HOW PETER PARLEY LAID A GHOST

A STORY OF OWLS’ ABBEY

Peter Parley was a transatlantic, unprotected brand. The original idea for nourishing writing for children came from an American, Samuel Goodrich. His brand of common-sense, educational fare became so popular that imitators adopted his style, and his pseudonym. William Martin, a British editor, published Peter Parley’s Magazine from 1839 to 1863. While it was in operation, the magazine put out a Christmas annual, and this tradition continued even after the magazine itself had been discontinued. This annual endeavor appeared each Christmas season from 1840 to 1892, and, with colored plates after 1845, it sold very well as a Christmas and New Year’s gift.7 The story here (first published in 1875) represents a wealth of similar ghost stories intended for Christmas reading in that it seeks to build tension while teaching a lesson about the reality of ghosts.

I know it has been the habit of young people to speak of me and think of me as having been always an old man. Certainly, since I began to talk to my young friends, I have got considerably older than I was when I first introduced myself to them. But I have been a boy like themselves for all that, and I still appreciate and sympathise with all the delights and sorrows of boyhood and girlhood; with an exception, however; I do not appreciate and sympathise with delights or sorrows which have cruelty, falsehood, or indeed any vice as their cause or consequence. Some follies, also, I am fain to overlook; but folly which endangers life, or places people in peril which would not otherwise approach them, or folly which believes not in the sufferings of others I am very severe upon. Practical joking, a very common and often a very fatal folly, is my special abhorrence. As a boy, I was not cleverer nor more book-learned, nor more perfect than my contemporaries, nor than my present reader perhaps; but I kept myself clear, either by inclination or by force of advice, from certain follies which I now undertake to reprehend. I hope I have been just, during these many years; for I have never rebuked boys for faults which I was partial to in my early youth.

All this is vastly dry, you’ll say; and more like Peter Prosy than Peter Parley; but I never begin a story wherein I have been myself concerned without telling my young friends that I don’t profess to have been the perfection of boyhood, but that I vividly remember my youth, and am, as far as kindliness to youth is concerned, and thorough sympathy with its pleasures and pains, a boy in heart still. Now, having said my prefatory say, I will go on to relate a little adventure which befell me some—well, never mind how many—years ago.

Near the village where I was born there used to stand the remains of an old Gothic abbey, formerly dedicated, I believe, to some saint, by name Olaus. In mediæval times this name was all very well, but as centuries crept on, so fell away the appellation, as the stones of the abbey themselves; and St. Olaus’ Abbey was speedily corrupted into St. Owls’, and, finally, into Owls’ Abbey. Perhaps the advanced state of decay in which this old ruin was in my day had helped to favour this title, for Owls’ Abbey deserved its name on account of the thousands of night-birds which infested and built in it. At the time of which I write some respectable vestiges still remained of the old pile; a broken arch, a crumbling window, and so on. And I will take this opportunity of instructing my young friends in some of the points whereby they will in future be able to distinguish Gothic from Norman ruins.

I often hear youths, otherwise well-informed, commit sad blunders in their wild guesses at the different styles of architecture, so I will briefly tell them how to avoid such exposures of ignorance for the rest of their lives. Gothic architecture is often called—and very properly—“Pointed architecture;” this one name will help as a guide; for by the term “Gothic” we understand that style wherein the pointed arch as applied to various purposes of construction becomes a leading characteristic of the edifice. This sort of pointed architecture dates from the rise of Christianity itself, and was probably devised in opposition to the Pagan form of building. Some say that an avenue of overbranching trees was the object which suggested the Gothic arch; but though authorities are not agreed upon its origin, it is sufficient to remember that Gothic architecture is pointed; while Norman architecture has round arches.

