University of Virginia Lib PR;5320;.M6;1880 ALD pug i monastery / by Sir Walter L?LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA DONATION OF EDWARD WILSON JAMES OF NORFOLK,VANow, by mine order, it is as I suspected!—My mule. my mule!—I will abide no longer here—well hast thou done, dame, in placing in my hands this perilous volume,THE MONASTERY By SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. MELROSE ABBEY BOSTON : D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY, FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS.1T would be difficult to assion any good reason why the Author of Ivanhoe, after using, in that work, all the art he possessed to remove the personages, action, and manners of the tale, to a distance Jrom his own country, should choose for the scene of his next attempt the celebrated ruins of Melrose, in the immediate neizhborhood of his own residence. But the reason, or caprice, which dictated his change of system, has entirely escaped his recollec- tion ; nor is it worth while to attempt recalling what must be a matter of very Little CONSE Juence, the general plan of the story was, to conjotn two characters in that bustling and contentious age, who, thrown into situations which gave them different views on the subject of the Reformation, should, with the same sin- cerity ana purity of intention, dedicate themselves, the one to the support of the sinking fabric of the Catholic Church, the other to the establishment of the Reformed doctrines. It was supposed that some intere sting subjects for narrative might be derived from opposing two such enthusiasts to each other sm the path of life, and contrasting the real worth of both with their passions and prejudices. The localities of Melrose suited well the scenery of the pro- posed story; the ruins themselves form a splendid theatre for any tragit incident which might be brought forward ; joined to the vicinity of the fine river, with all its tributary streams, flowing through a country which has been the scene of so much fierce fichting, and is rich with so many recollec- tions of former times, and lying almost under the immediate eye of the Author, by whom they were to be used in composition. The situation possessed farther recommendations. Ontnre posite bank of the Tweed might be seen the remains of ancient enclosures, snrrounded by lLWAVERLEY NO VELS. ves and ash-trees of considerable size. These had once formed the round of a village, NOW reduced to a single hut, the abode The cottages, even the church to be traced without 1V sycamo crofts or arable § of a fisherman, who also manages a ferry. — ! have sunk into vestiges hardly 5 having gradually withdrawn to the more has risen into consideration, within has tenanted which once existed there, visiting the spot, the inhabitant prosperous town of Galashiels, which ep two miles of their neighborhood. Superstitious eld, however, the deserted groves with aerial beings, to supply the want of the mortal ten- ants who have deserted it. The ruined and abandoned churchyard of Bold- side has been long believed to be haunted by the Fairies ; and the deep broad current of the Tweed, wheeling in moonlight yound the foot of the steep bank, with the number of trees originally planted for shelter round the fields of the cottagers, but now presenting the effect of scattered and detached groves, fills up the idea which one would form in imagination for a@ scene that Oberon and Queen Mab might love to revel in. There are evenings when the spectator might believe, with Father Chaucer, that the — Queen of Faery, With harp, and pipe, and symphony, Were dwelling in the place. Another and even a more familiar refuge of the elfin race (if tradition ts to be trusted), is the glen of the river, or rather brook, named the Allen, which falls into the Tweed from the northward, about a quarter of a mile above the present bridge. As the streamlet finds tts way behind Lord Som- merville’s hunting-seat, called the Pavilion, its valley has been popularly termed the Fairy Dean, or rather the Nameless Dean, because of the sup- posed il luck attached by the popular faith of ancient times lo anyone who might name or allude to the race, whom our fathers distinguished as the Good Neighbors, and the Highlanders called Daoine Shie, or men of Peace; rather by way of compliment, than on account of any particular idea of friendship or pacific relation which either Highlander or Borderer entertained towards the irritable beings whom they thus distinguished, or supposed them to bear to humanity.* In evidence of the actual operations of the fairy people even at th is time, little pieces of calcareous matter are found in the glen after a flood, which either the labors of those tiny artists, or the eddies of the brook among the stones, have formed into a fantastic resemblance of cups, SAUCETS, anes and the like, in which children who gather them pretend to discern fairy utensils. Besides these circumstances of romantic locality, mea paupera regna (as Captain Dalygetty denominates his territory of Drumthwackel) are bounded by a small but deep lake, from which eyes that yet look on the laght e~e said to have seen the waterbull ascend, and shake the hills with his rowt- * See Rob Roy, note, p. 431.INTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. Vv Indeed, the country aro lelrose sessing Les eed, the country around Melrose, if possessing less of romantic beauty than some other scenes in Srotl; Lae ee as a: 2 ome other scenes in Scotland, is connected with so Many associations Of a fanciful nature. in whi-h thes vee eae Be . zy) a fanciful nalure, in which the imagination takes delight, as micht well sidice one even less attache; he shot tha be Asaine tuce one even tess attached to the spot than the Author, to accommodate, imaginary scenes he was framing to the locali- ajier a general manner, the ET ae eee : . ; , lies fo WICH AE Was par tia. But iz would be a misapprehension to sup- pose, that, because Melrose may in general pass o « A ~ for Kennaguhair, or because tt agrees with scenes of the Monastery in the circumstances of the draw- bridge, the milldam, and other points of resemblance, that therifore an ac- curate or perfect local similitude is to be found in all the particulars of the picture. Lt was not the purpose of the Author to present a landscape copied fr m nature, but a prece of contposition, in which areal sx C712, with which he is familiar, had afforded him some leading outline Thus the resem- blance of the im iinary Glendearg with the real vale of the Allen, is far from being