitiously held the coat-tail of the one who strode before
me. And as we walked, we thought that we heard the malevolent and fatal
tap, tap, tapping in the wood across the hollow. But this is
anticipating the denouement of my tale. Here is the story of —
THE HAUNTED GROVE
A certain man whom it is safe to call Angus, as there was
at least one Angus in every household, lived near the stage road that
connected two large villages, which were, if I remember aright, about
fourteen miles apart. His home was situated nearly midway between them,
and about a mile from the aforementioned hollow. He seems to have taken
more interest in the post-office than his friends whom I knew, and
subscribed for and studied certain Montreal newspapers. For this he was
pitied in the parish, and called “Poor Angus,” for the general sentiment
of the place was opposed to literature, and reading was considered a
sign of mental weakness. He appears to have adhered, however, to the
habit, whether from native independence or native imbecility, I cannot
say. I have noticed that as a means of separating a man from his
fellows, either strength or weakness, if sufficiently pronounced, is
equally potent. So this man, following the bent of his nature, went
twice or thrice a week to the post-office late in the afternoon, when
the passing stage threw in a big leather mail-bag. The post-office was
in a farmhouse, and to reach it he walked through the hollow with the
unwholesome reputation. On the slope of the hill farthest from the
post-office was a grove, not a dense wood, — just about half an acre of
thinly wooded land, the trees being so far apart that you could easily
get glimpses and peeps of the country beyond. I remember once admiring a
pink sunset scantily visible among the dark trunks of those trees.
Well, one autumn afternoon Angus was ascending this hill
on his way home with his newspapers, when in the grove on his right
suddenly sounded the chopping of a tree. He stopped, interested at once.
The grove belonged to a neighbor and cousin of his own, and it had been
for very many years left undisturbed. I think it very possible that it
was a “ sugar bush,” that is, a wood reserved for sugar-making, but of
this I cannot be sure. But if my guess is right it would account for the
surprise he felt at the cutting down of a tree there. He went to the
fence, or rather stone dike, for that is one of the very few parts in
which you find fields inclosed by stone dikes in lieu of fences, as in
Scotland. The chopping continued, though he saw no one, and he moved
along, expecting every moment to see man and axe. Finally he shouted. To
his intense astonishment there was no reply, although it was incredible
that he was unheard by a person in so near vicinity. As the echo of his
shout died away, the chopping, which for a moment or two had been
suspended, began again. A curious horror crept over the listener, and he
looked no more, but made haste up the hill, and turning the corner was
soon at home. He said nothing about the matter on this first occasion,
and a few days later was again on the road returning from the same
errand, when, lo ! on the quiet air came again the same chop, chop,
chopping. In telling it afterwards, he said that in his heart he made no
fight against fate, but he just thought sadly of his worldly affairs,
and wondered if things were in good shape for him to leave wife and
little ones, for from that hour he confidently looked for death before
another spring. He stood long listening, and when at last he went home
he related the whole circumstance to his wife. Together they recounted
it to friends, who went in parties and singly to the place, but heard
nothing. They also thoroughly searched the little wood, arguing that
chopping must leave signs behind in the shape of chips and disfigured
trunks. But no, there was no mark of any kind in any part of the grove.
Angus was now earnestly counselled to abandon his literary pursuits. He
could not but own that he had received a warning, and he did own it, but
contended that it was undeserved, and refused to be guided, as one might
say, by a light that, as all admitted, shone with a lurid glare. He was
exhorted to forswear the reading of vain and foolish lies; for with the
acumen which surprised and gratified me so much, they even refused to
regard our newspapers as mediums of information, recognizing
instinctively their right to stand in the ranks of fiction. Their advice
was in all points save one unheeded. With one voice they bade him, if he
heard the warning again, to pursue his way as if he heard it not,
looking neither to the right nor left. This counsel he followed, and the
end shows the folly and uselessness of attempting to elude a menace
which is — well, which is of this kind.
Angus continued to walk to and from the post-office, and
when alone never failed to hear the mysterious axe at work in the wood.
He never heard it unless alone, and it was never heard by any one else.
Although the conviction that his death would happen before many months
took firm hold of his mind, yet in time he became so accustomed to the
thought and its cause as to go about his usual occupations with much of
the wonted interest, and even to hear the sound of an axe, wielded by
invisible hands, without experiencing agitation.