The splendid aisles of Westminster Abbey are almost un­equalled as specimens of pointed arches; and you will know now that they are Gothic. Specimens of Norman arches you will find in Waltham Abbey, and, nearer home, at at Saint Bartholomew’s Church, West Smithfield; and these are in contradistinction round. There are many sub-divisions of both Gothic and Norman, of course, but I have merely laid down the broad lines by which you will be able to decide on the architecture of this sort of ruin whenever you meet with it, in your rambles or at pic-nics.

Owls’ Abbey, then, was an old Gothic ruin; standing at the foot of a pleasant green hill, and embosomed in fine trees, it was a picturesque spot, and used to attract many visitors, pedestrian tourists, and even our own village folk; who would frequently take an al-fresco dinner within the old grey walls, while summer time and daylight lasted. While there was bright sun to light up the dark ivy and keep the bats and owls in their hiding places, such pic-nics were not rare. Nutting parties would often wander amidst the ruins, and adventurous seekers of nests, and trappers of rats and rabbits, penetrated the dim recesses of Owls’ Abbey at just periods of the year. But when winter stripped the fading trees, and beneath the cold winter’s moon the ruins looked ghastly white, and skeleton-like in their leaflessness, there was no villager hardy enough to venture even at sunset into the dismal abbey; and as to passing through it by night, though the “short cut” to many places lay thereby, that was out of the question. And why, do you suppose? Because the simple villagers would have it that the abbey was haunted.

Superstition is almost invariably the result of the want of education; or, in plain English, the ignorant are almost always credulous. You will readily understand this by referring to many wonderful appliances of this day; such as gas, steam, electricity as applied to telegraphs, and so on; the which, if discovered only a hundred years ago would certainly have brought their inventors to the stake as sorcerers. Yet the world, better informed in these times, regards such men as benefactors to their country and to the world.

The old belief in ghosts, goblins, sprites, and elves has helped to produce some very pretty poetry, but beyond this I cannot possibly see what gain there could be out of such folly. In these days, when science shows us what ghosts and apparitions really are; namely, creations of a disordered body, or disordered mind, we seldom come across a haunted house in cities. In villages, however, where education grows but slowly, you will generally find some spot supposed to be frequented by spirits, and discover amongst the less-informed folk a tendency to accept any foolish tale of hobgoblins as serious truth. I don’t believe that any of my readers are so silly as to feel alarm at passing through dim and silent places by night; they have advantages now which make my belief in their good sense quite secure.

The foolish people of the village round and about Owls’ Abbey were firmly persuaded that the old ruin was haunted, by not only the traditional old abbot—who had been barbarously slain at the sacking of the abbey by Oliver Cromwell—but by a more modern apparition, reported to be the wraith of an unfortunate Irish pedler, who had been waylaid, robbed, and beaten to death by some desperadoes, for the sake of his few brooches, etc. This renowned spectre was called “Barney’s Ghost,” and there were not a few who could declare they had seen this ghost apparently hunting amongst the underwood of the abbey for the contents of his pack. Wonders did not cease here, for even the little white stone bridge which spanned the village stream hard by the valley wherein the abbey stood, had its mysterious visitor, in the impalpable person of a White Lady, who sat on the key-stone of the arch, engaged in the doleful but tidy duty of combing her long golden hair, for the better accomplishment of which occupation the lady carried her head in her lap. Altogether, Owls’ Abbey and its precincts supplied ample material for making the foolish villagers afraid of their own shadows. I was about fifteen when the events which I shall now relate took place.

One fine evening in summer-time, as I was returning from a day’s fishing in the mill-stream, about a mile from the village, I saw a lot of men talking earnestly to old Lapp, the cobbler, who was seated outside his little cottage, working in the cool of the day. I knew most of the men by sight, for the village was not a very extensive place. There were Joe Barratt, the blacksmith—his forge-fire was out for that evening; old Abel Tandy, who was supposed to be the oldest inhabitant, and lived very well on the strength of being too decrepit to work; Dick Millet, assistant at the flour factory; Jim Lantern, the town-crier, and others; but amongst them was a man whom I had never seen before, and who was evidently a traveller only passing through the village. He had, it seems, from the conversation which I overheard, been enquiring into the village news and the village “lions;” amongst which, you may be sure, Barney’s ghost, and the White Lady had been trotted out with great effect. The stranger had a smile on his face while old Lapp was holding forth.

