The phantom Friar by Augustine J. H. Dugan. You admire our little
church, sir, said the sacriston to me, as we rested together upon
a stone horse block, worn smooth by the feet of many a squire and
yeoman, now reposing quietly in the green churchyard, skirted by the low wall
which supported our backs. Indeed, it is one of the most interesting of
all the rural churches which I have seen in England. You come from abroad,
sir. I am an American, I replied, indeed, and I
fancied. The old Sacriston regarded me with a still kindlier eye. Perhaps some
favorite child had left the paternal roof and now dwelt upon New England's hills or
among the South Savannas. But I did not question the venerable man who knows
indeed what cord might have been awakened. Is there no legend connected with this
church, my friend? Twere a pity if not that there is, sir.
And if you can listen to an old man's tale, I can do
no better than to while your time till we hear the steam whistle. Many
thanks. You will not only while the time, but I doubt not entertain
me greatly. I own myself an inveterate legend hunter. The sacristan smiled and
at once commenced. You must know, sir, that, on the sight
of this church, which is now about one hundred and fifty years old,
existed formerly a very prosperous abbey belonging to the monks of Saint Benedict, or
Blackfriars, as they were commonly called. It was reputed to contain great store
of solid wealth, and consequently, when the wars broke out between Cavalier and
Puritan, was very speedily assaulted, dismantled, and nearly destroyed by one of
Cromwell's zealous captains, who however, got but his labor for his pains,
inasmuch as not a penny of lucco was found in possession of monk or abbot.
Nevertheless, the brotherhood, that is, such as escaped the bloody shift
so common in those days, were effectually dispersed by the violence done to their
dwelling place, And since that period no Black Friar has ever told his beads
in the neighborhood. But it was not many years before superstition began to invest
the ruins with the usual dread attached to monuments of past violence and to people
with ghostly visitors, the halls deserted by mortal footsteps. Meanwhile, Cromwell and
his stern troopers gave place to Charles and his reckless cavaliers, and these in
turn made way for James and his shaven monks, about which time there began
to be rumors of a contemplated rebuilding of the Benedictine Abbey, which set all
the gossips of Suffolk to whispering about the apparition of an old friar, who,
on several occasions, as averred by the peasants, had been seen flitting
among the ivy mantled stones or stooping over the broken slabs in the ancient burial
place. But the work of restoration was never commenced, though it was asserted
that commissioners from the king had actually visited the place, and, as was
said, entered upon negotiations with artisans. However, there was very good reason
why the design of rebuilding the abbey, if such indeed had been entertained,
should not be completed. For about this period, the pious James was forced
to pack up his royalty and DeCamp for the French court, while his dutiful
daughter Mary and his son in law William of Nassau took quiet possession of his
crown and kingdom. Nearly half a century had now passed since the sack and
destruction of the abbey, and its supernatural reputation had grown apace with the weeds,
which tangled themselves into rank luxuriance among the old walls and fallen roof trees.
Periodically was seen to walk about the grounds the ghost of an aged monk
attired in the black serge garment of the Benedictines, and more than one benighted
traveler had heard, as he would swear roundly the mumbling of mass by that
black friar amid the ruins, while Satan himself in a cowl, sat astride
of a tombstone, delivering the responses. It is no wonder, then,
that the dismantled monastery became at length known as the Dell's Abbey, or that
it was decided to be no fit walk for Christian foot, but to be
left to witches for a nocturnal trysting place. But about the second year of
the Dutch Stadtholder's reign, it chanced that a worthy pedler, who was in
the habit of vending ribbons and trinkets through the rural districts, and, by
his uncommon honesty as a hawker and good humor as a companion, enjoyed no
small modicum of popularity among his rustic customers, found himself one michaelmas Eve,
in the unhappy vicinity of our haunted monastery. He had taken a short cut
across the fields in order to reach sooner the market town where he made his
home and kept a little warehouse for the goods which he trafficked up and down
the country, and had just gained the wild spot on which stood the ruins,
when a violent thunderstorm arising suddenly obliged him for the sation of his pack
to seek speedy shelter under one of the still upright and ivy covered arches.