Weeks sped on and brought winter, and an unusual fall of
snow. The stage-road became blocked, and vehicles left the highway to
make a new track through the fields. For several months that winter the
real road through the hollow was not used, and the snow, which drifted
high in it/covered the dikes on each side. Temporary roads and footpaths
made winding lines over the white plains on every hand. Angus now
followed one of these roads, which ran parallel to the real highway,
just the dike being between them, until he reached the grove, when he,
with extraordinary and fatal hardihood, instead of remaining in it, used
to leave it, and striking out at right angles to it, would walk through
the grove, aiming directly for his own house, and greatly shortening his
walk thereby. The trees had of course protected the place from wind;
there had been no drifting, and walking was easy. He told it at home,
and said with grim humor that the Man in the Bush seemed pleased that he
would come that way, for his chopping was louder and gladder than ever
before; and his wife repeated her counsel earnestly that he look only
straight before him, and never stop, nor answer any sound, nor take heed
in any way of that unholy work. “And,” said the Angus who years after
related it to me, “the Axe might well be merry when she bade him that
way ! ” But Angus laid the advice to heart, and strode steadily through
the grove, looking straight before him, and every day the Axe grew gayer
and louder. He did not speak of it now. He was getting used to it, and
the neighbors had ceased to think of it, the more easily because, as I
have told, his literary tastes had separated this Angus from among them.
So one day the owner of the grove and his sons went over to chop down
one particular tree that, on the day when they had searched the grove in
the autumn, had appeared to them to merit destruction. Perhaps it was a
beech growing among maples, where it was not wanted, or perhaps it was a
dead maple cumbering the ground. They began to chop. It was late in the
afternoon. One said with a laugh, “ It may be we are taking the tree
that poor Angus’ ghost has been working at so long.” Perhaps the
invisible man heard them. At any rate he did not chop that evening. It
was only his cousin’s axe that gave the good strokes that poor Angus
heard as he turned from the track to cross the grove as usual. The tree
was swaying and shivering, and all but ready to fall. He had cut trees
all his life, and he knew the sound of the stroke when the task was
almost done ; but no goblin's trick would beguile him into turning his
head. He looked neither to right nor left. Then the chopping ceased, and
his blood nearly froze as he heard his own name shouted in tones of such
horror that a familiar voice was unrecognized. Others caught up the cry.
There was a din, the crashing of branches and sound of rushing feet,
mingled with shouts of warning, and poor Angus fell, with the enormous
tree upon him. When at last the burden was removed, and the crushed body
borne home, there were men there who heard among the trees inhuman
laughter, and knew that Something had lured poor Angus to his doom.
Another weird tale, that made a strong impression on me,
I wrote down at the time, and called —
THE FATED FAGOT
The title seemed very effective then, though now it
strikes me as more alliterative than true, as it concerns a single stick
and not a fagot at all. It was a round stick about five feet long,
probably the trunk of a young ash tree brought home from the woods to
serve some purpose as a pole. It lay forgotten in the back yard of a
farmhouse close to a little village called L . It was a fine strong pole
about twice as thick as a man’s wrist. The sun seasoned
it day by day, so that it soon was no longer “green” wood, but wood that
would have crackled well in the fire. But for whatever purpose it had
been brought home, it seemed oddly forgotten. No use was made of it.
One day one of the young men of the family went to the
“bush,” spent an hour there, and returned with just such another long,
straight sapling. He dragged it into the yard, and his eye fell on the
first one. “ There,” said he, “ I’ve had little to do spending my time
seeking a pole, and this one ready to my hand all the while.”
“Aye,” said Mary his sister, standing in the doorway,
“that is what I’m telling them. Since that pole was brought, father has
taken a bar from the gateway, and Neil has cut down a young tree in the
pasture, and you’ve been seeking in the bush, all of you wanting this
same pole that’s only lying in the way.”
“Perhaps there’ll be something the matter with it, Mary,”
her brother answered, ever ready to suspect black art; “any way, it is
dry now, and I ’11 chop it for you, and it will soon be out of harm’s
way.”
And Mary, bidding him do it at once, — for she was then
wanting some firewood, — turned into the house.
