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 preëminence 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.”