He happily discovered a dry resting place and quickly made himself as comfortable as circumstances
would allow. It was near dark when the storm arose, and will Knottle,
as the peddler was named, expected that it would soon spend its force
and pass away, leaving him to be sure the wet fields for his journey,
but with the returning moon to guide his path, he miscalculated, however,
the duration of the tempest, which continued to rage with unabated fury till
hours had passed away, and he began to reckon midnight very near at hand.
Now, Master Knottle was a stout hearted and merry fellow, little troubled
by ghost stories, though he was in the habit of relating to the wide
mouthed lads and round eyed glasses, whoever welcomed him to meet and lodging in
their snug farmhouses. Nevertheless, the reflection that he was alone at midnight in
the very headquarters of Hobgoblinry, and on Michaelmas Eve, too chosen, as
is well known, of all nights in the year, for which revels and
incantations did not, it may be fancied, decrease the unpleasantness of his situation.
In truth, as the night wore on, he grew somewhat more nervish
than was his wont and long ere the storm gave signs of lull, he
had many times devoutly wished himself safely out of the Dell's abbey. At length,
the clouds parted the wind sank, and large drops succeeded to the close
showers which had followed fast on one another through the night, till at last
the moon broke cout letting its radiance gush full over field and forest, making
the moist landscape glitter in silver sheen. Will Nuttles stretched his legs, rose
briskly, and slung his pack, and then stepped from under the protecting arch
to pursue his homeward journey, essaying at the same time a lively whistle,
either to summon his courage or to scare away whatsoever looking elves might be peering
at him from the still somber shadows of the ruins. But whistle and foot
were both abruptly checked as Will's eye glanced toward the ancient burial ground and saw,
where plainly defined in the moonlight, the figure of an old man clad
in Monkish habit, was stooping near a gray tomb, not twenty paces from
the spot where he himself stood. The pedler stared fixedly, unable to withdraw
his eyes, though his frame shook in every joint, while the phantom friar
rose slowly from its bending posture and uplifting its hands, in one of which
was grasped a black crucifix stood a moment bolt upright, as if invoking a
curse upon the wretched mortal who had intruded on its domain. Will Muttle strove
to run away, but his feet refused to turn. He tried to cry
aloud, but his voice failed him, so, doing the only thing he
could, he let his knees double under him and sank quietly on the wet
grass, where he lay prostrate for a space, shivering like one in an
egg you fit, expecting each moment to feel a bony hand on his head,
or a pair of skeleton legs bestriding his broad shoulders. But as neither
of these consequences followed, he soon ventured to raise his head a bit,
and, finally, without looking toward the gray tombstone, to bolt suddenly away
into the broad moonlit highway a few rods off, whence he made his way
homeward with all his speed he could command. Next morning, will Nuttle was
late in setting out with his pack, and the neighbors noted that he was
not in his usual spirits. But the pedlar mentioned not concerning his nocturnal adventure,
For indeed, he began already to feel ashamed of his fright, and
to ask himself how a blithe, ghost jeering lad like wil Nuttle could have
run away from some shadow of his own fancy. So he kept his counsel
and went on as usual, plying his traffic from Hamlet to Hamlet, getting
little richer. It is true, for he was a free hearted fellow,
but making store of friends in his up and down wanderings. So a year
passed away, and Michaelmas Eve drew near again, and as it chanced,
found will in the neighborhood again of the haunted Del's Abbey. An errant dolt.
