Wind-blown trees--Marshlands--September weather--Wainfleet--An
ancient school--The scent of the sea--The rehabilitation of the
old-fashioned ghost--A Lincolnshire mystery--A vain search--Too
much alike--Delightfully indefinite--Halton Holgate--In quest of a
haunted house.
Leaving Wrangle, the country to our right became still more open; for
the rest of our way we followed the changeful line of the sea-coast at a
distance of about a mile or more inland. The wind, coming unrestrained
from the seaward over the flat marsh-like meadow lands, bore to us the
unmistakable flavour of the “briny,” its bracing and refreshing salt
breath, cool and tonic-laden, was very grateful to our lungs after the
soft, soothing country airs that we had been so long accustomed to. The
trees here, what few trees there existed that is, were stunted,
tortured, and wind-blown to one side; but strangely enough, not as is
usually the case, bent inward from the sea but towards it, plainly
proving that the strong gales and prevailing winds in this quarter are
from the land side, thus reversing the general order of things on our
coasts.
Another notable feature of our road--in marked contrast with the early
portion of our stage out from Boston--was the fact that for the next
nine miles or
[Sidenote: _A LONELY COUNTRY_]
so on to our night’s destination at Wainfleet we passed no villages and
saw no churches. It was a lonely stretch of road; for company we had,
besides the stunted trees, only the wide earth and open sky; but such
loneliness has its charms to the vigorous mind, it was all so suggestive
of space and freedom, begetful of broad thinking and expanded views. To
look upon Nature thus is to make one realise the littleness of the minor
worries of life. The mind is too apt to get cramped at times by cramped
surroundings, the vision impresses the brain more than most people are
aware. The wild, far-reaching marshlands to our right had a peculiarly
plaintive look. Across them the mighty gleams of golden sunlight swept
in utter silence, succeeded by vast purple-gray shadows blown out into
the eternity of blue beyond: movement of mighty masses but no sound, yet
one is so accustomed in this world to associate movement with sound that
the ear waits for the latter as something that should follow though it
comes not. The prospect was to a certain extent desolate, yet not
dreary; the golden green of the long autumn grasses tossing in the wind,
the many bright-hued marsh-flowers made the wild waste look almost gay,
so splashed with colour was it over all! The vast level landscape
stretching away and away to the vague far-off horizon that seemed to
fade there into a mystic nothingness--neither earth, nor sea, nor
sky--excited within us a sentiment of vastness that words are inadequate
to convey, a sentiment very real yet impossible wholly to analyse. One
cannot describe the indescribable, and of such moods of the mind one
feels the truth of the poet’s dictum that “What’s worth the saying can’t
be said.”
Nature here wore an unfamiliar aspect to us; the wide marshland was
beautiful, but beautiful with a strange and novel beauty. Now and then
were infrequent sign-posts, old and leaning, each with one solitary arm
pointing eastward, laconically inscribed “To the Sea,” not to any house
or hamlet be it noticed. They might as well have been inscribed, it
seemed to us in our philosophy, “To the World’s end!” Here the black
sleek rooks and restless white-winged gulls appeared to possess a common
meeting ground; the rooks for a wonder were quiet, being silently busy,
presumably intent after worms; not so the gulls, for ever and again some
of them would rise and whirl round and round, restlessly uttering
peevish cries the while. Neither the cry of gull nor caw of rook are
musical; in truth, they are grating and harsh, yet they are suggestive
of the open air, and are, therefore, pleasing to the ear of the
town-dweller, and lull him to rest in spite of their discordance with a
sense of deep refreshment.
Shakespeare sings of “the uncertain glory of an April day.” He might,
even with greater truth, have written September in place of April; for
in the former month the weather is just as changeful, and the skies are
finer with more vigorous cloud-scapes; then, too, the fields and foliage
“have put their glory on,” and at times under a sudden sun-burst,
especially in the clear air that comes after rain, the many-tinted woods
become a miracle of colour such that the painter with the richest
palette cannot realise. We were reminded of “the uncertain glory of a
_September_ day” by a sudden, wholly unexpected, and unwelcome change
that had taken place in the weather. In front of us were gradually
gathering great banks of sombre clouds that might mean rain; the wind as
suddenly had lost its gentleness and blew wild and fitfully, but still
the sun was shining brightly all around, converting the winding
water-ways and reed-encircled pools of the marshlands into glowing gold.
