“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._