P.S. — Since the above was written, a new version of the ghost has appeared. It now comes in the shape of a dog, with six legs and six lights, one being in its mouth. The story has thoroughly alarmed the boys and women of the village, and they will not pass that bridge alone on any consideration. In our opinion, it is the duty of the Canal Superintendent to suppress this ghost, as it may interfere with navigation. If he would inquire very closely of the remaining bridge tender a solution might be obtained. It may be that somebody is anxious for the situation.
Weekly News, St. Catharines, Ontario, March 6, 1873
Everybody, or nearly everybody, young or old, loves a ghost story. It is not necessary to believe in its truth to derive enjoyment from it. The more inexplicable it appears to our ordinary reason, the greater the charm that it exercises. Incredulity itself is pleased by a flight into the regions of the wonderful and the supernatural, as is evident from the satisfaction derived by people of all ages and nations from fairy tales which nobody accepts for truth. But the fairy tale only appeals to the imagination. The ghost story goes deeper into the mysterious fountains of human nature and touches on the confines of the great undiscovered land of spirits, whose secrets are not to be divulged on this side of the grave. Hence its charm and fascination, and hence everybody who reads or hears a ghost story experiences a satisfaction, either in believing it implicitly, or in explaining it away by natural causes.
A few years ago I travelled in a British colony in America. The governor was absent in England on his holiday visit, and the duties of his office were temporarily performed by the chief justice aided by the prime minister, or secretary of state. I was a frequent guest at Government House, and there became acquainted with an old soldier, one Sergeant Monaghan, who performed the part of orderly or messenger, and sometimes waited at table when the governor had company. The manners of a colony are free and easy, and learning that the old soldier was a thorough believer in ghosts, and one ghost story which he was fond of telling, I invited him to my room, treated him to a cigar and a glass of grog, gave him a seat by the blazing wood fire, and prevailed on him to evolve the story once again out of the coils of memory. I will repeat it as nearly as I can, in his own words.
“You see,” said Sergeant Monaghan, “Tom O’Loghlin was a delicate and weak sort of a boy. He had a love affair in Ireland that weighed on his mind. He was a kind of cousin of mine, and served in my regiment as a private. Perhaps he would have risen to be a sergeant if he had lived, but, as he said, he was not strong. You may have noticed that from the gate of Government House, where the sentry box stands, you can see into the burial ground, on the opposite side of the road. Not a cheerful situation for Government House. But, however, all the best rooms look into the garden at the back and the governor need not see much of the burial ground, except when he goes in and out. One foggy night, Tom O’Loghlin was stationed as sentry at Government House. It was full moon at the time, but the light upon the white warm mist that lay like an immense blanket over the earth, shone weak and watery lake. It was not a very thick fog, and did not hide objects at a distance of a hundred yards but only revealed them to make them look larger than they really were. I was in the guard-room smoking my pipe, comfortably as I am now (either a pipe or a cigar, it’s all the same to Sergeant Monaghan, if the ’bacey’s good.) when who should walk in but Tom O’Loghlin, with a face of such wild, blank, dismal terror, as I never saw before or since on a human being. It was fully an hour before his time to be relieved of duty, and in leaving his post he had committed a very serious offence. I ordered him back to his post, but he sat down by the fire, and doggedly refused to stir.
“What’s the matter with you, Tim?” said I. “Are you unwell? And why did you come off duty? And it’s I myself that’ll have to report you.”
“You may report — you must report; but I will not go back again, though I be shot for it. I have seen him.”
“Him — and who is him?”
“Him! Why Captain Percival. He came close up to me, and pointed to a man in the burial-ground next to his own.”
The Captain had died about a month previously, and Tim, who was very much attached to him — and indeed everybody in the regiment was — had grieved very much about his death. He had acted as the Captain’s servant, and had received many favors at his hand, and poor Tim was a grateful creature.
“It’s all nonsense, Tim,” said I. “Go back to your post, and in reporting you I’ll make the best case out that I can for you.”
“Never!” said Tim, “if I be shot for it.”
To break the ice as luck would have it, the doctor happened to drop in at this moment, and learning the circumstances that had induced Tim to leave his post, questioned him fully on the subject. But he felt Tim’s pulse first, and there came over his face an expression that I noticed, but that Tim did not, which said very plainly to me that he did not like the beat of it. Tim was confident that he had seen Captain Percival, and that the Captain pointed out the grave which a man was digging alongside of his own, and had distinctly told him that he was to be buried there as soon as the grave was quite ready.
“And you saw the man digging the grave?” asked the doctor.
“Distinctly,” replied Tim; “and you can see him too, if you go immediately.”
“Do, you go, sergeant,” said the doctor to me, “and I’ll sit with O’Loghlin till you return. I think you had better detail another sentry in his place. Is there any brandy to be got? But stay; it does not matter. I have a flask. And O’Loghlin, my man, you must have a pull at it; it is medicine, you know, and I order it.”
Tim was taking a pull at the flask as I went out. I thought it possible enough that the grave-digger might be at work, but I did not know what to say about the Captain, except to think, perhaps, that Tim had been dreaming, and fancied he saw things that had no existence. I got into the burial-ground without difficulty — the gate was not fastened — and went straight to the grave of Captain Percival. There stood the gravestone, sure enough, with the Captain’s name, age and date of death upon it, and a short story besides, setting forth what a good and brave fellow he was, which was true as the gospel. — But there was no grave-digger there, nor no open grave, as Tim had fancied. I went back, and found Tim and the doctor together, Tim not looking quite so wild and white as before, but bad and ill, all the same.
“Well,” inquired the doctor.
“Well,” I replied. “There’s nothing to be seen. It’s just as I thought. Poor Tim’s fancy has cheated him, and it’s my opinion the poor boy is not well at all. And what am I to do about reporting him?”
“You must report him, of course,” said the doctor; “but I don’t think much harm will come to him of that.
O’Loghlin, you must go into the hospital for a day or two, and I will give you some stuff that will bring you out again right as a trivet, and you will see no more ghosts.”
Tim shook his head, and was taken quietly to the hospital, and put to bed. The brandy had done him good; whether it was all brandy, or whether there wasn’t a drop of sleeping stuff in it, I can’t say, but it’s very likely there was, for the doctor told me the longer he slept in reason the better it would be for him. And Tim had a long