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"Unquiet souls,
Risen from the grave to ease the heavy guilt
Of deeds in life concealed." -AKENSIDE.
EVERY traveller knows that
much of the charm of Scottish scenery is derived from the legends and myths
which tradition has associated with Scottish castles, churches, graveyards,
glens, caves, and waterfalls. The Scottish pioneers of Zorra carried with
them the traditions of their fatherland, and were strong believers in the
occult and the dreadful. With Hamlet they declared:
"There are more things in
heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Often have we sat by the old
ingleside, and with mouth and eyes open, knees trembling, and the cold
chills creeping along the spine, listened to weird tales told by our
grandparents and others, concerning dismal sounds, ghostly appearances, and
the sorceries of horrid witches. These uncanny tales made a deep impression
upon our youthful minds, and we can remember occasions when, while passing
through the dark woods, suddenly the hooting of the owl, or the far-away
lonely cry of the nighthawk, or the rustling of the leaves by a squirrel or
raccoon, broke the solemn stillness, and imagining some ghost or bogie or
evil spirit approaching us, we took to our heels and ran like frightened
deer. Zorra is perhaps not yet old enough to have developed a legendary era
of its own, and the present matter-of-fact business age is not favorable to
such a growth. Yet Zorra is by no means devoid of folk-lore. The characters,
incidents, adventures, and experiences of pioneer days present as good
material for the poet, the painter, the dramatist, and the legend builder as
did Scotland to Scott and Miller, or the New England States and New York to
Hawthorne and Irving. There is danger that the weird stories, myths, and
legends of the early days may soon disappear, unless they are changed from
the oral into the written form ; and I feel like Selkirk on his iland, when
the rich fruits of autumn were dropping around him, that if I myself do not
preserve some of them, they must perish.
Leaving it to others to enter
fully into the subject, I shall, in this chapter, open the door just a
little in order that the reader may have a glimpse at a few out of the
multitude of shadowy forms that flit to and fro in the mists of Zorra
legends.
Many years ago there lived in
the township a family whom we shall call Gourlay. It consisted of four
brothers, all unmarried. Naturally, these brothers were kind and generous
enough, but, alas! they were all victims of strong drink, and when under the
influence of the liquor-fiend they were, even beyond the ordinary drunkards,
a disgrace to themselves and a terror to their neighbors. They would fight
each other savagely, and often made night hideous by their yells, screams,
and horrid profanity.
Still they scrupulously
observed the outward forms of religion. Being bad during the week was to the
Gourlay brothers an additional reason why they should be as good as they
could on Sunday. Regularly they drove to the villagc church, a distance of
five miles, and with a stolid stare, broken only by snuff-taking, they sat
through the service. They had had, of course, a couple of drinks in the
village tavern before entering the kirk, but oh, they were very, very dry
before the long service was over, and glad were they to return to their
favorite resort. Their reckless driving and boisterous behavior on the way
home from church were a sore scandal to those who feared God and regarded
His day. On Communion Sabbaths, when the roads were filled with people, men
and women, old and young, the Gourlay brothers were more than ordinarily
reckless.
It is 4 p. m. Hundreds of
people are on the road wending their way homeward. There is a blazing sun
overhead and the road is very dusty. Suddenly shouts are heard, "Clear the
way!" The people pause, look back, and about half a mile behind, they see a
thick cloud of dust. It's a runaway! No, it is the Gourlay brothers. Quickly
the people divide, some going to each side of the road, and not a few timid
ones geting over the fence, or seeking shelter behind the biggest stumps or
trees near them.
With a whoop and hurrah, the
four brothers, seated in their big heavy waggon, slashing the horses and
waving their blue bonnets, fly past. The people utter a sigh of relief and
pray the Lord to have mercy on the miserable drunkards.
Shortly after this, late one
summer night, three of the brothers are returning from the village, drunk
and noisy as usual. Two of them sit in the front seat of the waggon, and the
third, whose name was Robert, sits by himself in the back. Coming along the
sideroad through a marshy place where the road was very rough and dark,
Robert takes out his black bottle, and is in the act of drinking, when
suddenly the waggon gave a jolt, and the wretched drunken man falls out
backward. He was a heavy man, and falling upon a projecting root, he broke
his neck. Death was instantaneous. The brothers, too drunk to perceive what
has happened, drive home and go to bed as usual. Next morning some neighbors
find Robert Gourlay dead, his hand still clutching the neck of the black
bottle, the lower part having been broken off in the fall.
