University of Virginia Library

THE PHANTOM FRIAR.

BY AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE.

“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 yeeman now reposing quietly
in the green church-yard, 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 chord 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 St. Benedict,
or Black Friars, 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 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 artizans. 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, whilst 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 traveller 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 tomb-stone,
delivering the responses. It is no wonder, then,
that the dismantled monastery became at length
known as the `De'il'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
salvation 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 Nuttall, as the pedler 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 Nuttall was a stout-hearted
and merry fellow, little troubled by ghost-stories,
though was he in the habit of relating to the
wide-mouthed lads and round-eyed lasses, who
ever welcomed him to meat 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 witch 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 `narvish' than
was his wont, and long ere the storm gave signs
of lull, he had many times devoutly wished himself
safely out of the `De'il's Abbey.'

“At length the clouds parted, the wind sunk,
and large drops succeeded to the close showers
which had followed fast on one another through
the night; till, at last, the moon broke out, letting
its radiance gush full over field and forest,
making the moist landscape glitter in silver
sheen. Will Nuttall 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, sombre
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 Nuttall 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 aguefit;
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 tomb stone, to bolt suddenly
away into the broad, moonlit highway, a few
rods off, whence he made his way homeward
with all the speed he could command.

“Next morning, Will Nuttall was late in setting
out with his pack, and the neighbors noted
that he was not in his usual spirits; but the pedler
mentioned nought 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 Nuttall 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 `De'il's
Abbey.'

“`An arrant dolt was I to run away from my
own shadow,' quoth the pedler to himself, as he
called to mind his midnight terror. `Faith, I
ha' 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 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 pedler 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 tomb stone over which he had
beheld the ghost-monk stooping.

“But, O rash and fool hardy wight! 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 appalled 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 Nuttall 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 slantingly 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 pedler;
its thin hands clasped and pressed against
its breast a sable crucifix; its withered lips appeared
still to move, but emitted no sound.
Will Nuttall saw all this at a glance, and the
next moment beheld the phantom sink bodily
downward, and disappear under the church-yard
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 Nuttall, as he gradually became
aware of his identity, and rubbed his eyes to get
a better look of every object around him.
`What I ha' seen new, no Christian man may
speak lightly of! Eye and ear were open, i'
faith! nevertheless, if ghosts there be, it be
plain, too, they ha' no power o'er mortal man,
else were I not unharmed this day. So, if
there 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 pedler 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 Nuttall'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 pedler
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
Nuttall 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. `Ho!' said Will Nuttall,
`they be strange ghosts that use mattocks to dig
their graves withal.'

“Will Nuttall 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 wondering eyes a
goodly-sized oaken chest, bound with iron bands.
One or two sturdy blows sufficed to split the
mouldy lid, and the poor pedler 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 Nuttall. 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
Nuttall; 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 erased.

“`Aha! you have something odd here, Master
Nuttall!' said the old deacon, who was a bit of
an antiquary.

“`Wh—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 antiquary rubbed his spectacles, and
stooping nearer, read:

“`Hem!' said Will Nuttall. `What may
that signify? We are as wise now as before.'

“`Ay!' 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: `Aha!
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 `De'il'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 pedler'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 pedler 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 pedler's
church, through the grove around. And then—
I had left all forever.