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The phantom Friar by Augustine J.
H. Dugan. You admire our little

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church, sir, said the sacriston
to me, as we rested together upon

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a stone horse block, worn smooth
by the feet of many a squire and

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yeoman, now reposing quietly in the
green churchyard, skirted by the low wall

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which supported our backs. Indeed,
it is one of the most interesting of

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all the rural churches which I have
seen in England. You come from abroad,

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sir. I am an American,
I replied, indeed, and I

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fancied. The old Sacriston regarded me
with a still kindlier eye. Perhaps some

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favorite child had left the paternal roof
and now dwelt upon New England's hills or

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among the South Savannas. But I
did not question the venerable man who knows

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indeed what cord might have been awakened. Is there no legend connected with this

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church, my friend? Twere a
pity if not that there is, sir.

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And if you can listen to an
old man's tale, I can do

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no better than to while your time
till we hear the steam whistle. Many

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thanks. You will not only while
the time, but I doubt not entertain

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me greatly. I own myself an
inveterate legend hunter. The sacristan smiled and

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at once commenced. You must know, sir, that, on the sight

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of this church, which is now
about one hundred and fifty years old,

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existed formerly a very prosperous abbey belonging
to the monks of Saint Benedict, or

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Blackfriars, as they were commonly called. It was reputed to contain great store

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of solid wealth, and consequently,
when the wars broke out between Cavalier and

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Puritan, was very speedily assaulted,
dismantled, and nearly destroyed by one of

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Cromwell's zealous captains, who however,
got but his labor for his pains,

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inasmuch as not a penny of lucco
was found in possession of monk or abbot.

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Nevertheless, the brotherhood, that is, such as escaped the bloody shift

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so common in those days, were
effectually dispersed by the violence done to their

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dwelling place, And since that period
no Black Friar has ever told his beads

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in the neighborhood. But it was
not many years before superstition began to invest

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the ruins with the usual dread attached
to monuments of past violence and to people

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with ghostly visitors, the halls deserted
by mortal footsteps. Meanwhile, Cromwell and

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his stern troopers gave place to Charles
and his reckless cavaliers, and these in

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turn made way for James and his
shaven monks, about which time there began

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to be rumors of a contemplated rebuilding
of the Benedictine Abbey, which set all

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the gossips of Suffolk to whispering about
the apparition of an old friar, who,

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on several occasions, as averred by
the peasants, had been seen flitting

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among the ivy mantled stones or stooping
over the broken slabs in the ancient burial

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place. But the work of restoration
was never commenced, though it was asserted

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that commissioners from the king had actually
visited the place, and, as was

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said, entered upon negotiations with artisans. However, there was very good reason

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why the design of rebuilding the abbey, if such indeed had been entertained,

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should not be completed. For about
this period, the pious James was forced

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to pack up his royalty and DeCamp
for the French court, while his dutiful

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daughter Mary and his son in law
William of Nassau took quiet possession of his

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crown and kingdom. Nearly half a
century had now passed since the sack and

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destruction of the abbey, and its
supernatural reputation had grown apace with the weeds,

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which tangled themselves into rank luxuriance among
the old walls and fallen roof trees.

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Periodically was seen to walk about the
grounds the ghost of an aged monk

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attired in the black serge garment of
the Benedictines, and more than one benighted

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traveler had heard, as he would
swear roundly the mumbling of mass by that

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black friar amid the ruins, while
Satan himself in a cowl, sat astride

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of a tombstone, delivering the responses. It is no wonder, then,

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that the dismantled monastery became at length
known as the Dell's Abbey, or that

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it was decided to be no fit
walk for Christian foot, but to be

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left to witches for a nocturnal trysting
place. But about the second year of

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the Dutch Stadtholder's reign, it chanced
that a worthy pedler, who was in

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the habit of vending ribbons and trinkets
through the rural districts, and, by

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his uncommon honesty as a hawker and
good humor as a companion, enjoyed no

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small modicum of popularity among his rustic
customers, found himself one michaelmas Eve,

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in the unhappy vicinity of our haunted
monastery. He had taken a short cut

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across the fields in order to reach
sooner the market town where he made his

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home and kept a little warehouse for
the goods which he trafficked up and down

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the country, and had just gained
the wild spot on which stood the ruins,

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when a violent thunderstorm arising suddenly obliged
him for the sation of his pack

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to seek speedy shelter under one of
the still upright and ivy covered arches.