For years after this, it was
alleged, a strange form was seen from time to time moving to and fro along
this side-road. The figure was not more than four feet high, very stout, and
with little or no neck, the head set closely upon the shoulders and drooping
forward upon the breast. The eyes glared like two balls of fire; the mouth
was partly open and the tongue projected. It certainly presented a gruesome
appearance. The voice was low and sepulchral, resembling somewhat the
gurgling of a distant streamlet. Whenever the ghost appeared the dogs in the
neighborhood, it was said, howled piteously, while the cattle and horses
snorted and took to their heels.
The spectre uttered many
groans and moans and uncanny sounds that stirred the hair of Iisteners on
their scalps, but the only sound that could be understood was the one
word—death (Gaelic for drink), uttered with a hoarse, gurgling tone. Whether
this word was meant to indicate the cause of ruin, or the present thirst of
the spirit, was never ascertained. But for years men, returning from the
village about the same time of night that the killing took place, would see
the awful form moving backwards and forwards, holding in its right hand the
neck and part of a black bottle, and amid the hollow moans and sullen groans
uttering ruefully the ominous word—deoch.
At length one dark stormy
night, as an elder of the Church was passing along the side-road, the ghost
appeared. The good man at once took out his Bible, and, opening it, held it
right between himself and the ghost. Then for the first time the ghost found
full and distinct utterance. It related with deep contrition the history of
the past, and added: "This is the last time I shall ever appear on earth,
for tonight I would have died had I not been killed twenty years ago on this
spot through—deoch"
And from that day to this the
"gaist of Rob Gourlay" was never more seen.
* * * * * * * * *
In an old log shanty,
situated on the edge of a great marsh, usually known as the "big swamp,"
lived Jean Gordon. Her only companion was a black cat, which was said to be
an evil spirit incarnate. Jean was an old beldam, wizened and toothless, and
nearly bent double; she had apparently not troubled comb or washbasin since
her infancy, which was long, long ago. She had, it was believed, the power
to transform herself into a cat, dog, ape, a bat, an owl, or even a frog.
She could inflict rheumatism, headache, or toothache on anyone against whom
she had a grudge; she could put the cows dry and prevent the butter coming
in the churn, the bread from rising and the soap from forming; indeed, the
death of two calves was ascribed to her sorceries.
Andrew McCulloch's wife
declared that Jean had bewitched her child, so that, while the child grew
with unnatural rapidity, it sucked from her breast not milk, but blood,
leaving her, the poor mother, nothing but skin and bone.
Jean spoke Gaelic, but with
such rapidity of utterance that she could not be understood, and it was
believed by many that she mingled with her Gaelic Hebrew or some other
primitive language.
She seldom left her lonely
home by day, but was often seen flitting through the shadows in the woods
about the time of sunset. On dark and stormy nights she would screech and
jabber down a chimney, and scream and whistle at windows, and by the dim
firelight or candlelight her face might be seen peering through the panes.
She was more than once seen to arise from her shanty on her broom; and, when
high up, stir and push clouds before her with the broom.
On the farm of Alexander
Macdonald there was a great elm tree, with branches bare and decayed,
because one night Jean, going about in the form of an owl, had perched for a
few moments on the topmost branch.
But, alas! one day Jean's
existence came to a sudden close. She was out in the form of a bird. A
farmer, named Tom Ferguson, was hunting; he heard the rush of wings, and,
looking up, saw a black bird with a long neck and with feet like scrawny
hands. It uttered a cry so weird and so shrill, that it made the farmer
shudder. Soon it alighted on a dead tree, and he shot at it. With a
blood-curdling yell, the bird, or evil spirit, whatever it was, circled
round his head. Three times he fired, with the same result. Then he
concluded that it must he some uncanny thing, and he remembered that evil
things could not withstand silver. (This is certainly a fact to-day.) But
having no bullet of that metal on him, he took a sixpenny piece and rammed
it down his gun with a piece of cloth, at the same time uttering much
prayer.
