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 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.”
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.