The young man went, whistling, for his axe, and the pole
would have been in half a dozen pieces in a few moments had not a
neighbor hailed him from the road. Throwing down the axe, he went to the
fence to speak with him, calling meantime to a little brother to gather
sticks and chips for Mary. So Mary, or rather Maari> for they always
pronounced the familiar name just as it is spelled in some of William
Black’s Scotch novels, cooked the midday meal, but not with the elusive
pole of which she had intended to make a speedy end. But she did not
forget it; on the contrary, it seemed to prey on her mind. As if
fascinated, she would go out and look at it. She dragged it into the
woodshed, that its destiny might seem more sure. She recommended it to
the men of the family as being small and suited to the stove, but still
it remained uncut. Sometimes they said that they could not find it, at
other times it was forgotten. If just about to cut it, they were sure to
be interrupted. Mary took the axe herself to chop it, one day, but a
brother laughingly took it from her and sent her back to the house,
promising to follow with an armful of sticks in a few minutes ; but he
failed to keep his word, for a young colt broke loose and needed his
immediate attention to prevent its reaching the highway !
One morning a wagon drove up with a family party from a
distance, come to spend the day. Mary welcomed them, and the little
house was all bustle and noise while the visitors were being made
comfortable. A dinner fit .for the occasion must be prepared, and Mary
sent her brother in haste to the woodshed that the oven might be heated
at once. He came back with an armful.
“I would have cut the stick that vexes you so much, Maari,”
he said, “but it seems gone at last out of our way. Some one has cut it
before me.”
“No,” replied the girl, “here it is.” And as she spoke a
weight seemed to fall on her spirits, for she did not smile again, but
moved amongst her guests preoccupied and still. The pole was lying close
to the kitchen door, along the path leading from the woodshed. The young
man thinking it in the way and apt to make people stumble, took it to
the shed and threw it in.
Dinner was over, and all the news discussed, and it was
the middle of the afternoon when Mary was observed by some one of the
family to be standing in the kitchen doorway alone. I think it was her
mother who, wondering at her staying there so long, went to her. She was
shivering violently, although it was pleasant weather, and she pointed
her finger, without speaking, to the pole, which lay at her feet in the
pathway again. One of the boys was told to go at once and chop it in
pieces, and Mary was kindly chided for her foolish terror. The visitors
began to bestir themselves, for they had a lonely drive before them.
“I will leave the cutting of the stick until they are on
the road,” said Mary’s brother; and he went to get out their horses and
“speed the parting guests.” Farewells were said in hearty fashion at the
gate, and then the family hastened to take up their interrupted tasks,
separating, some to one thing and some to another; and yet again the
stick was forgotten.
The evening meal was late, and Mary was hurried. A little
daughter of one of the neighbors, who was in, bustled about, helping.
She flew in and out with chips.
“Shall I drag this pole out of the way, Maari?” asked the
child.
“No,” said Mary; “it is too late.”
And there at the kitchen door it remained, and Mary was
pale and silent, her thoughts being otherwhere. That night they were
roused from sleep by her cry for help, and when they went to her they
found her sick unto death. A doctor was fetched in haste ; it was
cholera morbus, and hopeless, as he knew at once, and before the sun
rose Mary was dead. The stick lay at the door, and one of the kindly
neighbors, who were doing what was needful during the following days,
lifted it and sawed it carefully in two to serve as rests for the
coffin, by means of which the bearers could convey it to the grave; and
thus the fated stick fulfilled its mission.
Another tale floats in my memory, enfolding the unwonted
image of a —
BLUE BUTTERFLY
which measured nearly four inches across the extended
wings. The color and size suggest a moth rather than a butterfly, do
they not? Whatever it was, it was sufficiently rare to attract a great
deal of notice, but not of the scientific sort. An unknown object was
sure to be regarded with suspicion ; and this butterfly fluttered one
July over a certain farm, secure from ill because of the awe with which
it was regarded. It was constantly watched, and cautiously pursued. Its
most innocent actions became weighty, and were subject to much
misconstruction. Some one discovered by gruesome experience that the
glance of its minute eye could convey a shudder. Its friendliness was
suspected. Well, by an unfortunate coincidence, at this very time the
churning of butter on this farm was not attended with success. This fact
impressed my friends more than it did me, for I reflected grimly that
their butter very generally was not a brilliant issue. This had resulted
in my eating honey very extensively during my visits to them. However, I
repressed any unkind thoughts on the subject, and assisted with much
pleasure in the discussion regarding the doings of the butterfly. It is,
moreover, probable that what they complained of was not bad butter, but
cream that would not be butter at all. This state of things had begun
with the advent of the butterfly and continued in spite of everything
done to counteract the evil influence too evidently at work. The
community was aroused — all but one person. A certain woman who lived
alone and refused to know her neighbors evinced no interest in our
investigations. She knew of them, and sneered weird Gaelic sneers, which
were translated to me, and at which I shook my head according to custom.
