 | SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY. The Crayon miscellany |  |
SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY.
The anecdotes I had heard of the quondam
housekeeper of Lord Byron, rendered me desirous
of paying her a visit. I rode in company
with Colonel Wildman, therefore, to the cottage
of her son William, where she resides, and found
her seated by her fireside, with a favourite cat
perched upon her shoulder and purring in her
ear. Nanny Smith is a large good looking woman,
a specimen of the old fashioned country
housewife, combining antiquated notions and
prejudices, and very limited information, with
natural good sense. She loves to gossip about
the Abbey and Lord Byron, and was soon drawn
into a course of anecdotes, though mostly of an
humble kind, such as suited the meridian of the
housekeeper's room and servants' hall. She
seemed to entertain a kind recollection of Lord
Byron, though she had evidently been much perplexed
by some of his vagaries; and especially
by the means he adopted to counteract his tendency
to corpulency. He used various modes
to sweat himself down; sometimes he would lie
for a long time in a warm bath, sometimes he
and loaded with great coats; “a sad toil for the
poor youth,” added Nanny, “he being so lame.”
His meals were scanty and irregular, consisting
of dishes which Nanny seemed to hold in
great contempt, such as pilaw, maccaroni, and
light puddings.
She contradicted the report of the licentious
life which he was reported to lead at the Abbey,
and of the paramours said to have been brought
with him from London. “A great part of his
time used to be passed lying on a sopha reading.
Sometimes he had young gentlemen of his acquaintance
with him, and they played some mad
pranks; but nothing but what young gentlemen
may do, and no harm done.”
“Once, it is true,” she added, “he had with
him a beautiful boy as a page, which the house
maids said was a girl. For my part, I know
nothing about it. Poor soul, he was so lame he
could not go out much with the men; all the
comfort he had was to be a little with the lasses.
The housemaids, however, were very jealous;
one of them, in particular, took the matter in
great dudgeon. Her name was Lucy; she was
a great favourite with Lord Byron, and had been
much noticed by him, and began to have high
notions. She had her fortune told by a man
who squinted, to whom she gave two and sixpence.
look high, for she would come to great things.
Upon this,” added Nanny, “the poor thing dreamt
of nothing less than becoming a lady, and mistress
of the Abbey; and promised me, if such
luck should happen to her, she would be a good
friend to me. Ah well-a-day! Lucy never had
the fine fortune she dreamt of; but she had better
than I thought for; she is now married, and
keeps a public house at Warwick.”
Finding that we listened to her with great attention,
Nanny Smith went on with her gossiping.
“One time,” said she, “Lord Byron took
a notion that there was a deal of money buried
about the Abbey by the monks in old times,
and nothing would serve him but he must have
the flagging taken up in the cloisters; and they
digged and digged, but found nothing but stone
coffins full of bones. Then he must needs have
one of the coffins put in one end of the great
hall, so that the servants were afraid to go there
of nights. Several of the sculls were cleaned
and put in frames in his room. I used to have
to go into the room at night to shut the windows,
and if I glanced an eye at them, they all seemed
to grin; which I believe sculls always do. I
can't say but I was glad to get out of the room.
“There was at one time (and for that matter
there is still) a good deal said about ghosts haunting
she saw two standing in a dark part of the cloisters
just opposite the chapel, and one in the garden,
by the lord's well. Then there was a young
lady, a cousin of Lord Byron, who was staying
in the Abbey and slept in the room next the
clock; and she told me that one night when she
was lying in bed, she saw a lady in white come
out of the wall on one side of the room, and go
into the wall on the opposite side.
“Lord Byron one day said to me, `Nanny,
what nonsense they tell about ghosts, as if there
ever were any such things. I have never seen
any thing of the kind about the Abbey, and I
warrant you have not.' This was all done, do
you see, to draw me out; but I said nothing, but
shook my head. However, they say his lordship
did once see something. It was in the great
hall—something all black and hairy: he said it
was the devil.
“For my part,” continued Nanny Smith, “I
never saw any thing of the kind—but I heard
something once. I was one evening scrubbing
the floor of the little dining room at the end of
the long gallery; it was after dark; I expected
every moment to be called to tea, but wished to
finish what I was about. All at once I heard
heavy footsteps in the great hall. They sounded
like the tramp of a horse. I took the light and
come from the lower end of the hall to the fireplace
in the centre, where they stopped: but I
could see nothing. I returned to my work, and
in a little time heard the same noise again. I
went again with the light; the footsteps stopped
by the fireplace as before; still I could see nothing.
I returned to my work, when I heard
the steps for a third time. I then went into the
hall without a light, but they stopped just the
same, by the fireplace half way up the hall. I
thought this rather odd, but returned to my work.
When it was finished, I took the light and went
through the hall, as that was my way to the
kitchen. I heard no more footsteps, and thought
no more of the matter, when, on coming to the
lower end of the hall, I found the door locked,
and then on one side of the door, I saw the
stone coffin with the scull and bones that had
been digged up in the cloisters.”
Here Nanny paused: I asked her if she believed
that the mysterious footsteps had any connexion
with the skeleton in the coffin; but she
shook her head, and would not commit herself.
We took our leave of the good old dame shortly
after, and the story she had related gave subject
for conversation on our ride homeward. It was
evident she had spoken the truth as to what she
had heard, but had been deceived by some peculiar
about a huge irregular edifice of the kind in a
very deceptive manner; footsteps are prolonged
and reverberated by the vaulted cloisters and
echoing halls; the creaking and slamming of
distant gates, the rushing of the blast through
the groves and among the ruined arches of the
chapel, have all a strangely delusive effect at
night.