At sight of this the bird
screamed dreadfully with terror, and vainly tried to escape. He fired. The
ugly creature dropped with the coin in its body, and fell on its right side.
At that very moment, Jean Gordon, living in her shanty beside the big swamp,
more than a mile away, arose from her spinning wheel, gasped, and fell on
her right side—dead.
* * * * * * * * *
At certain seasons of the
year a ghost of most terrible appearance could be seen on a dark road east
of Embro. The phantom stood about five feet high, and from the top of the
head there issued a pale white light. The light was so bright that a man
could see the time of night on his watch by means of it. Just below the
flame there appeared two eyeballs, luminous and immovable, and a great
gaping mouth. Many trustworthy witnesses there were to the existence of this
ghost, and, indeed, for some time the road was deserted by the terrified
people. Tradition said that in very early times a murder had been committed
on this spot by the Indians, and that the pale light issued from the top of
the victim's head, from which the Indians had removed the scalp.
But Sandy Dunbar was a godly
man, of great courage and strength, and he determined to confront the ghost,
whatever the consequences might be. So one night, taking, as his neighbors
told him, his life in his hands, he went forth on his weird mission of
investigation. Some half dozen brave young Highlandmen, armed with knives
and sticks, accompanied him till within several hundred yards of the dreaded
spot. Then the brave man proceeded alone. Sure enough, there was the ghost,
and the sight of it made the sweat ooze from every pore. However, it was
Sandy's boast that he had never turned his back on a foe, man or devil. So,
after praying for his wife and children, and especially for himself in his
present trying situation, he called to the ghost, demanding who or what he
was and what he wanted. But there was no response. Coming a few yards
nearer, and grasping more firmly the hickory club with which he had armed
himself, he made the same demand a second time; but the same awful silence
continued, and so also after a third demand. Still the ghost was there, the
head blazing, the eyes glaring, and the mouth wide open.
Slowly and cautiously Sandy
moved nearer and nearer the ghost, ready to defend himself to the death if
necessary. At length he was so near that, with great fear and trembling, he
summoned courage enough to put out his hand and touch the ghost, when, to
the delight and surprise of the brave Highlander, it turned out to be the
stump of a spruce tree. The light at the top was the mycelium of the fungus
which, it is well known, develops on the decaying wood of the spruce and
some other kinds of trees under certain climatic conditions, and shines at
night with a pale soft phosphorescence. It is frequently called by the
country people "fox-fire," and sometimes "wolf-fire." What appeared as mouth
and eyes were only spots where the bark had fallen off, and the uncovered
surface reflecting the light from above formed a crude resemblance to a
human face.
This same "fox-fire," it is
said, has led to many a ghost story. Trees sometimes cast their roots into a
cave. These roots get injured, and consequently decay; and in the process of
decay they frequently give out this phosphorescence. The light in the cave
is seen at night, and a ghost story is the result.
* * * * * * * *
A Zorra man, who is now in
his eighty-fifth year, but hale and hearty, relates the following. I give
the narrative in his own words: "In the year 184— myself and family were
living in the southern part of Zorra. My wife's sister had come from
Hamilton on a visit. Every night for several weeks, about 1 a.m., we heard
the most delightful singing coming towards the house, and then suddenly
ceasing at the door. The singing was in a minor key, low and soft, making a
strain of rare, unearthly sweetness.
"One night my sister-in-law
was sitting near the window, and, hearing the sound, looked out and saw a
man approaching the house singing softly as he came. Reaching the door, he
looked up to the window where she was and then passed on. She observed him
particularly, and that same night gave us a minute description of his hat
and clothes.
"Next day my sister-in-law,
my wife, and myself were in Woodstock, and, seeing a mechanic in his
ordinary every-day working clothes pass by, my sister-in-law exclaimed,
'That's the man I saw last night coming up to our house singing.' A few
weeks after this the young woman was taken down with a fever, and after a
few days' illness died.
At that time coffins were not
kept in stock, but any ordinary carpenter made them to order. Along with a
relative, I went to one carpenter after another in the neighborhood, four or
five in all, but for some reason or other, none of them could make the
coffin. We then came to Woodstock, went to Mr. B.'s carpenter shop, and the
first man we met at once consented to make the coffin. This man was the one
my sister-in-law saw approaching the house singing, and whom she afterwards
identified on the streets of Woodstock."