The strong effect of the sunlight on the landscape contrasting with the
low-toned gray sky ahead was most striking. But the outlook suggested to
us that it would be wiser to hasten on than to loiter about admiring the
prospect, for it was a shelterless region. So we sped along to the merry
music of the jingling harness, and the measured clatter of our horses’
hoofs on the hard roadway, rounding the many corners with a warning note
from the horn, and a pleasant swing of the dog-cart that showed the pace
we were going.
[Sidenote: _WILD WEATHER_]
A low, gray sky, a freshing wind,
A cold scent of the misty sea
Before, the barren dunes; behind,
The level meadows far and free.
The approach to Wainfleet was very pretty; just before the town a
welcome wood came into sight, then a stream of clear running water
crossed by a foot-bridge, next a tall windmill which we passed close by,
so close that we could hear the swish, swish, swish of its great sails
as they went hurtling round and round in mighty sweeps; at that moment
the rain came down, and, though we reached our inn directly afterwards
we managed to get pretty wet outwardly during the few minutes’ interval.
However, the good-hearted landlady greeted her dripping guests with a
ready smile, and ushered us into a tiny, cosy sitting-room, wherein she
soon had a wood fire blazing a cheery and ruddy welcome, “just to warm
us up a bit.” Thoughtful and kindly landlady, may you prosper and live
long to welcome hosts of other travellers! Then “to keep out the cold”
(we had no fear of cold, but no matter), a hot cup of tea with _cream_,
rich country cream and buttered toast, made its unexpected but not
unwelcome appearance, so though our hostel was small and primitive in
keeping with the town, we felt that we might have fared much worse in
far more pretentious quarters. Looking round our chamber we observed
that the door opened with a latch instead of a handle, a trifle that
somehow pleased us, one so seldom comes upon that kind of fastening
nowadays, even in remote country places.
Soon the storm cleared away, and the sun shone forth quite cheerily
again, and though now low in the yellowing western sky, still it shone
brilliantly enough to entice us out of doors. We discovered Wainfleet to
be a sleepy little market-town, and a decayed seaport--a town with some
quaint buildings of past days, not exactly a picturesque place but
certainly an interesting one. Wainfleet is a spot where the hand of Time
seems not only to be stayed but put back long years; it should be dear
to the heart of an antiquary, for it looks so genuinely ancient, so far
removed from the modern world and all its rush, bustle, and advantages!
It is a spot that might be called intolerably dull, or intensely
restful, according to the mind and mood of man. We deemed it the latter,
but then we only stopped there a few waking hours (one cannot count the
time one sleeps); had we remained longer perhaps we might have thought
differently!
[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT COLLEGE_]
First we made our way to the market square, which, by the way, we had
all to ourselves, except for a sleeping dog. In the centre of the square
stands the tall and weather-stained shaft of an ancient cross, elevated
on a basement of four steps. The top of the shaft is now surmounted by a
stone ball in place of the cross of old. This is capped by a
well-designed weather-vane; so this ancient structure, raised by
religious enthusiasm, and partially destroyed by religious
reforming--deforming, some people will have it--zeal, now serves a
useful and picturesque purpose, and could hardly be objected to by the
sternest Puritan.
Then, wandering about, we espied a fine old brick building of two
stories, the front being flanked by octagonal towers, a building not
unlike Eton College Chapel on a smaller scale. This proved to be
Magdalen School, founded in the fifteenth century by the famous William
de Waynflete, Bishop of Winchester, 1459, who was born in the town and
who also founded Magdalen College, Oxford, which little history we
picked up accidentally that evening in an odd copy of a Lincolnshire
Directory we discovered at our hotel. We did not hunt it up of set
purpose. I mention this, not wishing to be considered didactic. The
building, after all the years bygone, still serves its ancient purpose,
more fortunate than many other foundations in this respect whose funds
have been diverted to different aims from those originally intended,
sometimes perhaps of necessity, but other times, and not seldom, I fear,
without such compulsory or sufficient cause. We were told that the top
story of this very interesting bit of old-time architecture was the
school, and the ground floor the master’s house, a curious arrangement.
“Just you ring the bell at the door,” exclaimed our informant, “and I’m
sure the master will show you over; it’s a funny old place within.” But
we did not like to intrude; moreover, it was getting late and the
gloaming was gathering around.