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He happily discovered a dry resting place
and quickly made himself as comfortable as circumstances

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would allow. It was near dark
when the storm arose, and will Knottle,

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as the peddler was named, expected
that it would soon spend its force

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and pass away, leaving him to
be sure the wet fields for his journey,

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but with the returning moon to guide
his path, he miscalculated, however,

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the duration of the tempest, which
continued to rage with unabated fury till

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hours had passed away, and he
began to reckon midnight very near at hand.

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Now, Master Knottle was a stout
hearted and merry fellow, little troubled

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by ghost stories, though he was
in the habit of relating to the wide

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mouthed lads and round eyed glasses,
whoever welcomed him to meet and lodging in

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their snug farmhouses. Nevertheless, the
reflection that he was alone at midnight in

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the very headquarters of Hobgoblinry, and
on Michaelmas Eve, too chosen, as

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is well known, of all nights
in the year, for which revels and

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incantations did not, it may be
fancied, decrease the unpleasantness of his situation.

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In truth, as the night wore
on, he grew somewhat more nervish

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than was his wont and long ere
the storm gave signs of lull, he

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had many times devoutly wished himself safely
out of the Dell's abbey. At length,

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the clouds parted the wind sank,
and large drops succeeded to the close

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showers which had followed fast on one
another through the night, till at last

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the moon broke cout letting its radiance
gush full over field and forest, making

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the moist landscape glitter in silver sheen. Will Nuttles stretched his legs, rose

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briskly, and slung his pack,
and then stepped from under the protecting arch

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to pursue his homeward journey, essaying
at the same time a lively whistle,

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either to summon his courage or to
scare away whatsoever looking elves might be peering

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at him from the still somber shadows
of the ruins. But whistle and foot

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were both abruptly checked as Will's eye
glanced toward the ancient burial ground and saw,

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where plainly defined in the moonlight,
the figure of an old man clad

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in Monkish habit, was stooping near
a gray tomb, not twenty paces from

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the spot where he himself stood.
The pedler stared fixedly, unable to withdraw

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his eyes, though his frame shook
in every joint, while the phantom friar

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rose slowly from its bending posture and
uplifting its hands, in one of which

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was grasped a black crucifix stood a
moment bolt upright, as if invoking a

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curse upon the wretched mortal who had
intruded on its domain. Will Muttle strove

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to run away, but his feet
refused to turn. He tried to cry

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aloud, but his voice failed him, so, doing the only thing he

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could, he let his knees double
under him and sank quietly on the wet

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grass, where he lay prostrate for
a space, shivering like one in an

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egg you fit, expecting each moment
to feel a bony hand on his head,

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or a pair of skeleton legs bestriding
his broad shoulders. But as neither

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of these consequences followed, he soon
ventured to raise his head a bit,

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and, finally, without looking toward
the gray tombstone, to bolt suddenly away

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into the broad moonlit highway a few
rods off, whence he made his way

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homeward with all his speed he could
command. Next morning, will Nuttle was

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late in setting out with his pack, and the neighbors noted that he was

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not in his usual spirits. But
the pedlar mentioned not concerning his nocturnal adventure,

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For indeed, he began already to
feel ashamed of his fright, and

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to ask himself how a blithe,
ghost jeering lad like wil Nuttle could have

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run away from some shadow of his
own fancy. So he kept his counsel

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and went on as usual, plying
his traffic from Hamlet to Hamlet, getting

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little richer. It is true,
for he was a free hearted fellow,

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but making store of friends in his
up and down wanderings. So a year

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passed away, and Michaelmas Eve drew
near again, and as it chanced,

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found will in the neighborhood again of
the haunted Del's Abbey. An errant dolt.

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Was I to run away from my
own shadow? Quoth the peddler to

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himself, as he called to mind
his midnight terror. Faith, I had

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een a mind to pass another Michaelmas
at the old Friar's Gate, and see

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if mine host Wilbster himself. No
sooner resolved than will Nuttall set forth to

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execute. And once more, as
the moonbeams streamed brightly over the ancient ruins,

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with no storm to interrupt their beauty, the bold peddler appeared hard upon

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the witching hour, and, as
if to dare the phantom to its worst,

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advanced with a stout cudgel over the
shoulder which bore his pack, and

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took post beside the very gray tombstone
over which he had beheld the ghost monk

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stooping but oh rash and foolhardy white
scarce, had he reached the slab,