Was I to run away from my own shadow? Quoth the peddler to
himself, as he called to mind his midnight terror. Faith, I had
een a mind to pass another Michaelmas at the old Friar's Gate, and see
if mine host Wilbster himself. No sooner resolved than will Nuttall set forth to
execute. And once more, as the moonbeams streamed brightly over the ancient ruins,
with no storm to interrupt their beauty, the bold peddler appeared hard upon
the witching hour, and, as if to dare the phantom to its worst,
advanced with a stout cudgel over the shoulder which bore his pack, and
took post beside the very gray tombstone over which he had beheld the ghost monk
stooping but oh rash and foolhardy white scarce, had he reached the slab,
when turning toward the shattered arch where he had before found shelter, he beheld
the self same sight that had then uphold him. The figure of an aged
monk with cowl and crucifix emerged from the ivied shadow, and with slow steps
approached as if to confront him. Will Nuttle saw, and his courage evaporated
down. He subsided as before, and with what little strength he could muster,
crawled and burrowed until he had got himself quite underneath a broken stone hatchment
that rested lantingly against the old gray tomb. Here, shrinking into as small
a bulk as possible, as if he hoped by such means to elude the
grim friar, he held his breath and strove to bethink him of all the
prayers which he had ever forgotten. In another moment, he felt a rustle
of garments close beside him, and presently a low voice muttered some strange words
in a language unknown to him, to which consequently he did not feel himself
called upon to reply, though he had his misgivings as to whether it might
not be his own death sentence delivered by some demoniac judge. To this low
voice, monotonous and rapid, the hopeless pedlo listened for several minutes, and
then all became silent again. Meantime, almost ready to give up his personal
ghost. Most bitterly did he bewail his past skepticism regarding supernatural beings, and
firmly did he resolve, if delivered safe out of the black friar's clutches,
to believe most devoutly, henceforth in spooks, spirits, brownies, and banchees
of whatever degree climb or complexion. Thus fortified, he ventured when the voice
ceased, to raise his head an inch and steal a look at his ghostly
neighbor. Very phantom like and grim, indeed was the old face which looked
out from under that black cowl. And ashy were the cheeks, and glassy
the fixed eyes. The figure knelt against the tomb, close to the hatchment
which concealed the peddler. Its thin hands clasped and pressed against its breast a
sable crucifix. Its withered lips appeared still to move, but e kmitted no
sound. Will Nuttles saw all this at a glance, and the next moment
beheld the phantom sink bodily downward and disappear under the churchyard sod Well, that,
to be sure, was enough to frighten flesh and blood. However bold
its possessor, so it was no marvel that Will fainted incontinently away under his
hatchment, And thus he remained until the light of a rosy morning chased off
all evil things, and peered into his face and woke him once more to
the world of living things. He was drenched with the heavy night dew,
but beyond this had sustained no injury to his corporeal substance. Now am I
an ass or there be ghosts? Soliloquized Will Nuttle, as he gradually became
aware of his identity and rubbed his eyes to get a better look of every
object around him. What I have seen now, no Christian man may speak
lightly of I, and ear were open if faith Nevertheless, if ghosts there
be, it be plain too they have no power or mortal man. Else
were I not unharm'd this day? So if there harbor no malice nor hurt
ill a good people, let no evil be spoken of them, say I,
talking thus to himself and peering boldly about him. As he saw the
sunlight brightening in the east, will shook himself and proceeded to impart animation to
his benumbed limbs by a liberal bestowal of smart buffets on his breast. The
old gray tombs began by this time to look cheery in the morning beams,
and the ivied arches and shattered walls had lost all trace of ghostliness. Nevertheless,
our peddler could not help a fearsome qualm as his eyes fell upon the
spot where they had beheld the black friar disappear under the sod. But will
Nuttle's look dwelt longer than before, for it had caught sudden sight of an
opening just beneath the gray tomb, and close beside the hatchment which had so
opportunely covered his person. The peddler stooped and beheld a square aperture half concealed
by dank weeds, below which were several steps of stone, apparently leading to
a vault beneath the monument. Into this aperture he peered curiously, but all
was dark. Only a smell of damp earth came from beneath. Will Nuttle
paused a few moments, and then a strange fancy came into his mind.
If ghosts must have holes to go and come by, quoth he, they
be little better off than people wi bodies. This reflection inspiring him, he
hesitated not to put his best foot through the square opening and descend cautiously the
slippery stones. Very dimly lit was the sepulchral vault to which the bold hawker
found his way, but he could see that it was an oblong apartment,
and very much like other ancient receptacles of mortality. But what drew his notice
first was a little mound of earth near the foot of the stone steps,
which seemed to have been lately disturbed, and a mattock and pick in a
niche near by, to which there yet clung several lumps of moist yellow clay.