Resuming our wanderings we found ourselves eventually by the side of the
narrow river Steeping, up which the small ships of yore used to make
their way to the then flourishing port of Wainfleet, or Waynflete as the
ancient geographers quaintly had it. There we rested that warm September
evening watching, in a dreamy mood, the tranquil gliding and gleaming of
the peaceful river, listening to the soothing, liquid gurgling of its
quiet flowing water. There was something very poetic about the spot that
caused us to weave romances for ourselves, a change from reading them
ready-made in novels! So we rested and romanced
While the stars came out and the night wind
Brought up the stream
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.
We had so far been disappointed in our search
[Sidenote: _THE LAW ON GHOSTS!_]
after a haunted house this journey, but, nothing daunted, the following
morning we set forth on the same errand, having heard that there was “a
real haunted house” at Halton Holgate, a village situated about eight
miles from Wainfleet. Haunted houses are strangely coming into note and
repute again; I really thought their day was over for ever, but it seems
not so. The good old-fashioned ghost that roams about corridors, and
stalks in ancient chambers till cock-crowing time; the ghost of our
ancestors and the early numbers of the Christmas illustrated papers; the
ghost that groans in a ghastly manner, and makes weird “unearthly”
noises in the middle of the night, appears once more much in
evidence,--I had nearly said “had come to life again”! He is even
written about seriously and complainingly to the papers! In a long
letter to the _Standard_ that appeared therein on 22nd April 1896 under
the heading of “A Haunted House,” the writer gravely laments his lot in
having unwittingly taken a lease of a house from which he and his family
were driven, solely on account of the ghostly manifestations that took
place there! The letter, which I afterwards learnt was written in
absolutely good faith and was no hoax, commences: “In the nineteenth
century ghosts are obsolete, but they are costing me two hundred pounds
a year. I have written to my lawyer, but am told by him that the English
law does not recognise ghosts!” The reading of this caused me to open my
eyes in wonderment, the assertions were simply astonishing. Still the
law seemed sensible; if any man were allowed to throw up an
inconvenient lease on the plea of ghosts where should we be? The writer
of the letter, it appears, was an officer in the English army. “Some
time ago,” he proceeds, “I left India on furlough, and, being near the
end of my service, looked out for a house that should be our home for a
few years.... I may say that I am not physically nervous. I have been
under fire repeatedly, have been badly wounded in action, and have been
complimented on my coolness when bullets were flying about. I was not
then afraid of ghosts as far as I knew. I had often been in places where
my revolver had to be ready to my hand.... As winter drew on and the
nights began to lengthen, strange noises began to be heard.... The
governess used to complain of a tall lady, with black heavy eyebrows,
who used to come as if to strangle her as she lay in bed. She also
described some footsteps, which had passed along the corridor by her
door, of some one apparently intoxicated. But in fact no one had left
their rooms, and no one had been intoxicated. One night the housemaid,
according to her account, was terrified by a tall lady with heavy dark
eyebrows, who entered the room and bent over her bed. Another night we
had driven into the town to a concert. It was nearly midnight when we
returned. Our old Scotch housekeeper, who admitted us, a woman of iron
nerves, was trembling with terror. Shortly before our arrival a horrible
shriek had rung through the house. To all our questions she only
replied, “It was nothing earthly.” The nurse, who was awake with a
child with whooping-cough, heard the cry, and says it was simply
horrible. One night, lying awake, I distinctly saw the handle of my
bedroom door turned, and the door pushed open. I seized my revolver, and
ran to the door. The lamp in the long corridor was burning brightly, no
one was there, and no one could have got away. Now I can honestly say
there is nothing against the house but ghosts. It is a roomy, nice, dry
house. There are no ghosts. Are there not?” This is truly astonishing
reading considering, as I have already stated, that I know the
communication was made in perfectly good faith. A brave soldier to be
driven out of a very comfortable and suitable home by a ghost--for thus
the story ended!
[Sidenote: _EXTRAORDINARY HAPPENINGS_]
For curiosity I cut out this letter and pasted it in my Commonplace
Book. The subject had almost slipped my memory, when, just before
starting on our present tour, I read in the _Standard_ of 30th August
1897 of another haunted house in Lincolnshire. The account was long and
circumstantial; having perused it carefully I took note of all
particulars, determining to visit the house, if possible, and to see if
by any means one could elucidate the mystery. As it may interest my
readers, I venture here to quote the article _in extenso_; the more am I
induced to do this as it happened we did manage to inspect the house at
our leisure, and had besides a long conversation with Mrs. Wilson, who
claims to have actually seen the ghost! But I am getting previous. It
will be noted that the account is of some length, and that the story
was not dismissed by the editor of the _Standard_ in a mere paragraph.