Ghosts—what are they? Whence
do they come?
"Perhaps they are the signals
loved ones send
Who wait our coming on the other shore;
Too spirit-full with earthly sense to blend,
Too finely soft to fully pierce life's roar."
So, at least, says the poet;
but there is another theory, not so poetical, but equally plausible, in
explanation of ghostly appearances.
* * * * * * * * *
I give the following
well-authenticated narrative, not as a Zorra ghost story, but because it
explains a good many ghost stories in Zorra and elsewhere. The celebrated
Dr. Abernethy stood at the head of the medical profession in his day. He was
once applied to by a man whose terrible experience was as follows: He could
neither eat nor sleep, and was wasting away day by day; and he gave as the
cause of all his trouble that he was visited every night between the hours
of eleven and twelve by a horrible creature, grim and ghastly, who,
unbidden, would open the door of his room, walk, or rather glide in, put its
skeleton arms around him, and its cold, bony face against his. The man had
begged his neighbors to come and sit with him, and help him tide over the
awful hour, but they were all afraid and shunned his dwelling as haunted.
He asked Dr. Abernethy if he
would come and stay with him one night. The doctor readily consented, and
the man was overjoyed. The doctor came and sat with him, talked to him about
his health and his habits, asked him to let him feel his arms, rolled up his
sleeve, and and was apparently diagnosing the case. He then brought a basin
of water, as if he was going to sponge him. As the hour of eleven drew near
the patient got terribly excited, and began to shudder. Just as the clock
struck the man uttered a scream. "There's the door opening, it's coming in;
don't you see it?" Abernethy, with his lance, instantly bled him; but so
excited was the patient that he never felt it. The blood flowed rapidly. In
a few moments the man calmed down, saying "It's not coming any further
to-night. Why! it's going out again. The door is closed."
Then for the first time he
noticed that he was bled. The doctor explained to him that the cause of his
seeing the spectre was the condition of his blood, owing to his bibulous
habits and riotous living. He assured him there were two ways in which he
might escape seeing bogies - temperate living, or being bled every month.
The man, it is said, chose the latter.
* * * * * * * * *
One night, many years ago, a
party of young people were returning from a dance about 2 a.m. The road was
dark, being thickly wooded with trees on both sides. The moon cast fitful
beams of light across the way, and the clouds rushing across the heavens
kept the shadows constantly changing. There had been a funeral along that
road not long before, and as the young people in silence passed along,
ghostly stories of the fireside came vividly to their minds. One little
group in advance of the others suddenly stopped, and a thrill of horror
passed through the company, for at this exact spot a ghost had some time
before appeared, and just now did they not see a strange sight and hear an
inhuman sound resembling a long-drawn snore?
It was in October, and the
ditch at the side of the road was filled with leaves that rustled to the
movements of the ghost. One lad more venturesome than the rest dared to
approach the horrid thing. The leaves rustled, but more closely still he
approached, when suddenly what appeared to be a huge living mountain arose
from the ditch, and rushed away with great speed and clatter of hoofs. The
crowd with ghastly faces were riveted to the spot. Their hair stood on end,
as one of them afterwards said, like "quills upon the back of the fretful
porcupine." After some time, however, it turned out that the supposed ghost
was only Donald Urquhart's horse, which had strayed out of its customary
pasture field, and was enjoying a soft warm bed upon the leaves in the
ditch.
* * * * * * * *
Mrs. A. died in Embro, and it
was thought necessary to have the burial as early as possible. So the
carpenter employed was obliged to work all night in order to have the coffin
ready in time. It was the custom of James Mc----, when his day's work was
over, to don his best suit, and go courting a pretty girl who lived on the
other side of the common, as it was called. The night in question was a dark
one, and a feeling of timidity crept over him as he passed the carpenter's
shop, where a tallow candle but dimly lighted the large place, yet showed
the long queer-shaped box on which the man was working. The young man gave a
few moments' serious thought to the present state of the intended occupant,
but all feeling was quickly dispelled by the smiles with which he was
greeted by his sweetheart. The hours passed all too quickly, and it was very
late when he said good-bye for the last time that night, and set out for
home. The darkness had deepened. There was that stretch of common between
him and the point he had to reach. -The stroke of the carpenter's hammer was
the only sound that broke the stillness, and it recalled the train of
thought which occupied him on his way out. He walked cautiously, the greater
part of the way being marshy, and there was a pond which must be avoided.
