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Speaker 1: The phantom Friar by Augustine J. H. Dugan. You admire

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our little church, sir, said the sacristan to me, as

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we rested together upon a stone horse block, worn smooth

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by the feet of many a squire and yeomen, now

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reposing quietly in the green churchyard, skirted by the low

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wall which supported our backs. Indeed, it is one of

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the most interesting of all the rural churches which I

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have seen in England. You come from abroad, sir. I

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am an American, I replied, indeed, and I fancied. The

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old sacristan regarded me with a still kindlier eye. Perhaps

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some favorite child had left the paternal roof and now

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dwelt upon New England's hills or among the south savannahs.

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But I did not question the venerable man who knows

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indeed what cord might have been awakened. Is there no

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legend connected with this church, my friend? Twere a pity

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if not that there is, sir. And if you can

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listen to an old man's tale, I can do no

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better than to while your time till we hear the

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steam whistle. Many thanks. You will not only while the time,

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but I doubt not entertain me greatly. I own myself

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an inveterate legend hunter. The sacristan smiled and at once commenced.

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You must know, sir, that on the site of this church,

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which is now about one hundred and fifty years old,

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existed formerly a very prosperous abbey belonging to the monks

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of Saint Benedict, or Blackfriars, as they were commonly called.

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It was reputed to contain great store of solid wealth,

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and consequently, when the wars broke out between Cavalier and Puritan,

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

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

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for his pains, inasmuch as not a penny of lucre

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was found in possession of monk or abbot. Nevertheless, the brotherhood,

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that is, such as escaped the bloody shrift so common

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in those days, were effectually dispersed by the violence done

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to their dwelling place, And since that period no Black

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Friar has ever told his beads in the neighborhood. But

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it was not many years before superstition began to invest

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the ruins with the usual dread attached to monuments of

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past violence and to people with ghostly visitors, the halls

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deserted by mortal footsteps. Meanwhile, Cromwell and his stern troopers

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gave place to Charles and his reckless cavaliers, and the

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ease in turn made way for James and his shaven monks,

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about which time there began to be rumors of a

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contemplated rebuilding of the Benedictine Abbey, which settle the gossips

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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

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seen flitting among the ivy mantled stones or stooping over

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the broken slabs in the ancient burial place. But the

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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,

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as was said, entered upon negotiations with artisans. However, there

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was very good reason why the design of rebuilding the abbey,

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if such indeed had been entertained, should not be completed.

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For about this period the pious James was forced to

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pack up his royalty and de camp for the French court,

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while his dutiful daughter Mary and his son in law

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William of Nassau took quiet possession of his crown and kingdom.

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Nearly half a century had now passed since the sack

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and destruction of the abbey, and its supernatural reputation had

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grown apace with the weeds, which tangled themselves into rank

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luxuriance among the old walls and fallen roof trees. Periodically

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was seen to walk about the grounds the ghost of

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an aged monk attired in the black serge garment of

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the Benedictines, and more than one benighted traveler had heard,

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as he would swear roundly the mumbling of mass by

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that black friar amid the ruins, while Satan himself, in

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a cowl, sat astride of a tombstone, delivering the responses.

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It is no wonder, then, that the dismantled monastery became

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at length known as the Dell's Abbey, or that it

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was decided to be no fit walk for Christian foot,

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but to be left to witches for a nocturnal trysting place.

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But about the second year of the Dutch Stadtholder's reign.