Colonel Wildman gave an instance of the kind
from his own experience. Not long after he
had taken up his residence at the Abbey, he
heard one moonlight night a noise as if a carriage
was passing at a distance. He opened the
window and leaned out. It then seemed as if
the great iron roller was dragged along the gravel
walks and terrace, but there was nothing to
be seen. When he saw the gardener on the
following morning, he questioned him about
working so late at night. The gardener declared
that no one had been at work, and the roller was
chained up. He was sent to examine it, and
came back with a countenance full of surprise.
The roller had been moved in the night, but he
declared no mortal hand could have moved it.
“Well,” replied the Colonel good humouredly,
“I am glad to find I have a brownie to work
for me.”
Lord Byron did much to foster and give currency
the Abbey, by believing, or pretending to believe
in them. Many have supposed that his mind
was really tinged with superstition, and that this
innate infirmity was increased by passing much
of his time in a lonely way, about the empty
halls and cloisters of the Abbey, then in a ruinous
melancholy state, and brooding over the
sculls and effigies of its former inmates. I should
rather think that he found poetical enjoyment in
these supernatural themes, and that his imagination
delighted to people this gloomy and romantic
pile with all kinds of shadowy inhabitants.
Certain it is, the aspect of the mansion under
the varying influence of twilight and moonlight,
and cloud and sunshine operating upon its halls,
and galleries, and monkish cloisters, is enough
to breed all kinds of fancies in the minds of its
inmates, especially if poetically or stuperstitiously
inclined.
I have already mentioned some of the fabled
visitants of the Abbey. The goblin friar, however,
is the one to whom Lord Byron has given
the greatest importance. It walked the cloisters
by night, and sometimes glimpses of it were
seen in other parts of the Abbey. Its appearance
was said to portend some impending evil
to the master of the mansion. Lord Byron pretended
to have seen it about a month before he
He has embodied this tradition in the following
ballad, in which he represents the friar as
one of the ancient inmates of the Abbey, maintaining
by night a kind of spectral possession of
it, in right of the fraternity. Other traditions,
however, represent him as one of the friars
doomed to wander about the place in atonement
for his crimes. But to the ballad—
Who sitteth by Norman stone,
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,
And his mass of the days that are gone.
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,
Made Norman Church his prey,
And expell'd the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away.
Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right,
To turn church lands to lay,
With sword in hand, and torch to light
Their walls, if they said nay,
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd,
And he did not seem form'd of clay,
For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in the church,
Though he is not seen by day.
And whether for good, or whether for ill,
It is not mine to say;
But still to the house of Amundeville
He abideth night and day.
He flits on the bridal eve;
And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death,
He comes—but not to grieve.
When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn,
And when aught is to befall
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine
He walks, from hall to hall.
His form you may trace, but not his face,
'Tis shadow'd by his cowl;
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between,
And they seem of a parted soul.
But beware! beware of the Black Friar,
He still retains his away,
For he is yet the church's heir,
Whoever may be the lay.
Amundeville is lord by day,
But the monk is lord by night,
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal
To question that friar's right.
Say nought to him as he walks the hall,
And he'll say nought to you;
He sweeps along in his dusky pall,
As o'er the grass the dew.
Then gramercy! for the Black Friar;
Heaven sain him! fair or foul,
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer
Let ours be for his soul.”
Such is the story of the goblin friar, which,
partly through old tradition, and partly through
the influence of Lord Byron's rhymes, has become
completely established in the Abbey, and
edifice shall endure. Various visiters have
either fancied, or pretended to have seen him,
and a cousin of Lord Byron, Miss Sally Parkins,
is even said to have made a sketch of him from
memory. As to the servants at the Abbey, they
have become possessed with all kinds of superstitious
fancies. The long corridors and gothic
halls, with their ancient portraits and dark figures
in armour, are all haunted regions to them; they
even fear to sleep alone, and will scarce venture
at night on any distant errand about the Abbey
unless they go in couples.
Even the magnificent chamber in which I
was lodged was subject to the supernatural influences
which reigned over the Abbey, and
was said to be haunted by “Sir John Byron the
Little with the great Beard.” The ancient black
looking portrait of this family worthy, which
hangs over the door of the great saloon, was
said to descend occasionally at midnight from
the frame, and walk the rounds of the state
apartments. Nay, his visitations were not confined
to the night, for a young lady, on a visit to
the Abbey some years since, declared that, on
passing in broad day by the door of the identical
chamber I have described, which stood partly
open, she saw Sir John Byron the Little seated
by the fireplace, reading out of a great
some have been led to suppose that the story of
Sir John Byron may be in some measure connected
with the mysterious sculptures of the
chimney piece already mentioned; but this has
no countenance from the most authentic antiquarians
of the Abbey.
For my own part, the moment I learned the
wonderful stories and strange suppositions connected
with my apartment, it became an imaginary
realm to me. As I lay in bed at night and
gazed at the mysterious panel work, where gothic
knight, and Christian dame, and Paynim lover
gazed upon me in effigy, I used to weave a thousand
fancies concerning them. The great figures
in the tapestry, also, were almost animated by
the workings of my imagination, and the Vandyke
portraits of the cavalier and lady that
looked down with pale aspects from the wall,
had almost a spectral effect, from their immoveable
gaze and silent companionship—
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.
— Their buried looks still wave
Along the canvass; their eyes glance like dreams
On ours, as spars within some dusky cave,
But death is mingled in their shadowy beams.”
In this way I used to conjure up fictions of the
brain, and clothe the objects around me with
clock tolled midnight, I almost looked to see Sir
John Byron the Little with the long Beard stalk
into the room with his book under his arm, and
take his seat beside the mysterious chimney
piece.
| SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY. The Crayon miscellany | |