Suddenly there was a fizz, followed by a flash of light, which revealed to
him a tall object robed in white. Had there been time for thought, it would
have only confirmed the belief which he held that it was the ghost of the
woman whose coffin was being prepared in the shop. He screamed and fell, but
quickly rising redoubled his speed, and reached home in a sorry plight. Some
mischievous boys of the house where he payed his nocturnal visits had
planted a pole, thrown a sheet over it, and lying in wait until his return,
by means of a squibb startled him and showed the ghost.
"If," writes a
correspondent," you do not believe in ghosts after reading the record of
pioneer life in Zorra, then all I can say is, what is the use of ghosts at
all, if people are so perverse that they will not believe in them?"
* * * * * * * *
I have seen nearly all the
rites of the Scottish Halloween, as described by Burns, enacted in Zorra.
The "burning of nuts," the "eating of apples before the looking-glass,"
"going around the straw-stack," "counting the furrows," "selecting the
cabbage heads" and "throwing the clue" were all familiar to the Zorra
pioneers.
"Throwing the clue" consisted
in stealing away all alone into some dark and lonely place, and there
throwing behind some object such as a brush heap, or great log, a ball of
blue yarn, and then winding it into a new ball off the old one. By and bye
something will hold the thread; then the person was to ask "Who holds"? and
from out of the darkness, an answer would come, giving the full name of the
future husband or wife, as the case might be. The following incident is said
to have taken place; and if so, it was an illustration of a prediction
bringing about its own fulfilment:
Archie McPherson was a hired
lad, who with a rough exterior had a large heart, which he had set upon his
master's beautiful daughter, Nellie; but his love was not reciprocated.
Nellie had other suitors whom she favored more than Archie. But Archie, like
other lovers, was rich in resources. Somehow he learned that Nellie was
determined on Halloween to repair to a certain lonely place, and throw the
clue behind the brush fence, and he determined to make the most of the
occasion. So during the day he asked leave of his master to spend the
evening at a neighbor's, where a number of young people were to assemble.
This was, of course, readily granted him. But instead of going to the
neighbor's, he hied away to the lonely spot aforesaid; anxiously he waited
there for a long time. By and bye, however, he heard light footsteps
approaching, and soon he discerned through the brush, the handsome form of
his loved one. She drew out a small clue of yarn, and then threw it to the
very spot where Archie was hiding in the darkness. He let it turn round and
round for some time, then firmly held it fast. "Who holds"? said the girl in
a low trembling voice. Out of the darkness the reply promptly came, "Archie
McPherson." Quickly the girl fled in great terror, and reached her home pale
and trembling. She kept the secret to herself, but from that night Archie
had a vantage ground from which to lay siege to the heart of Nellie. He was
evidently predestined to be her husband, and what was the use in quarrelling
with fate? In due time they became husband and wife, and then Archie
McPherson explained to his spouse the mystery of throwing the clue."
* * * * * * * * *
Our ancestors had some snake
stories which were at least as true as similar tales of modern times. There
was the hoop-snake for instance. "This here snake," Donald would say,
"doesn't travel like other snakes; he has a sharp pointed tail full of pizen,
and when he wants to take after a man or a critter, he takes the end of his
tail in his mouth, forms himself into a hoop, and revolves after his victim
at the rate of a mile a minute. He can only travel, however, in a straight
line, and if a man will make a bee line for a tree, and then duck sidewise,
the snake will strike his forked and pizened tail into the tree, and the
tree will die."
There was a popular belief
that the female snake swallowed her young ones in the presence of danger,
turning herself into a sort of animated "dug-out" for their safety.
* * * * * * * * *
I think I hear some of my
youthful readers exclaim, "What a superstitious lot! " But not so fast. So
long as we find multitudes in our own day ready to believe the absurdities
of spirit mediums, fortune-tellers, miraculous healers, and charlatans of
every sort, we are not in a position to throw stones at our ancestors. |