This then it is:--
From Halton Holgate, a village near Spilsby, Lincolnshire, comes a
story which is causing some sensation among the country folk in the
neighbourhood. For some time rumours of human bones having been
discovered under a brick floor of a farm, near the village, of
strange tappings having been heard, and of a ghost having been
seen, have been afloat, and it was with the intention of trying to
sift the mystery that a Lincoln reporter has just visited the
scene. The farmstead where the sounds are said to have been heard,
and the ghost seen, stands some distance back from the high road,
and is occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and their servant man. On
being interviewed Mrs. Wilson was at first reluctant to make any
statement, but eventually she narrated the following story:--
“We came here on Lady-day. The first night or so we heard very
strange noises about midnight, as though some one was knocking at
the doors and walls. Once it seemed as though some one was moving
all the things about in a hurry downstairs. Another time the noise
was like a heavy picture falling from the wall; but in the morning
I found everything as right as it was the night before. The servant
man left, saying he dared not stop, and we had to get another. Then
about six weeks ago, I saw ‘something.’ Before getting into bed, my
husband having retired before me, I thought I would go downstairs
and see if the cow was all right, as it was about to calve. I did
so, and when at the foot of the stairs, just as I was about to go
up again, I saw an old man standing at the top and looking at me.
He was standing as though he was very round-shouldered. How I got
past I cannot say, but as soon as I did so I darted into the
bedroom and slammed the door. Then I went to get some water from
the dressing-table, but ‘feeling’ that some one was behind me I
turned round sharply, and there again stood the same old man. He
quickly vanished, but I am quite certain I saw him. I have also
seen him several times since, though not quite so distinctly.”
Mrs. Wilson conducted her interviewer to the sitting-room where
the figure appeared. The floor in one corner was very uneven, and a
day or two ago Mrs. Wilson took up the bricks, with the intention
of relaying them. When she had taken them up she perceived a
disagreeable smell. Her suspicions being aroused, she called her
husband, and the two commenced a minute examination. With a stick
three or four bones were soon turned over, together with a gold
ring and several pieces of old black silk. All these had evidently
been buried in quicklime, the bones and silk having obviously been
burned therewith. The search after this was not further prosecuted,
but a quantity of sand introduced and the floor levelled again. Dr.
Gay, to whom the bones were submitted, stated that they were
undoubtedly human, but he believed them to be nearly one hundred
years old.
[Sidenote: _A GHOST MYSTERY_]
Now it happened, whilst we were at Boston, that we purchased a copy of
the _Standard_ of 13th September 1897. On glancing over this our eyes
caught sight of the following further and later particulars of this
haunted dwelling, now exalted into “The Lincolnshire Ghost Mystery.” The
account brought up to date ran thus:--
A Lincoln Correspondent writes: “Despite all efforts, the
Lincolnshire ghost mystery still remains unravelled. That the
noises nightly heard cannot be ascribed to rats has been amply
demonstrated, and other suggestions when acted upon likewise fail
to elucidate the matter. All over the country the affair has
excited the greatest interest, and two London gentlemen have
written asking for permission to stay a night in the house. Other
letters have been received from ‘clairvoyants’ asking for pieces of
the silk or one of the bones discovered under the floor, whilst a
London clergyman has written advising Mrs. Wilson to bury the bones
in consecrated ground, then, he says, ‘the ghostly visitor will
trouble you no longer.’ The owner of the house in question--a
farmstead at Halton Holgate, near Spilsby--has tried to throw
discredit on the whole affair, but such efforts have failed, and it
now transpires that the house was known to be haunted fully thirty
years ago.”
The mystery had quite a promising look; and, coming across this second
account of it just as we were approaching the neighbourhood of the scene
of ghostly doings, raised our curiosity still more, and increased our
determination not to miss this rare opportunity of inspecting a
genuine(?) haunted house. See it somehow we must! Now it occurred to us
that, as Halton Holgate was within easy distance of Wainfleet, our
landlord would surely know something about the story and the people, and
that he might enlighten us about sundry details. So in the morning,
before starting, we interviewed him in his snug bar, and having shown
him the cuttings from the _Standard_ that we had brought with us,
awaited his comments. “Oh yes,” he began, “I’ve heard the story, but do
not put much account on it myself, nor do I believe any one else about
here does. I think the London papers put more store on it than we do.