“Never you mind, mister! I see it: that’s enough!’’

“Ah!” said the new comer, “what was it that you say you saw?”

“Say I saw?” retorted old Lapp. “I did see it. There was Barney’s ghost a-hunting about in the ferns for the lockets and chains as was dropped thereabouts; a white misty sort of figure; not of this world, I know, and I knew it at once for Barney’s spirit!”

“Ah!” chorussed the bystanders. “You’re right, old Lapp!”

“When was the said Barney murdered then?” enquired the stranger.

“Ask Abel Tandy,” said Barratt, in a solemn voice.

All eyes turned to the aged man, who, with considerable pride at such a recollection, replied, shrilly—“Eighty year ago, come Michaelmas!—eight-y year ago! I were a boy then, and had seen Barney ever so many times! Ay, ay! it’s all that time! Eight-y year!”

“Why, then,” said the traveller, turning to old Lapp, “you can’t be more than fifty-eight or so, and couldn’t have seen Barney alive. How did you manage to recognise him?”

“Hadn’t I been told that his spirit haunted the abbey, and was to be seen groping about for his jewellery? and when I see the figure a-doing so, wasn’t I right in supposing it were Barney’s ghost?”

“Ah! sure!” repeated the chorus, delighted to see the champion of the ghost in the ascendant.

“And you mean to tell me that this abbey is haunted?”

“Surely!” shouted the chorus, in perfect time.

“And you firmly believe it?”

“Ah! sure-ly! Why not? We’ve all seen it!”

“And you wouldn’t pass through the ruins by night?”

“Not for all the wureld!” was the unanimous shout.

“Ah! well!” sneered the stranger. “I’m sorry for you! It’s my nearest cut, I’m told, and through the abbey I go, Barney and the White Lady notwithstanding! Good bye, and more sense to you!”

So saying, the traveller shouldered his way out of the gaping bystanders, and briefly asking if he was right in his direction, passed on whistling. Abel and old Lapp were speechless at their own particular ghost being so pooh-poohed by a stranger; and all the gossips shook their foolish heads, and hoped that nothing more would come of it. I went home much amused, but still thinking of the stranger’s face, which seemed to haunt me. It was not a good face; but sly, cunning, and I thought cruel. When I rose next morning, I found on passing the village on my way to the little settlement which lay on the other side of Owls’ Abbey, another gathering of the worthies of the night before, their faces graver than ever. They had a strange story to tell to everyone who would listen to them. The bank had been robbed! and, more than that, several of the villagers’ houses, including the sagacious old Lapp’s, had been entered, and whatever was of the least value stolen. There was enough here, you will say, to satisfy the most gossipping of our village; but superior to this excitement was the feeling of triumph at the signal defeat of the traveller of the night before, who it appears had returned to the village, about two hours after he left the discussion I have recorded, trembling with fear, white as a sheet, and with teeth chattering. Twaddleton (our village) was avenged; its legends had been verified, and the fool-hardy stranger had been rewarded for his sneers by being frightened almost out of his wits at the sight of the White Lady and Barney’s ghost. This victory almost eclipsed the excitement of the robberies, but soon the reality of their losses wakened the silly gossips to a due sense of precaution. The stranger left the village by daylight, and no more was heard of him. Next night Dick Millet’s grey mare disappeared from her paddock. Soon after, Joe Barratt’s tools were missing from the forge, and positively Jim Lantern’s brass bell was carried off. Twaddleton was aghast; watch was set, but, in unguarded places the thief, or thieves, showed that they laughed Twaddleton to scorn, and every night some new robbery was to be bewailed. Things had gone on thus for a week, when the magistrate determined to send for a Bow-street runner—a “detective” we should call him now—from London. On the day that the man was sent for, my father permitted me to spend an evening with an uncle of mine, who lived at the neighbouring hamlet beyond Owls’ Abbey. I was delighted at the holiday, and when I prepared to return I found that evening had overtaken me, and as I promised to be at home by a certain hour, there was nothing for it but to borrow a lantern from my uncle and take the short cut through the wood, and—worse still—through Owls’ Abbey. On being laughingly asked “if I were afraid?” of course I was bound to say “not a bit!” and with many “good nights,” and a bulls-eye lantern, I set off for Twaddleton. I was not superstitious, and I didn’t for an instant believe in the apparitions of Barney or the White Lady, but I am willing to confess to my feeling a sense of loneliness and helplessness, when I found myself in the dark wood, with nothing to show the pathway but the little tunnel of light thrown by my lantern; which, naturally, made surrounding objects blacker still. Sometimes a hare would dart across the narrow footway, and sometimes an owl would flit before my face like a cloud of feathers, and startle me as I ran. But now I approached Owls’ Abbey, and my journey became interesting.