This woman did not go to church, which was an extreme of wickedness all
but unknown there. I do not know if she were insane or only original,
but she was certainly at war with the sentiments of the community.
Well, for three weeks she scoffed, the butterfly
fluttered, the butter “did not come,n and we ventilated the subject,
which naturally increased in interest and bulk. At the end of those
three weeks one man set his teeth firmly, armed himself with a wet
towel, and sallied out to meet the mysterious insect single-handed. This
man was directly interested in the sale of the butter. He met the foe
only a few yards from the house, and got the better of it at once by one
fell blow. All gathered round to see it. I did not see it, and I never
saw it living either. From description it was a beautiful specimen. When
I heard of its death I was angry. I had not intended serious
consequences to any of the actors in this idyl, and was indignant for an
hour. At the end of that time I was startled to hear that the poor
lonely woman had been found dead. Her body was discovered on the ground
near her own door. It was seen by passers-by not twenty minutes after
the butterfly’s destruction, and her life had not been extinct much more
than a quarter of an hour. Comment is needless, as was felt at the time,
little being said, but much conveyed by nods and shaking of heads. As if
to complete the chain of evidence, next day the butter came!
The particular characteristic of these tales appears to
me to be their picturesqueness. They are more dramatic than “ shop ”
ghost stories usually are, and the situations and accessories are
romantic. I have some other stories of the superstitious kind gathered
among a totally different “folk,” and with two exceptions they have not
seemed to me worth remembering. The two I except are interesting only by
reason of the difficulty of arriving at any rational theory in
explanation of them. They have no prettiness nor romance about them ;
they are simply creepy. But this is a digression, as I am not going to
tell them now. I will just remark before returning to my
Glenelg friends, that in one of these two difficult tales
of mine I was myself an active participator in the plot, and conversed
at length with the ghost, — quite calmly, too, for I thought all the
time that he was in the flesh. It is something to mourn over, that such
an opportunity should present itself and be neglected, — an opportunity
to “catch a ghost, and tame it, and teach it to do tricks,” and realize
fabulous proceeds!
Well, to return. The lore of my Scotch friends was like
themselves. I admired them very much. Sometimes certain persons and
circumstances surround us when we are uplifted in soul, and we see them
bathed in light, glorified, as it were, by roseate hues of our own
conjuring. Knowing this, I was often afraid that I created the
transforming light in which they appeared to me to move. It used,
therefore, to give me great happiness when something would happen that
proved the charm to be objective; as, for instance, when one of these
unlettered men unconsciously reechoed a sentiment from the mysterious
thinker whom we call Thomas k Kempis, and almost in the same words
enunciated the truth that of the mysteries of the supernatural “no one
can with safety speak who would not rather be silent.” And they were
silent, and profoundly reverent. These pretty goblin tales lack the
element of “research!’ and are not profane; they are only fantasies.
I have yet another to tell, and the telling of it gives
me a sense of guilt, for it was given to me by stealth, having assumed
such proportions that the recounting it was denounced publicly in
church, the denunciation being accompanied by threat of excommunication.
It is much the same as the Butterfly tale, and bears a striking
resemblance to certain German wehr-wolf legends. It is not about a wolf,
however, the chief actor being —
A BLACK DOG
One harvest time, forty or fifty years ago (or perhaps
more), in a certain farmhouse not a mile from the grove where poor Angus
met with sudden death, very strange things were observed. Pails left at
night in trim rows on benches ready for the morning milking would be
found, when required, on the barn floor, or on top of a hay-rick, or in
some other equally unsuitable situation. A spade might be searched for
in vain until some member of the family, climbing into bed at night,
would find it snugly reposing there before him. Pillows were
mysteriously removed, and found sometimes outdoors at a distance from
the house. Screws were removed from their places, and harness hung up in
the stable was taken apart. The family were rendered materially
uncomfortable, and did their best to become also immaterially miserable
by searching for proofs of supernatural agency.
A great deal of proof was forthcoming; the matter was
soon beyond doubt, and nothing else was talked about than the condition
of things on this farm. Many speculations were afloat; every tiny
occurrence was examined as possibly affording evidence in the matter.