They say noises have been heard in the house at night. Well, you see,
sir, the house stands on the top of a hill, and is very exposed to the
wind. I’ve been told that there is a small trap-door in the roof at the
top of the staircase, which is, or was, quite loose, and at the foot of
the staircase is the front door, and they say that when the wind blows
at all strong it gets under the door and lifts the trap up and down, and
this accounts for the noises, perhaps there may be rats as well. I fancy
the noises frightened the woman when she first went into the house, and
she imagined the rest. At least that’s my view of the matter from all
I’ve heard.” Manifestly the landlord was unbelieving; truly we too were
sceptical, but even so, we thought the landlord’s explanation of the
nightly noises rather weak, notwithstanding his further remark that he
thought the woman was very nervous, and the house being in a lonely
situation made her the more so when she was left in it by herself at
times, as she frequently was on their first coming there. “But that
hardly accounts for her _seeing_ the ghost,” we exclaimed. “Oh! well, I
just put that down to nerves; I expect she got frightened when she went
there at first, and, as I’ve said, imagined the rest. I don’t believe in
ghosts seen by other people.” “And what about the human bones?” we
queried. “Well, as to the bones, they say as how when the house was
built some soil was taken from the churchyard to fill up the
foundations, and that fact would account for the finding of them.”
[Sidenote: _INQUIRIES_]
It certainly seemed to us that the landlord’s theory and explanations
rather added to the mystery than helped to clear it up in any way; his
reasonings were hardly convincing. We noted one thing in the landlord’s
arguments that appeared to us almost as improbable as the ghost story,
namely, the way he so readily accounted for the existence of human bones
under the floor by the removal of soil from the churchyard, the latter
we afterwards discovered being about a mile away from the place; and
even allowing such a thing to be permitted at the time of the building
of the house--perhaps, by rough guess, some fifty years ago--such a
proceeding was most unlikely, as soil could be had close at hand for the
digging.
We felt that now we must wait till we got to Halton Holgate for further
details. We had an introduction to the rector of the parish there, and
we looked forward to hearing his view’s on the matter, for surely he of
all people, we reasoned, would be in a position to help us to unravel
the mystery. Matters were getting interesting; at last it seemed, after
long years of search, that we should be able to run a real “haunted”
house to earth; and we determined, if by any means we could arrange to
do so, that we would spend a night therein. It would be a novel
experience; indeed we felt quite mildly excited at the prospect. Failing
this, it would be something if we could converse with a person who
declared that she had seen an actual ghost, and who would describe to us
what it was like, how it behaved itself, and so forth! We had come
across plenty of people in the world, from time to time, who declared to
us that they once knew somebody who said that they had seen a ghost, but
we could never discover the actual party; for some cause or another he
or she was never get-at-able, and I prefer my facts--or fiction--first
hand. Stories, like wine, have a wonderful way of improving with age;
indeed I think that most stories improve far more rapidly than wine. I
once traced a curious three-year-old story back home to the place of its
birth, and the original teller did not even recognise his offspring in
its altered and improved garb! Tradition is like ivy; give it time and
it will completely disguise the original structure.
[Sidenote: _A TALL WINDMILL_]
The weather being fine and having finished our interview with our
landlord, we started off without further delay, anxious to have as much
time as possible before us for our day’s explorations. The country still
continued level, the road winding in and out thereof, as though
determined to cover twice as much ground as needful in getting from
place to place. Just beyond Wainfleet we passed, close to our way, the
tallest windmill I think I have ever seen; it looked more like a
lighthouse with sails attached than a proper windmill; it was presumably
so built to obtain all the breezes possible, as in a flat country the
foliage of the growing trees around is apt to deprive a mill of much of
its motive power. In fact an Essex miller once told me that owing to the
growth of the trees around his mill since it was first built, he could
hardly ever work it in the summer time on account of the foliage robbing
him of so much wind. Then as we drove on we caught a peep of low wooded
hills ahead, showing an uneven outline, faintly blue, with touches of
orange here and there where the sun’s rays rested on the golden autumn
leafage, now lighting up one spot, now another. We were delighted to
observe that our road led apparently in the direction of these hills,
for they gave promise of pleasant wanderings.
Farther on we reached a pretty little village, with its church
picturesquely crowning a knoll. Here we pulled up for a moment to ask
the name of the place from a man at work by the roadside. “This be
I-r-b-y,” he responded, spelling not pronouncing the name, somewhat to
our surprise; so we asked him why he did so. “Well, sir, you see there
be another village not far off called Orby, only it begins with a ‘O’
and ours begins with a ‘I,’ and the names do sound so alike when you
speaks them, that we generally spells them to strangers to make sure.