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when turning toward the shattered arch where
he had before found shelter, he beheld

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the self same sight that had then
uphold him. The figure of an aged

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monk with cowl and crucifix emerged from
the ivied shadow, and with slow steps

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approached as if to confront him.
Will Nuttle saw, and his courage evaporated

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down. He subsided as before,
and with what little strength he could muster,

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crawled and burrowed until he had got
himself quite underneath a broken stone hatchment

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that rested lantingly against the old gray
tomb. Here, shrinking into as small

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a bulk as possible, as if
he hoped by such means to elude the

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grim friar, he held his breath
and strove to bethink him of all the

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prayers which he had ever forgotten.
In another moment, he felt a rustle

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of garments close beside him, and
presently a low voice muttered some strange words

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in a language unknown to him,
to which consequently he did not feel himself

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called upon to reply, though he
had his misgivings as to whether it might

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not be his own death sentence delivered
by some demoniac judge. To this low

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voice, monotonous and rapid, the
hopeless pedlo listened for several minutes, and

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then all became silent again. Meantime, almost ready to give up his personal

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ghost. Most bitterly did he bewail
his past skepticism regarding supernatural beings, and

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firmly did he resolve, if delivered
safe out of the black friar's clutches,

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to believe most devoutly, henceforth in
spooks, spirits, brownies, and banchees

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of whatever degree climb or complexion.
Thus fortified, he ventured when the voice

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ceased, to raise his head an
inch and steal a look at his ghostly

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neighbor. Very phantom like and grim, indeed was the old face which looked

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out from under that black cowl.
And ashy were the cheeks, and glassy

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the fixed eyes. The figure knelt
against the tomb, close to the hatchment

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which concealed the peddler. Its thin
hands clasped and pressed against its breast a

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sable crucifix. Its withered lips appeared
still to move, but e kmitted no

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sound. Will Nuttles saw all this
at a glance, and the next moment

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beheld the phantom sink bodily downward and
disappear under the churchyard sod Well, that,

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to be sure, was enough to
frighten flesh and blood. However bold

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its possessor, so it was no
marvel that Will fainted incontinently away under his

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hatchment, And thus he remained until
the light of a rosy morning chased off

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all evil things, and peered into
his face and woke him once more to

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the world of living things. He
was drenched with the heavy night dew,

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but beyond this had sustained no injury
to his corporeal substance. Now am I

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an ass or there be ghosts?
Soliloquized Will Nuttle, as he gradually became

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aware of his identity and rubbed his
eyes to get a better look of every

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object around him. What I have
seen now, no Christian man may speak

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lightly of I, and ear were
open if faith Nevertheless, if ghosts there

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be, it be plain too they
have no power or mortal man. Else

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were I not unharm'd this day?
So if there harbor no malice nor hurt

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ill a good people, let no
evil be spoken of them, say I,

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talking thus to himself and peering boldly
about him. As he saw the

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sunlight brightening in the east, will
shook himself and proceeded to impart animation to

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his benumbed limbs by a liberal bestowal
of smart buffets on his breast. The

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old gray tombs began by this time
to look cheery in the morning beams,

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and the ivied arches and shattered walls
had lost all trace of ghostliness. Nevertheless,

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our peddler could not help a fearsome
qualm as his eyes fell upon the

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spot where they had beheld the black
friar disappear under the sod. But will

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Nuttle's look dwelt longer than before,
for it had caught sudden sight of an

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opening just beneath the gray tomb,
and close beside the hatchment which had so

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opportunely covered his person. The peddler
stooped and beheld a square aperture half concealed

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by dank weeds, below which were
several steps of stone, apparently leading to

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a vault beneath the monument. Into
this aperture he peered curiously, but all

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was dark. Only a smell of
damp earth came from beneath. Will Nuttle

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paused a few moments, and then
a strange fancy came into his mind.

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If ghosts must have holes to go
and come by, quoth he, they

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be little better off than people wi
bodies. This reflection inspiring him, he

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hesitated not to put his best foot
through the square opening and descend cautiously the

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slippery stones. Very dimly lit was
the sepulchral vault to which the bold hawker

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found his way, but he could
see that it was an oblong apartment,

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and very much like other ancient receptacles
of mortality. But what drew his notice

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first was a little mound of earth
near the foot of the stone steps,

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which seemed to have been lately disturbed, and a mattock and pick in a

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niche near by, to which there
yet clung several lumps of moist yellow clay.

