On the morrow, he learned of his father's death. In Northumberland, Durham, and various parts of Yorkshire, the
ghost-dog, which is firmly believed in, is styled Barguest, Bahrgeist,
or Boguest; whilst in Lancashire it is termed the Boggart. Its most
common form in these counties is a large, black dog with flaming eyes;
and its appearance is a certain prognostication of death. According to tradition there was once a "Barguest" in a glen between
Darlington and Houghton, near Throstlenest. Another haunted a piece of
waste land above a spring called the Oxwells, between Wreghorn and
Headingley Hill, near Leeds. On the death of any person of local
importance in the neighbourhood the creature would come forth, followed
by all the other dogs, barking and howling. (Henderson refers to these
hauntings in his _Folk-lore of Northern Counties_.) Another form of this animal spectre is the Capelthwaite, which,
according to common report, had the power of appearing in the form of
any quadruped, but usually chose that of a large, black dog. "_The Mauthe Doog_"

One of the most famous canine apparitions is that of the "Mauthe Doog,"
once said--and, I believe, still said--to haunt Peel Castle, Isle of
Man. Its favourite place, so I am told, was the guard-chamber, where it used
to crouch by the fireside. The sentry, so the story runs, got so
accustomed to seeing it, that they ceased to be afraid; but, as they
believed it to be of evil origin, waiting for an opportunity to seize
them, they were very particular what they said or did, and refrained
from swearing in its presence. The Mauthe Doog used to come out and
return by the passage through the church, by which the sentry on duty
had to go to deliver the keys every night to the captain. These men,
however, were far too nervous to go alone, and were invariably
accompanied by one of the retainers. On one occasion, however, one of
the sentinels, in a fit of drunken bravado, swore he was afraid of
nothing, and insisted on going alone. His comrades tried to dissuade
him, upon which he became abusive, cursed the Mauthe Doog, and said he
would d----d well strike it. An hour later, he returned absolutely mad
with horror, and speechless; nor could he even make signs, whereby his
friends could understand what had happened to him. He died soon
after--his features distorted--in violent agony. After this the
apparition was never seen again. As to what class of spirits the spectre dog belongs, that is impossible
to say. At the most we can only surmise, and I should think the chances
of its being the actual phantasm of some dead dog or an elemental are
about equal. It is probably sometimes the one and sometimes the other;
and its origin is very possibly like that of the Banshee. _Spectral Hounds_

As with the spectre dog, so with packs of hounds, stories of them come
from all parts of the country. Gervase of Tilbury states that as long ago as the thirteenth century a
pack of spectral hounds was frequently witnessed, on nights when the
moon was full, scampering across forest and downs. In the twelfth
century the pack was known as "the Herlething" and haunted, chiefly, the
banks of the Wye. Roby, in his _Traditions of Lancashire_; Hardwick, in his _Traditions,
Superstitions, and Folk-lore_; Homerton, in his _Isles of Loch Awe_;
Wirt Sykes, in his _British Goblins_; Sir Walter Scott, and others, all
refer to them. In the North of England they are known as "Gabriel's
Hounds"; in Devon as the "Wisk," "Yesk," "Yeth," or "Heath Hounds"; in
Wales as the "Cwn Annwn" or "Cyn y Wybr"; in Cornwall as the "Devil and
his Dandy-Dogs"; and in the neighbourhood of Leeds as the "Gabble
Retchets." They are common all over the Continent. In appearance they
are usually described as monstrous, human-headed dogs, black, with fiery
eyes and teeth, and sprinkled all over with blood. They make a great
howling noise, which is very shrill and mournful, and appear to be in
hot pursuit of some unseen quarry. When they approach a house, it may be
taken as a certain sign someone in that house will die very shortly. According to Mr. Roby, a spectre huntsman known by the name Gabriel
Ratchets, accompanied by a pack of phantom hounds, is said to hunt a
milk-white doe round the Eagle's Crag in the Vale of Todmorden every All
Hallows Eve. These hounds were also seen in Norfolk. A famous ecclesiast, when on his
way to the coast, was forced to spend the night in the King's Lynn Inn,
owing to a violent snowstorm. Retiring to bed directly after supper, he
tried to forget his disappointment in reading a volume of sermons he had
bought at a second-hand shop in Bury St. Edmunds. "I think I can use this one," he said to himself. "It will do nicely for
the people of Aylesham. They are so steeped in hypocrisy that nothing
short of violent denunciation will bring it home to them. This I think,
however, will pierce even their skins." A sudden noise made him spring up. "Hounds!" he exclaimed. "And at this time of night! Good heavens!" He flew to the window, and there, careering through the yard, baying as
they ran, were, at least, fifty luminous, white hounds. Instead of
leaping the stone wall, they passed right through it, and the bishop
then realized that they were Gabriel Hounds. The following evening he
received tidings of his son's--his only son's--death. I have heard that the "Yeth Hounds" were seen, not so long ago, in a
parish in Yorkshire by an old poacher called Barnes. Barnes was walking
in the fields one night, when he suddenly heard the baying of the
hounds, and the hoarse shouts of the huntsman. The next moment the whole
pack hove in view and tore past him so close that he received a cut from
"the whip" on his leg. To his surprise, however, it did not hurt him, it
only felt icy cold. He then knew that he had seen the "Yeth Hounds." _A Spectral Pack of Hounds in Russia_

A gentleman of the name of Rappaport whom I once met in Southampton told
me of an experience he had once had with a spectral pack of hounds on
the slope of the Urals. "It was about half-past eleven one winter's
night," he said, "and I was driving through a thick forest, when my
coachman suddenly leaned back in his seat and called out, 'Do you hear
that?' I listened, and from afar came a plaintive, whining sound. 'It's
not Volki, is it?' I asked. 'I'm afraid so, master,' the coachman
replied, 'they're coming on after us.' "'But they are some way off still!' I said. "'That is so,' he responded, 'but wolves run quick, and our horses are
tired. If we can reach the lake first we shall be all right, but should
they overtake us before we get there--' and he shrugged his great
shoulders suggestively. 'Not another word,' I cried. 'Drive--drive as if
'twere the devil himself. I have my rifle ready, and will shoot the
first wolf that shows itself.' "'Very good, master,' he answered. 'I will do everything that can be
done to save your skin and mine.' He cracked his whip, and away flew the
horses at a breakneck speed.