his very heart felt as hard as a rock. Enraged at his own want of feeling, he determined to throw himself upon the grave and lie there till his heart should break, when he was recalled to consciousness by a friend, who entered the room to inform him that breakfast was ready. He started as if awoke from a profound sleep, though he was standing before the mirror with a hairbrush in his hand.
After composing himself, he related to his friend what he had seen, and both concluded that a good breakfast only was wanting to dissipate his unpleasant impressions.
A few days afterwards, however, he received the melancholy intelligence that his wife had died suddenly, and the time corresponded with the day he had been startled by the first vision in the mirror. When he returned home he described minutely all the details of the funeral he had seen in his vision, and they corresponded with the facts. This is probably one of the most vivid instances of clairvoyance on record. Mr. M’Donald knows nothing of modern spiritualism or clairvoyance, as most of his life has been passed upon a farm and among forests. It may not be amiss to state that his father, who was a Scotch Highlander, had the gift of “second sight.” — Boston Traveller.
Collingwood is located on Georgian Bay in Northern Ontario. Today it is an affluent year-round resort community; in the past it had a profitable ship-building yard. This news story is reprinted from the Quebec Daily News, Quebec City, December 22, 1862.
A Collingwood Ghost Spiritually Inclined
A few months ago an old man fell over the railway wharf at Collingwood, and was drowned. — Ever since, the more simple folks of the town have been under the impression that his spirit walks the wharf when churchyards yawn. On Tuesday night, one of the railway officials had occasion to walk along the wharf on business. He carried in his hand a lantern, and to his astonishment he observed what he supposed to be the ghost of the drowned man. In the outstretched hand of his ghostship was a tumbler containing what appeared to be liquor, the deceased having been rather fond of a drop, while an inhabitant of this lower world. While the official stood gazing at the spectre, a voice exclaimed, in deep sepulchral tones, the word “Beware,” and the spirit vanished into thin air. He returned to the office and acquainted the other officials with what he had seen, who tried to laugh him out of it, but without effect. He still declares that he saw the ghost of the old man.
A spirit is often believed to be the guardian of a person or the warden of a specific site. “A Ghost in Thorold” appeared in the St. Catharines Journal, October 23, 1863.
A Ghost in Thorold
Last week the bridge-tender at the bridge over the Canal entering the village from the North resigned his position, and a gentleman of the Irish persuasion from the town took his place. It seems that at some indefinite period a man was drowned near the bridge, whose shade remained perfectly invisible until Thursday night last, when Andy was on duty. On that night Andy saw a man with a lantern, or a lantern without a man, approach the bridge, and apparently inspect it very closely. Andy went toward the object, and said, “It’s a fine night then,” but received no answer. This incivility on the part of a stranger irritated Andy, who raised his foot and made a kick at the lantern, hitting a shabbing post. He repeated this operation several times, and with a like result each time. Before he would kick, the lantern would seem to be between him and the post, and after doing so, it would appear on the other side. This puzzled him, and caused his toes and conscience both to become sore, and he retired to his shanty, locking himself in. — On Friday night the same interesting programme was performed. On Saturday night Andy swore he would not stop alone, and when three boys came along, he impressed them and detained them until two a.m., and then let them depart, the “Witching hour of night, When church-yards yawn, And graves give forth their dead” being over. On Monday he resigned, and refuses to go near the bridge.
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?”
