Speaker 1: The phantom Friar by Augustine J. H. Dugan. You admire
our little church, sir, said the sacristan to me, as
we rested together upon a stone horse block, worn smooth
by the feet of many a squire and yeomen, 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 sacristan 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 savannahs.
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 site 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 lucre
was found in possession of monk or abbot. Nevertheless, the brotherhood,
that is, such as escaped the bloody shrift 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 the
ease 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 settle 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 de camp 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 peddler, 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 thunder
storm arising suddenly obliged him for the soeva 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 Nuttle, 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 Nuttle
was a stouthearted and merry fellow, little troubled by ghost stories,
though he was in the habit of relating to the
wide mouthed lads and round eyed lasses, whoever welcomed him
to meet and lodging in their snug farm houses. 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 along ere the storm gave signs of lull.
He had many times devoutly wished himself safely out of
the Dells 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, letting its radiance gush full over
field and forest, making the moist landscape glitter in silver sheen.
Will Nuttle 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
lurking 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 peddler 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 Nuttle 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 ague 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 this 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 peddler 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 Will 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 Dell's Abbey, an errant dolt. Was I to
run away from my own shadow? Quoth the pedlar to himself,
as he called to mind his midnight terror. Faith, I
had e'en a mind to pass another Michaelmas at the
old Friar's Gate, and see if mine host will bestir himself.
No sooner resolved than will Nuttle 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 pedlar appeared hard upon the witching hour, and, as
if to dare the phantom to its work. Ghost 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 fool hardy 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 uphalled 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 slow, glantingly 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 pedler 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 banshees
of whatever degree, clime, 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 emitted no sound.
Will Nuttle 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
ay and ear were open if faith Nevertheless, if ghosts
there be, it be plain too they how no power
or mortal man else were I not unharmed this day?
So if their harbor no malice nor hurt I the
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
pedlar 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
pedlar 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 with bodies.
This reflection inspiring him, he hesitated not to put his
best foot through the square opening, and to 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. O said will Nuttle. They be
strange ghosts that use a man attucks to dig their
graves withale. Will Nuttle 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 phantoms 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. 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, Nor might they afford. But alas I
fear our poor church will be slowly mended here, I
will do what I can, said will Nuttle, 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 Nuttle, said the old deacon, who was a bit
of an antiquary. WHOA what is it? Stammered Will For
he at once recollected that this counter slab 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 in old Gothic text, answered the worthy deacon.
Will it please you to read it? Sir asked, will
I mean the English of it? The antiquiry 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, I
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 now be
off presently so indeed, will Nuttle lost no time in
visiting the Dels 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 Nuttall 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 Peddler's Church through
the grove around, And then I had left all forever.
End of the Phantom Friar by Augustine Dugan