When a large black dog, evidently without owners, was observed to
frequent the vicinity, the eye of the populace was at once upon it. It
was shy, hiding and skulking about a good deal, and it was always hard
to discover when sought. The owner of the land was strongly advised to
shoot it, and the popular distrust was increased when he did one day
fire at it without producing any visible results, the dog being seen a
few hours later in excellent health. The interest excited was so great
that when a “ bee ” was held on this farm for something connected with
the harvest the attendance was immense, quite unusually so, and the
neighbor women came in to help in the preparation of supper on an
extensive scale. Some of the men made a long table of boards to
accommodate the company. The women spread cloths and arranged dishes and
viands. When all was ready, they regarded it with approval, pleased
especially with the shining of the long rows of plates and the whiteness
of the linen : then some of them took the dinner-horn and went out to
give the signal to the men, who were at some distance away. The other
women went to the cook-house, where in summer the kitchen stove stood,
and the supper table was left alone. A few minutes later, when all
gathered around it again, chaos reigned where order had been. The cloth
was spotted with symmetrical shapes, a tiny heap of dust and sand was on
every plate, and the knives were on the floor. The disorder was of a
strangely methodical kind, the same quantity of dust being on every
plate, while each knife was placed in the same position as his fellows.
The men trooped in whilst the women were staring aghast, and great was
their indignation.
‘‘Give me your gun,” cried one, “and I’ll put in this
silver bit with the charge, and see if it will not make an end of such
work.”
And just then the dog was seen prowling about at the foot
of the yard near a thicket of bushes where he probably was often
concealed. The gun was fired; it carried a silver bullet, and this time
the aim was true, for all saw that the animal was shot. The day had been
warm, and they were tired out, and did not go to make sure of results at
once. They sat around the rearranged board for an hour or more before
some of them sauntered down to see the vanquished enemy. They did not
wonder at first to find no trace of a dog, as, like any other wounded
animal, it was likely to creep into the thicket to die. But the thicket
was small, and was soon explored on hands and knees. Nothing was there ;
and the body of that dog was never seen by mortal, although the search
grew hourly more diligent and thorough. And whilst they searched, there
came a boy running from a stone house not far distant, bidding them to
come over with him quickly, for grandfather was dead. “He dragged
himself into the house,” said the child, “as though he were hurt, an
hour ago, and lay down on his bed, and now he is dead.”
Friends hastened over, but were met at the door by the
dead man's wife, terrified and weeping, but almost forbidding them to
enter. For some unfortunate reason, the poor woman would not let them
near the body, little knowing, I suppose, the suspicion in their minds
and the construction which must inevitably be put on her demeanor.
This story concerns a man who is, I should think,
grandfather and great-grandfather to a fifth of the population of that
township, and it assumed such proportions that, as I have stated,
mention of it was prohibited, long years afterwards, by a clergyman now
living in the county of Bruce. It is to this day a little difficult for
the descendants of the man who died that long-ago harvest-time to marry
out of their own connection. If one of them should ever aspire to
represent his county in parliament, the enemy will assuredly come to the
front with the Black Dog.
Now, I have told such of the weird stories of that county
as I best remember. I heard many more, but they are wholly or partially
forgotten; fragments of them I retain. One is especially to be regretted
because it was what is called well authenticated, having been noised
abroad sufficiently to be noticed by some newspaper, which naturally
produced an inquiry. It was considered in that region to be the ghost
story par excellence. I was tempted to try and relate it at length in
this paper, but found that I could not do so without supplying from
fancy what would take the place of forgotten details. It is a story of a
desecrated grave. I was shown the grave. The body of a young girl was
stolen from it the night after burial, taken to a neighboring village
and concealed in a tavern stable, the intention being to convey it next
day to Montreal ; but that very night the girl herself appeared in a
dream to her father, telling him where her body then lay, naming the
guilty parties, and giving a perfectly accurate account of the robbery,
describing the road taken through fields, and a discussion that actually
had taken place regarding the advisability of taking the coffin, that
is, the possibility of such theft making prosecution easier in the event
of discovery. The father roused friends, who accompanied him to the
village, and the body was discovered in exactly the position described
in his dream and recounted by him on their way thither.
Although I do not, in this or any such story, accept the
supernatural theory, I cannot explain it. It has never been explained.
It belongs to a country peopled with unearthly shapes,
the offspring of poetic natures, wholly uninformed, and possibly the
conditions are favorable to “manifestations/' “He who desires
illusions/' you know, “shall have them beyond his desire."
I am reluctant to leave the subject, there is so much to
tell, for the writing of this paper has revived incidents that seemed
quite forgotten. I would like to talk about a certain lonely carpenter
shop, in which, before a death, the sound of plane and hammer used to be
heard at night, and we were compelled to believe that the ghost of the
sick one was, with officious if not indecent haste, making his coffin.