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It chanced that a worthy peddler, who was in the

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

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by his uncommon honesty as a hawker and good humor

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as a companion, enjoyed no small modicum of popularity among

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his rustic customers, found himself one michaelmas Eve, in the

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unhappy vicinity of our haunted monastery. He had taken a

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short cut across the fields in order to reach sooner

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the market town where he made his home and kept

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a little warehouse for the goods which he trafficked up

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and down the country, and had just gained the wild

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spot on which stood the ruins, when a violent thunder

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storm arising suddenly obliged him for the soeva of his

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pack to seek speedy shelter under one of the still

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upright and ivy covered arches. He happily discovered a dry

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resting place and quickly made himself as comfortable as circumstances

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

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and will Nuttle, as the peddler was named, expected that

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it would soon spend its force and pass away, leaving

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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

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unabated fury till hours had passed away, and he began

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to reckon midnight very near at hand. Now, Master Nuttle

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was a stouthearted and merry fellow, little troubled by ghost stories,

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though he was in the habit of relating to the

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wide mouthed lads and round eyed lasses, whoever welcomed him

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to meet and lodging in their snug farm houses. Nevertheless,

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the reflection that he was alone at midnight in the

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

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as is well known, of all nights in the year,

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for which revels and incantations did not, it may be fancied,

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decrease the unpleasantness of his situation. In truth, as the

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night wore on, he grew somewhat more nervish than was

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his wont and along ere the storm gave signs of lull.

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He had many times devoutly wished himself safely out of

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the Dells Abbey. At length, the clouds parted the wind sank,

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and large drops succeeded to the close showers which had

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followed fast on one another through the night, till at

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last the moon broke, letting its radiance gush full over

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field and forest, making the moist landscape glitter in silver sheen.

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Will Nuttle stretched his legs, rose briskly, and slung his pack,

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and then stepped from under the protecting arch to pursue

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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

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lurking elves might be peering at him from the still

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somber shadows of the ruins. But whistle and foot were

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both abruptly checked as Will's eye glanced toward the ancient

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burial ground and saw, where plainly defined in the moonlight,

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the figure of an old man clad in Monkish habit,

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was stooping near a gray tomb, not twenty paces from

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the spot where he himself stood. The peddler stared fixedly,

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unable to withdraw his eyes, though his frame shook in

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every joint, while the phantom friar rose slowly from its

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bending posture and uplifting its hands, in one of which

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was grasped a black crucifix stood a moment bolt upright,

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as if invoking a curse upon the wretched mortal who

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had intruded on its domain. Will Nuttle strove to run away,

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but his feet refused to turn. He tried to cry aloud,

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

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he could, he let his knees double under him and

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sank quietly on the wet grass, where he lay prostrate

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for a space, shivering like one in an ague fit,

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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.

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But as neither of these consequences followed, he soon ventured

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to raise his head a bit, and, finally, without looking

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toward the gray tombstone, to bolt suddenly away into the

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broad moonlit highway a few rods off, whence he made

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his way homeward with all this speed he could command.

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Next morning, will Nuttle was late in setting out with

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his pack, and the neighbors noted that he was not

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in his usual spirits. But the peddler mentioned not concerning

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his nocturnal adventure, For indeed, He began already to feel

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ashamed of his fright, and to ask himself how a blithe,

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ghost jeering lad like Will Nuttle could have run away

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from some shadow of his own fancy. So he kept

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his counsel and went on as usual, plying his traffic

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from Hamlet to Hamlet, getting little richer. It is true,

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for he was a free hearted fellow, but making store

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of friends in his up and down wanderings. So a

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year passed away, and Michaelmas Eve drew near again, and

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as it chanced, found will in the neighborhood again of

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the haunted Dell's Abbey, an errant dolt. Was I to

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run away from my own shadow? Quoth the pedlar to himself,

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

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had e'en a mind to pass another Michaelmas at the

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old Friar's Gate, and see if mine host will bestir himself.

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No sooner resolved than will Nuttle set forth to execute.