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Hoh, said will Nuttle. They
be strange ghosts that use a attocks

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to dig their graves withale. Will
Nuttell sat himself down upon one of the

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stone steps, with the morning light, faintly entering over his shoulder to the

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old vault, and began to reflect
upon Phantom's in general, and black Benedictines

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in particular, the result of his
cogitations was his sudden springing to his feet,

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seizing the pick, and digging away
at the little mound with as hearty

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a will as if he had been
a born sexton, and not long indeed

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had he to labor. Ere his
pick struck against a hard substance, and

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a few shovels full of clay removed. Discovered to his wandering eyes a goodly

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sized oaken chest, bound with iron
bands. One or two sturdy blows sufficed

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to split the moldy lid, and
the poor peddler almost shrieked aloud as he

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beheld it filled with rusty silver coin. Will was a shrewd fellow, and

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quickly determined on his course of action. The treasure could not all be removed

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at once, but it was not
long before he had conveyed it by piecemeal

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to his little warehouse in the market
town. Then he gave out that he

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should no longer pursue the hawker's trade, but enlarging his shop soon branched out

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into cautious speculation, until he got
the reputation of a thriving tradesman worthy of

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all respect. Now nearly seven years
after this, it happened that the parish

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church was struck by lightning during a
storm, and so burned by the flames

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that it became necessary for a public
appeal to be made for a general subscription

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to repair the edifice. Among others
to whom the officers applied was will Nuttle.

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The good fellow looked over the list
of those who had already contributed.

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What's this, said he the squire. But five pounds, the doctor,

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but one pound. The it is
too true, said one of the officers.

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More might they afford. But alas
I fear our poor church will be

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slowly mended here, I will do
what I can, said will Knuttle,

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And he straightway subscribed twenty pounds,
which so surprised the worthy deacon that had

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spoken that he rubbed his spectacles thrice
as he looked at the figures. Then

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bidding thanks to the tradesman, he
was about to depart when his eye caught

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sight of the counter on which the
subscription book had been lying, and which

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was a very ancient piece of oak, with strange old letters writ upon it,

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but scarce to be noticed, so
nearly were they raised. Ah,

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you have something odd here, Master
Knuttle, said the old deacon, who

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a bit of an antiquary. Woe, what is it? Stammered will For

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he at once recollected that this counterslab
was the lid of the old chest which

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had held his treasure, and which
he had placed in its present position as

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a memorial of his good fortune.
Something I decipher, But it is an

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old Gothic text, answered the worthy
deacon. Will it please you to read

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it? Sir asked, will I
mean the English of it? The antiquary

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rubbed his spectacles, and, stooping
nearer red in the lands where this stood,

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another stands twice as good hem,
said will Nuttle, What may that

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signify? We are as wise now
as before, Aye, rejoined the deacon,

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for who can tell where an old
oak tree stood? Who indeed echoed

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will. But when the antiquarian deacon
had gone, the good merchant said to

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himself, ah, ha ha,
perhaps I can tell where it stood?

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And see if there be another twice
as good, I'll be off presently so.

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Indeed, will Nuttall lost no time
in visiting the Del's abbey, again,

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taking good care to conceal his motions
from everybody, And sure enough,

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some feet deeper than the spot where
he had discovered the silver was buried another

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coffer, not so large, but
far more valuable, inasmuch as it was

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filled with golden crowns instead of silver. This prize he made his own with

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all the caution that he had before
observed, And from that time henceforth he

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prospered, after saying to himself,
there is a blessing goes with helping churches.

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And this church, said I to
the Sacristan, was built by the

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pedlar's secret treasure, answered the old
man, will Nuttle purchased all the land

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and here erected the structure you have
admired, ordering the ancient abbey model to

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be preserved. Look in yonder oriel
window. Do you see what is painted

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on the stained glass? I looked
and saw the representation of a figure with

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a burden on his shoulder. It
is the pedlar and his pack, said

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the sacristan. But the old monk, the Black Friar the Phantom, I

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asked it was, but we were
interrupted for the shrill whistle of the mail

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train was heard, and in another
moment whiz London Sir. I was aboard,

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and we were off in a second. But as I looked back,

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I saw the sacristan wave his hand, and caught a glimpse of the Peddlar's

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church through the grove around, and
then I had left all forever. End

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of the Phantom Friar by Augustine Dugan