Often folk comes here who wants to go to Orby, and often folk who wants
to come here gets directed to Orby. One of the names ought to be
changed, it would save a lot of trouble and loss of temper.” Then we
asked him how far it was to Halton Holgate, and he said he thought it
was about three miles, but he was not quite sure, not being a good judge
of distances; “it might be more or it might be less,” which was rather
vague. Indeed we noticed generally in Lincolnshire how hard it was to
obtain a precise reply to any query as to distance. Here is a sample of
a few of the delightfully indefinite answers made to us from time to
time when seeking information on this point. “Oh! not very far.” “Some
goodish bit on yet.” “Just a little farther on.” “A longish way off.” “A
few miles more.” To the last reply a further query as to how many miles
only brought the inconclusive response, “Oh! not many.”
In due time we bade good-bye to the level country, for our road now led
us up quite a respectable hill and through a rock cutting that was
spanned at one point by a rustic bridge. It was a treat to see the great
gray strong rocks after our long wandering in Fenland. The character of
the
[Illustration: AN OLD-TIME FARMSTEAD.]
scenery was entirely changed, we had touched the fringe of the Wold
region, the highlands of Lincolnshire--“Wide, wild, and open to the
air.” At the top of the hill we arrived at a scattered little village,
and this proved to be Halton Holgate. The church stood on one side of
the road, the rectory on the other; to the latter we at once made our
way, trusting to learn something authoritative about the haunted house
from the rector, and hoping that perhaps we might obtain an introduction
to the tenant through him. Unfortunately the rector was out, and not
expected back till the evening. This was disappointing. The only thing
to do now was to find our way to the house, and trust to our usual good
fortune to obtain admission and an interview with the farmer’s wife.
[Sidenote: _QUESTIONING A NATIVE_]
We accosted the first native we met. Of him we boldly asked our way to
the “haunted house,” for we did not even know the name of it. But our
query was sufficient, evidently the humble homestead had become famous,
and had well established its reputation. We were directed to a footpath
which we were told to follow across some fields, “it will take you right
there.” Then we ventured to ask the native if he had heard much about
the ghost. He replied laconically, “Rather.” Did he believe in it?
“Rather” again. We were not gaining much by our queries, the native did
not appear to be of a communicative nature, and our attempts to draw him
out were not very successful. To a further question if many people came
to see the house, we received the same reply. Manifestly for some
reason the native was disinclined to discuss the subject. This rather
perplexed us, for on such matters the country folk, as a rule, love to
talk and enlarge. As he left us, however, he made the somewhat
enigmatical remark, “I wish as how we’d got a ghost at our house.” Was
he envious of his neighbour’s fame? we wondered, or what did he mean?
Could he possibly deem that a ghost was a profitable appendage to a
house on the show principle, insomuch as it brought many people to see
it? Or were his remarks intended to be sarcastic?
Having proceeded some way along the footpath we met a clergyman coming
along. We at once jumped to the conclusion that he must be the rector,
so we forthwith addressed him as such; but he smilingly replied, “No,
I’m the Catholic priest,” and a very pleasant-looking priest he was, not
to say jovial. We felt we must have our little joke with him, so
exclaimed, “Well, never mind, you’ll do just as well. We’re
ghost-hunting. We’ve heard that there’s a genuine haunted house
hereabouts, an accredited article, not a fraud. We first read about it
in the _Standard_, and have come to inspect it. Now, can you give us any
information on the point? Have you by any chance been called in to lay
the ghost with candle, bell, and book? But perhaps it is a Protestant
ghost beyond Catholic control?” Just when we should have been serious we
felt in a bantering mood. Why, I hardly know, but smile on the world and
it smiles back at you. Now the priest had smiled on us, and we
retaliated. Had he been austere, probably we should have been grave.
Just then this ghost-hunting expedition struck us as being intensely
comical. The priest smiled again, we smiled our best in reply. We
intuitively felt that his smile was a smile of unbelief--in the ghost, I
mean. “Well, I’m afraid,” he replied, “the worthy body is of a romantic
temperament. I understand that the bones are not human bones after all,
but belonged to a deceased pig. You know in the off-season gigantic
gooseberries, sea-serpents, and ghosts flourish in the papers. You
cannot possibly miss the house. When you come to the end of the next
field, you will see it straight before you,” and so we parted. Somehow
the priest’s remarks damped our ardour; either he did not or would not
take the ghost seriously!
[Sidenote: _GHOST-HUNTING_]