As he was not yet a ghost, that is, not yet disembodied, there was a
confusion of thought here. On some occasions he added to the nuisance by
burning a candle which extinguished of its own accord if approached.
A personage whom they called the Evil One was not
infrequently encountered by individuals in lonely places. I was
accustomed to hearing of these meetings, and therefore was much
surprised at the indignation shown against a certain young fellow of a
frivolous disposition, who claimed to have had such an experience. I
inquired of a clergyman, who knew the locality well, the reason of the
young man's narrative being received with disfavor. He laughed very
heartily while he explained that a visit from the Prince of Darkness was
regarded as proof of the highest sanctity, and was therefore the
privilege only of persons aged and of long-established preeminence in
the church. The young man was disturbing the traditions.
I was a little shocked to hear of a repulsive
superstition which I have read of as being peculiar to certain parts of
England, — I mean a horrible vampire story given in explanation of the
ravages often made in a family by consumption. I did not meet this
superstition myself, but was told that it was among them. Consumption
was rife among them ; it seemed to be hereditary. They looked so
remarkably robust, and yet fell so easily a prey to this disease, and it
seldom lingered ! It was nearly always a very rapid illness. These are
sad memories. The matter always seemed so hopeless ! In a sickroom
superstition ceases to be either funny or graceful. I stood by sick-beds
with a sore heart, knowing too well that the haste with which a doctor
was procured would be fully equalled by the zeal with which his orders
would be disregarded. They had faith in the physician, the man, but none
whatever in his prescriptions. There were two doctors, whom I may call
Dr. X. and Dr. Z. Each had his admirers, who vaunted his superiority.
I stopped one day on the road to inquire, of a man whom I
met, after the health of some of his neighbors.
“Oh,” said he, “they would soon be well if they would see
Dr. Z. They’ll be having Dr. X. all the time, and I do not see that they
’re gaining at all.”
I said something in defence of Dr. X.
“Well, Miss F., I’ll just tell a story that will let you
know the difference between these two doctors,” said my friend. “My
father was once laid up very bad with a cold that he could not get rid
of, and we sent for Dr. X., who gave him a phial of medicine. Well, next
day our neighbor, John McM., came in, and seeing my father no better, he
said, ‘ Oh, you should have had Dr. Z.; but I’ll soon put that right for
you.’ Straightway he went back to his own house for a bottle that had
been a year or two there, of Dr. Z.’s mixing. It had been in the house
since his father died, but they were not sure that it had been some of
his medicines. They had forgotten all about it, and the paper of writing
had come off; so they did not know how much to take, but they just took
the writing on Dr. X.’s bottle for a guide, and poured out a spoonful
for my father, who began to mend at once, and was out at work in three
or four days after.”
This tale moved me so much that I went to the side of the
road and sat down on a log to thoroughly take it in and fix it in my
memory. When I believed that I had it safely, I asked gently, “ Murdoch,
what if it had been a liniment and poisonous ? ”
My friend drew himself up, his face aglow with faith in
Dr. Z., and replied proudly, “Dr. Z. never gives poisons; he always
gives healthy medicines.”
But I am going from one story to another, and lengthening
my “uncanny folk-lore” unwarrantably. To repeat myself, it is hard to
leave these reminiscences.
Like the ghost of a dear friend dead Is time long past.
But before closing I would like to say to those who speak
of authentic ghost stories, that nothing will make one so thoroughly
sceptical regarding them as entering into them heartily, and, so to say,
assisting in their composition. I used to wish them true with all my
heart. I earnestly desired to believe them, for I was lonely, and this
supplied excitement; but being behind the scenes, I was unable to shut
my eyes to their origin. On one occasion, when a man was relating to me
a peculiarly attractive narrative, I perceived in it a flaw, or a lack
of sequence which would be a weak place in his chain of evidence. I made
a remark, a sideways remark, which I meant to serve as suggestion
without showing that I saw the fault. I saw the idea take. He was
excited, and did not realize that I had drawn his attention to the weak
place, which he immediately bridged over, materially changing the story
in doing so. He was an honorable man, who would have scorned a
deliberate falsehood; but scarcely an hour later I heard him retail the
altered narrative and offer to give every detail on oath as perfectly
accurate. He knew that I heard him, and in fact he appealed to me as
having been the first hearer. He was entirely unconscious that I had
assisted him to manufacture the most valuable part of the evidence. I
did not confess. I think it wrong to spoil a good story. But I am quite
certain that ghost-seers, even if they are mighty men who edit reviews,
are not, and cannot be, reliable witnesses.
C. A. Fraser. |