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And once more, as the moonbeams streamed brightly over the

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ancient ruins, with no storm to interrupt their beauty, the

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bold pedlar appeared hard upon the witching hour, and, as

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if to dare the phantom to its work. Ghost advanced

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

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and took post beside the very gray tombstone over which

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he had beheld the ghost monk stooping but oh rash

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and fool hardy white scarce, had he reached the slab,

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when turning toward the shattered arch where he had before

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found shelter, he beheld the self same sight that had

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then uphalled him. The figure of an aged monk with

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cowl and crucifix emerged from the ivied shadow, and with

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slow steps, approached as if to confront him. Will Nuttle

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saw and his courage evaporated down. He subsided as before,

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and with what little strength he could muster, crawled and

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burrowed until he had got himself quite underneath a broken

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stone hatchment that rested slow, glantingly against the old gray tomb. Here,

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shrinking into as small a bulk as possible, as if

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he hoped by such means to elude the grim friar,

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he held his breath and strove to bethink him of

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all the prayers which he had ever forgotten. In another moment,

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he felt a rustle of garments close beside him, and

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presently a low voice muttered some strange words in a

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language unknown to him, to which consequently he did not

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feel himself called upon to reply, though he had his

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misgivings as to whether it might not be his own

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death sentence delivered by some demoniac judge. To this low voice,

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monotonous and rapid, the hopeless pedler listened for several minutes,

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and then all became silent again. Meantime, almost ready to

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give up his personal ghost. Most bitterly did he bewail

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his past skepticism regarding supernatural beings, and firmly did he resolve,

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if delivered safe out of the black Friar's clutches, to

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believe most devoutly, henceforth in spooks, spirits, brownies, and banshees

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of whatever degree, clime, or complexion. Thus fortified, he ventured

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when the voice ceased, to raise his head an inch

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and steal a look at his ghostly neighbor. Very phantom

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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,

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and glassy the fixed eyes. The figure knelt against the tomb,

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close to the hatchment which concealed the peddler. Its thin

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hands clasped and pressed against its breast a sable crucifix.

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Its withered lips appeared still to move, but emitted no sound.

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Will Nuttle saw all this at a glance, and the

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next moment beheld the phantom sink bodily downward and disappear

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under the churchyard sod Well, that, to be sure, was

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enough to frighten flesh and blood. However bold its possessor,

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so it was no marvel that will fainted incontinently away

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under his hatchment. And thus he remained until the light

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of a rosy morning chased off all evil things, and

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peered into his face and woke him once more to

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the world of living things. He was drenched with the

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heavy night dew, but beyond this had sustained no injury

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to his corporeal substance. Now am I an ass or

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

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aware of his identity and rubbed his eyes to get

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a better look of every object around him. What I

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have seen now, no Christian man may speak lightly of

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ay and ear were open if faith Nevertheless, if ghosts

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there be, it be plain too they how no power

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or mortal man else were I not unharmed this day?

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So if their harbor no malice nor hurt I the

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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

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he saw the sunlight brightening in the east, will shook

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himself and proceeded to impart animation to his benumbed limbs

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by a liberal bestowal of smart buffets on his breast.

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The old gray tombs began by this time to look

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cheery in the morning beams, and the ivied arches and

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shattered walls had lost all trace of ghostliness. Nevertheless, our

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pedlar could not help a fearsome qualm as his eyes

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fell upon the spot where they had beheld the black

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friar disappear under the sod. But will Nuttle's look dwelt

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longer than before, for it had caught sudden sight of

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an opening just beneath the gray tomb, and close beside

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the hatchment which had so opportunely covered his person. The

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pedlar stooped and beheld a square aperture, half concealed by

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dank weeds, below which were several steps of stone, apparently

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leading to a vault beneath the monument. Into this aperture,

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he peered curiously, but all was dark. Only a smell

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of damp earth came from beneath. Will Nuttle paused a

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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,

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quoth he, they be little better off than people with bodies.

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This reflection inspiring him, he hesitated not to put his

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best foot through the square opening, and to descend cautiously

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the slippery stones. Very dimly lit was the sepulchral vault

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to which the bold hawker found his way, But he

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could see that it was an oblong apartment, and very

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much like other ancient receptacles of mortality. But what drew

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his notice first was a little mound of earth near

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the foot of the stone steps, which seemed to have

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been lately disturbed, And a mattock and pick in a

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niche near by, to which there yet clung several lumps

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of moist yellow clay. O said will Nuttle. They be

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strange ghosts that use a man attucks to dig their

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graves withale. Will Nuttle sat himself down upon one of

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the stone steps, with the morning light, faintly entering over

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his shoulder to the old vault, and began to reflect

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upon phantoms in general, and black Benedictines in particular, the

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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

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with as hearty a will as if he had been

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a born sexton, and not long indeed had he to labor.