As I got inside the territory of the ruins I stumbled over a broken stone and my light was extinguished. Fortunately the wood was past, and there was quite enough light left for me to pick my way in safety homewards. On I went, stepping from stone to stone, and listening to the hooting of owls. Suddenly I heard a laugh!—distinctly a laugh; and close by me. I own that I was greatly startled, but I stood still, and listened again. The laugh was repeated, but this time I heard voices, apparently under ground. I was not a little dismayed now, and all the village stories rushed across my brain, and I thought of Barney and the old abbot. Fear was, I confess it, getting the better of me, when I heard the neigh of a horse! somehow this touch of mortality—for I had never heard of the ghost of a horse in the abbey—re-assured me, and I listened with greater intentness. The sound of hoofs trampling, and some loud voices in correction now followed, and guided by them, I found that they proceeded from the old cellars in the “refectory” of the abbey. Kneeling down cautiously, I peeped through two worn-out pillars and saw—what? The stranger-traveller, another man whom I had never before seen, and Millet’s grey mare. There sat the men squabbling over certain property, pilfered, no doubt, from our villagers, and there, tethered up to a stone, was the unhappy old nag, who missed her warm quarters and regular feeds greatly.

In a moment I was decided. Stepping cautiously away I posted out of Owls’ Abbey, perfectly free from alarm now, full of joy at having found out the robbers, and determined to lose no time in setting justice on their track. On I ran, and on reaching the White Lady’s Bridge, there, sure enough, was a white figure sitting on the key-stone of the arch! Mindful of my late experience, I went unflinchingly on. A cheery voice bade me “good night!” It was a countryman in a smock-frock, resting on the bridge; evidently a stranger, or he would have respected the local tradition more. I told him what I had seen, and he kindly returned with me. On reaching Twaddleton I told my story, and to my delight a quiet man who had listened carefully to my narrative, turned out to be the Bow-street runner. A cavalcade now formed; Barratt, and Millett, and Jim Lantern and many more, shamed out of their compunctions by my experience, joined the troop, and without losing time we returned to Owls’ Abbey. Here, cautiously dividing our forces, the detective made me lead the way to the spot where I had heard the voices. As we approached a neigh was heard.

“My old mare, for ninepence!” roared Millett in extacy.

In a moment there was a rush—a struggle—and the two rogues, regular London thieves, were collared and handcuffed. Having paved the way to plunder by trading on the foolish superstitions of the villagers, the principal robber had feigned alarm to disarm suspicion, and used to return nightly to thieve, knowing that while he and his accomplice and his plunder lay in Owls’ Abbey they were safe enough.

The villains were punished in due course, and Twaddleton, having seen for itself that the reputed ghosts were all a myth, returned to its senses, and used the short-cut ever afterwards.

And this is how the Twaddleton ghost was laid.