Hoh, said will Nuttle. They be strange ghosts that use a attocks
to dig their graves withale. Will Nuttell sat himself down upon one of the
stone steps, with the morning light, faintly entering over his shoulder to the
old vault, and began to reflect upon Phantom's in general, and black Benedictines
in particular, the result of his cogitations was his sudden springing to his feet,
seizing the pick, and digging away at the little mound with as hearty
a will as if he had been a born sexton, and not long indeed
had he to labor. Ere his pick struck against a hard substance, and
a few shovels full of clay removed. Discovered to his wandering eyes a goodly
sized oaken chest, bound with iron bands. One or two sturdy blows sufficed
to split the moldy lid, and the poor peddler almost shrieked aloud as he
beheld it filled with rusty silver coin. Will was a shrewd fellow, and
quickly determined on his course of action. The treasure could not all be removed
at once, but it was not long before he had conveyed it by piecemeal
to his little warehouse in the market town. Then he gave out that he
should no longer pursue the hawker's trade, but enlarging his shop soon branched out
into cautious speculation, until he got the reputation of a thriving tradesman worthy of
all respect. Now nearly seven years after this, it happened that the parish
church was struck by lightning during a storm, and so burned by the flames
that it became necessary for a public appeal to be made for a general subscription
to repair the edifice. Among others to whom the officers applied was will Nuttle.
The good fellow looked over the list of those who had already contributed.
What's this, said he the squire. But five pounds, the doctor,
but one pound. The it is too true, said one of the officers.
More might they afford. But alas I fear our poor church will be
slowly mended here, I will do what I can, said will Knuttle,
And he straightway subscribed twenty pounds, which so surprised the worthy deacon that had
spoken that he rubbed his spectacles thrice as he looked at the figures. Then
bidding thanks to the tradesman, he was about to depart when his eye caught
sight of the counter on which the subscription book had been lying, and which
was a very ancient piece of oak, with strange old letters writ upon it,
but scarce to be noticed, so nearly were they raised. Ah,
you have something odd here, Master Knuttle, said the old deacon, who
a bit of an antiquary. Woe, what is it? Stammered will For
he at once recollected that this counterslab was the lid of the old chest which
had held his treasure, and which he had placed in its present position as
a memorial of his good fortune. Something I decipher, But it is an
old Gothic text, answered the worthy deacon. Will it please you to read
it? Sir asked, will I mean the English of it? The antiquary
rubbed his spectacles, and, stooping nearer red in the lands where this stood,
another stands twice as good hem, said will Nuttle, What may that
signify? We are as wise now as before, Aye, rejoined the deacon,
for who can tell where an old oak tree stood? Who indeed echoed
will. But when the antiquarian deacon had gone, the good merchant said to
himself, ah, ha ha, perhaps I can tell where it stood?
And see if there be another twice as good, I'll be off presently so.
Indeed, will Nuttall lost no time in visiting the Del's abbey, again,
taking good care to conceal his motions from everybody, And sure enough,
some feet deeper than the spot where he had discovered the silver was buried another
coffer, not so large, but far more valuable, inasmuch as it was
filled with golden crowns instead of silver. This prize he made his own with
all the caution that he had before observed, And from that time henceforth he
prospered, after saying to himself, there is a blessing goes with helping churches.
And this church, said I to the Sacristan, was built by the
pedlar's secret treasure, answered the old man, will Nuttle purchased all the land
and here erected the structure you have admired, ordering the ancient abbey model to
be preserved. Look in yonder oriel window. Do you see what is painted
on the stained glass? I looked and saw the representation of a figure with
a burden on his shoulder. It is the pedlar and his pack, said
the sacristan. But the old monk, the Black Friar the Phantom, I
asked it was, but we were interrupted for the shrill whistle of the mail
train was heard, and in another moment whiz London Sir. I was aboard,
and we were off in a second. But as I looked back,
I saw the sacristan wave his hand, and caught a glimpse of the Peddlar's
church through the grove around, and then I had left all forever. End
of the Phantom Friar by Augustine Dugan