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Ere his pick struck against a hard substance, and a

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few shovels full of clay removed. Discovered to his wandering

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eyes a goodly sized oaken chest, bound with iron bands.

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One or two sturdy blows sufficed to split the moldy lid,

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and the poor peddler almost shrieked aloud as he beheld

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

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and quickly determined on his course of action. The treasure

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could not all be removed at once, but it was

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not long before he had conveyed it by piecemeal to

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his little warehouse in the market town. Then he gave

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out that he should no longer pursue the hawker's trade,

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but enlarging his shop soon branched out into cautious speculation,

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until he got the reputation of a thriving tradesman worthy

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of all respect. Now nearly seven years after this, it

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happened that the parish church was struck by lightning during

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a storm, and so burned by the flames that it

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became necessary for a public appeal to be made for

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a general subscription to repair the edifice. Among others to

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whom the officers applied was will Nuttle. The good fellow

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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

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of the officers, Nor might they afford. But alas I

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fear our poor church will be slowly mended here, I

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will do what I can, said will Nuttle, and he

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straightway subscribed twenty pounds, which so surprised the worthy deacon

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that had spoken that he rubbed his spectacles thrice as

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he looked at the figures. Then bidding thanks to the tradesman,

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he was about to depart when his eye caught sight

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

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and which was a very ancient piece of oak, with

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strange old letters writ upon it, but scarce to be noticed.

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So nearly were they raised. Ah, you have something odd here,

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master Nuttle, said the old deacon, who was a bit

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of an antiquary. WHOA what is it? Stammered Will For

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he at once recollected that this counter slab was the

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lid of the old chest which had held his treasure,

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and which he had placed in its present position as

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a memorial of his good fortune. Something I decipher. But

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it is in old Gothic text, answered the worthy deacon.

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Will it please you to read it? Sir asked, will

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I mean the English of it? The antiquiry rubbed his spectacles, and,

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stooping nearer red in the lands where this stood, another

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stands twice, as good Hem said, will Nuttle, what may

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that signify? We are as wise now as before, I

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rejoined the deacon, for who can tell where an old

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oak tree stood? Who indeed echoed Will. But when the

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antiquarian deacon had gone, the good merchant said to himself, ah,

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ha ha, Perhaps I can tell where it stood, and

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see if there be another twice as good now be

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off presently so indeed, will Nuttle lost no time in

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visiting the Dels Abbey, again, taking good care to conceal

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his motions from everybody, And sure enough, some feet deeper

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than the spot where he had discovered the silver was

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buried another coffer, not so large, but far more valuable,

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inasmuch as it was filled with golden crowns instead of silver.

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This prize he made his own with all the caution

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that he had before observed, and from that time henceforth

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he prospered, after saying to himself, there is a blessing

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goes with helping churches. And this church, said I to

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the Sacristan, was built by the pedlar's secret treasure, answered

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the old man, will Nuttall purchased all the land and

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here erected the structure you have admired, ordering the ancient

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abbey model to be preserved. Look in yonder Oriel window.

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Do you see what is painted on the stained glass?

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I looked and saw the representation of a figure with

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a burden on his shoulder. It is the pedlar and

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his pack, said the Sacristan. But the old monk, the

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black friar, the phantom. I asked it was, but we

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were interrupted for the shrill whistle of the mail train

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

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was aboard, and we were off in a second. But

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as I looked back, I saw the Sacristan wave his

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hand and caught a glimpse of the Peddler's Church through

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the grove around, And then I had left all forever.

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End of the Phantom Friar by Augustine Dugan