sergeant, taking a sip of his liquor. “The doctor thought not; but doctors don’t know everything; and if there were no ghosts, why I should like to ask should the spirit of Samuel appear to Saul, and answer his questions?”
“Well, sergeant,” said I, “if you are going to the Bible for arguments, I shall shut up. Finish your glass, my man, and let us say good night.”
He finished his glass, he said good night, and walked away with the air of a man who thought he had the best of the argument.
In the Western Part of Cumberland — Romantic Traditions of Old Time Tragedies — Along the Parrsboro Shore — A Very Racy Story — By S.D. Scott — (Written for the Christmas Herald)
Halifax Morning Herald, December 24, 1887
The person who led the Editor of the Herald’s Christmas supplement to suppose that Parrsboro and the regions adjoining are richly supplied with interesting ghosts, should have been called upon to write a paper on that subject — rather than the writer. The western section of the good old county is, indeed, not without its romantic traditions. In several settlements there remained a few years ago a saving remnant of believers, survivors of those richer times, when local tragedies, acted upon the unskepticized minds of men, as seed falling on good ground, brought forth a fruitful harvest of good old-fashioned ghosts. During those fine times, not more than two generations ago in this region, little information came by way of the post office, and few were the travelers who brought accounts of the business of distant climes. Messages from other countries came so seldom that the people naturally turned for society to residents of that Undiscovered Country, from whose bourne they had been led to believe occasional travelers returned. The other world was nearer than the greater part of this, and the affairs of the nation, the strife of political factions, the war of creeds, the new discoveries of science, or the latest inventions in fashions never diverted their attention from supernatural visitors. The early families read few books in those original days. They rather sought light in evening consultation before the big fireplace, and in that solitary meditation from which minds naturally receptive and unbiased by the methodical training of modern school life, come out well stored with theories of natural and spiritual life. Few are the localities where the well authenticated facts of fifty years ago are now received with that faith which alone makes a ghost story prosperous. These things pertaining to the supernatural are in a sense spiritually discerned, and if historian and audience are not for the time in a believing mood the most stirring narratives become in the language of the late Mr. Lennie’s “things without life, as milk.”
The Cumberland ghosts are of two classes, one of which we may call Real Estate Ghosts, and the other Portable Ghosts. The first class are so designated because they are attached to the realty. They remain near the scene of the tragedy to which they owe their existence, and show themselves to suitable travelers without respect to the connection or want of connection the spectator may have had with the original event. The Portable Ghosts are the personal property of the murderers or other parties connected with the crime. They usually act in lieu of conscience and keep dark deeds from escaping the mind. Several haunted men have lived and died in Parrsboro. Their ghosts have departed with them. The permanent apparitions, as the age degenerates, are the less disposed to be visible, finding the people fewer and fewer to whom a self-respecting ghost would care to appear.
A chapter on Parrsboro ghosts would therefore read much like the famous treatise on snakes in Ireland. At last accounts, however, the Holy Way Brook ghost in the Fork Woods, near Athol, had not yet taken his final leave. The woods themselves, which before the railway was built, stretched without a break a mile each way from the rock whereon the fearful visitor was wont to sit in the quiet evening hour, are now destroyed. The spirit that dwells on the old Etter road has not yet entirely been withdrawn. The change of the name of Maccan mountain to Mapleton has not deprived the two or three disembodied inhabitants of their earthly home. Civilization has not so much as approached the Boar’s Back ghost, and though the Haunted Mill at Parrsboro is now no more there, the spot where it stood has still its horror.
Along the shore before reaching Advocate Harbor there are many spots to which the spirits of the departed were of late wont to return, and unless the telephone and other materialistic influences have wrought for evil, the same is true at present. A precipice by the highway down which a carriage rolled with its human freight, has its well known ghost. There is a shipyard where, perhaps twelve years ago, a woman’s form appeared almost every evening throughout the summer. Moving lightly and mysteriously about the frame work and stagings, passing securely over perilous places, she ever sang strange wild songs, which were heard by scores of the neighbors and by passers by. There is a spot on the beach where ghosts have been often seen hovering near the foot of the high-arched headland above Spencer’s Island, where strange deeds have perhaps been done, and it is said, though on shadowy authority, that the spirit of the sailor whose tomb on the island itself gives the place its name, has been met by the lone tourist. The ghost of one of Capt. Kidd’s murdered men, killed and stationed to guard buried treasure, is familiar to those who go to Cape d’Or or “Isle Haunt” to dig for pirate gold. These and a few others are all the ghosts that remain of the grand old company that formerly dwelt in Parrsboro and its neighborhood. Of the ghosts, who are personal attendants of bad men, who can write of them? Those who possess the best information are, for obvious reasons, the least communicative. It is not, perhaps, to the credit of human nature that the belief in witches survives the faith in ghosts. This truth not only reflects upon the spiritual faculties, as indicating the need of a material form wherewith to connect the supernatural manifestations, but it also tells against our disposition, since it leads to the suspicion that the refusal to abandon faith in witchcraft may be due to a lingering desire to believe ill of a neighbor. It is probably safe to say that in this country every rural township which has been long settled has at some time within the century contained a family skilled in witchcraft. Parrsboro and the adjoining region is certainly no exception. Fifty years hence, if we all live and do not change our minds, fuller historic details will be in order. One of the most prosperous communities in the neighborhood of which we are talking, was one day, within the recollection of all elderly, and of many middle-aged persons now living, thrown into great confusion by remarkable and dangerous flights of stones. Pebbles of all sizes were seen hurling through the air, journeying horizontally, perpendicularly, and in all manner of unnatural curves. They changed direction at right angles while moving, doubled back on their track as if thrown from a celestial boomerang. Never were the laws of projectiles so absurdly violated. It was absolutely impossible that the singular storm could be due to human agency. Many of the best citizens of the place saw this wonderful sight, and several had demonstration more painful than that of sight. It was a terrible day, one well remembered and often spoken of. You may believe that this rain of stones was caused by some natural process, but if so it will on the whole be better for you not to say so in the presence of the good people who were there at the time. They will assure you with dignity that they have the testimony of their eyes, ears and sense of feeling, and will regard your questioning as a reflection on their veracity. One thing is certain that the character of the witnesses forbids the assumption that the story is a fabrication. If you will pursue your inquiries you will learn that the ordeal or test known as “boiling for witches,” was solemnly applied, and with such success that the human associate of the Prince of Darkness was forced to the scene of inquest, so that any doubt, (not that there was any) must be set aside. Much may be learned of other dark doings of the above-mentioned workers of witchcraft. How domestic animals brought under the spell sometimes died, but more frequently acted in a most unaccountable fashion. The hitherto well-behaved ox no longer followed the furrow, the best of cows either went dry or gave red milk, the staidest of horse kind became coltish and exhibited evidences of terror. For these bewitchings the remedy was the boiling or burning test. The milk of the unfortunate cow thus treated, with the proper solemnities, brought the agent piteously begging, and in awful suffering, to the door — where pledges of total abstinence from witchcraft against the
