Had the incident he related taken place
in England or Wales, I should have noted it down carefully, but as it
occurred in Scotland (and I had no intention then of bringing out a
volume on Scottish phantasms), I did not do so.
My memory, however, I can assure my readers, in spite of the many
ghost tales committed to it,--for scarcely a day passes that I do not
hear one,--seldom fails, and the Irish clergyman's story, which I am
about to relate, comes back to me now with startling vividness.
One summer evening, early in the eighties, Mr. Murphy--the name by
which I will designate the originator of this story--and his wife
arrived in Dundee. The town was utterly unknown to them, and they were
touring Scotland for the first time. Not knowing where to put up for
the night, and knowing no one to whom they could apply for
information, they consulted a local paper, and from the long list of
hotels and boarding-houses advertised therein selected the Benrachett
Inn, near the Perth Road, as being the one most likely to meet their
modest requirements. They were certainly not disappointed with the
exterior of the hotel they had chosen, for as soon as they saw it they
exclaimed simultaneously, "What a delightful old place!" And old it
certainly was, for the many-gabled, oaken structure and projecting
windows unquestionably indicated the sixteenth century, whilst, to
enhance the effect and give it a true touch in detail of "ye ancient
times," a huge antique lantern was hung over the entrance.
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