As I have lain awake at
night, I have heard all kinds of mysterious and sighing sounds from the
neighboring ruin. Distant footsteps, too, and the closing of doors in
remote parts of the Abbey, would send hollow reverberations and echoes
along the corridor and up the spiral staircase. Once, in fact, I was
roused by a strange sound at the very door of my chamber. I threw it
open, and a form "black and shapeless with glaring eyes" stood before
me. It proved, however, neither ghost nor goblin, but my friend
Boatswain, the great Newfoundland dog, who had conceived a
companionable liking for me, and occasionally sought me in my
apartment. To the hauntings of even such a visitant as honest Boatswain
may we attribute some of the marvellous stories about the Goblin Friar.
THE LITTLE WHITE LADY.
In the course of a morning's ride with Colonel Wildman, about the Abbey
lands, we found ourselves in one of the prettiest little wild woods
imaginable. The road to it had led us among rocky ravines overhung with
thickets, and now wound through birchen dingles and among beautiful
groves and clumps of elms and beeches. A limpid rill of sparkling
water, winding and doubling in perplexed mazes, crossed our path
repeatedly, so as to give the wood the appearance of being watered by
numerous rivulets.
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