minute, nor did the Author aim at identifying them. This must appear plain to all who know the actual character of the Glen of Allen, and have taken the trouble to read the account of the imaginary Glendearg. The stream in the latter case ts described as wanderine down a romantic ltttle valley, shifting ttself, after the fashion of such a brook, Ir m one side to the other, as it can most easily find tts passage, and touch- ine nothing in tts progress that gives token of cultivation. Tt rises near a solitary tower, the abode of a supposed church vassal, and the scene of sev- eral incidents in the Romance. The real Allen, on the contrary, after traversing the romantic ravine called the Nameless Dean, thrown off from side to side alternately, like a billiard ball repelled by the sides of the table on which it has been played, and in that part of its course resembling the stream which pours down Glendearg, may be traced upwards into a more open country, where the banks retreat farther from each other, and the vale exhibits a good deal of dry ground, which has not been neglected by the active cultivators of the district. It arrtves, too, at a sort of termination, striking in itself, but Zotally irreconcilable with the narrative of the Romance. Instead of a single peel-house, or border tower of defence, such as Dame Glendinning is supposed to have inhabited, the head of the Allen, about five miles above its gunclion with the Tweed, shows three ruins of Border houses, belonging to different proprietors,and each, from the desire of mutual support so natural to troublesome times, situated at the extremity of the property of which it ts the princital messuage. One of these ts the ruinous mansion-house of Hillslap, formerly the property of the Cairncrosses, and now of Mr. Innes of Stow; a second the tower of Colmslie, an ancient inheritance of the Borthwi: hk family, as ts testified by their crest, the Goats Head, which exists on the ruin ; a third, the house of Langshaw, also ruinous, but near which the proprietor, Mr. Baillie of Ferviswood and Mell rstain, has butlé a small shooting-box.vi WAVERLEY NOVELS: All these ruins, SO strangely huddled together i a ieee - huve recollections and traditions of thei own, bu ne a. t = Ke most distant resemblance to the descriptions tn the K ee ; of me tery ; and as the Author could hardly have erred Ww aoe y se . — spot within a morning's ride of his own house, the m acne on ba a semblance was intended. Hillslap is remembered by the ads te of é as inhabitants, two or three elderly ladies, of the class of Miss Oe Si in the Old Manor House, though less umportant by birth and fortune. Cot mslié is conrmemorated in songs -— Colmslie stands on Colmslie hill, The water it flows round Colmslie mill 5 The mill and the kiln gang And it’s up with the whippers YF bonnily, ‘ Colmslie ! larger than the other mansions assembled at the about it more remarkable than the inscription of the present proprie his shooting lodge—Utinum hance etiam viris impleam amicis—a modest wish, which I know no one more capable of attaining upon an extended scale, than the gentleman whe , has expressed tt upon a limited one. Having thus shown that I could say something of these desolated towers, which the desire of social ittercourse, or the facility of mutual defence, had drawn together at the head of this Glen, 1 need not add any farther reason to show, that there 1s no resemblance between them and the solitary habita- tion of Dame Elspeth Glendinning. Beyond these dwellings are some reé- wood, and a considerable portion of moss and bog; but £ ts in localities, to spend time in Langshaw, although ‘g, has nothing head of the supposed Glendear. tor over mains of natural would not advise any who may be curio looking for the fountain and holly-tree of the White Lady. While Iam on the subject I may add, that Captain Clutterbuck, the im- aginary editor of the Monastery, has no real prototype in the village of Mel- rose or neighborhood, that ever [ saw or heard of. To give some individ uality to this personage, he ts described as a character which sometimes occurs in actual society—a person who, having spent his life within the necessary duties of a technical profession, from which he has been at length emrnctipated, finds himself without any occupation whatever, and 1s apt te become the prey of ennut, until he discerns some petty subject of investigation commensurate to his talents, the study of which gives him employment in solitude ; while the conscious possession of information peculiar to h imself, adds to his consequence in society. I have often observed, that the lichter and trivial branches of antiquarian study are singularly useful iw relieving vacuity of such a kind, and have known them serve many a Captozn Clut- terbuck to retreat upon; I was therefore a good deal surprised, chen d * Note A. Hillslap and Colmslie.INTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. Vil found the antiquarian Captain identified with a neighbor and friend of my er have been confounded with him by anyone who had read the book and seen the party alluded to. OWil, who could WL2U. This erroneous tdentijication occurs in a work entitled, “ l\lustrations of the Aut! 1or of Waverley, being Notices and Anecdotes of real Char acters, Scenes, and Lncidents, Supposed lo be described in his works, by Robert Chambers.’ This work was, of course, liable to many errors, as anyone of the kind must be, whatever may be the ingenutly of the author, which takes the task of explaining what can be only known lo another persun. Mistakes of place or inanimate things referred t 0, are of very little moment; but the ingenious author ought to have been more cautious of attaching real names lo fictitious characters, J think it is in the Spectator we read of a rustic wag, who, in a copy of The Whole Duty of Man, wrote Opposite to every vice the name of some indi- vidual in the neighborhood, and thus converted that excellent work into a libel on a whole parish. Lhe scenery being thus ready at the Author's hand, the reminiscences of the country were equally favorable. lnaland where the horses rencained almost constantly saddled, and the sword 5: ldom quitted the warrior’s side— where war was the natural and constant state of the inhabitants, and peace only extsted in the shape of brief and feverish truces—there could be no want of the means to complicate and extricate the incidents of his narrative at pleasure. There was a disadvantage, notwithstanding, in treading this Border distri t, for it had been alr ady ransacked by the Author himself, as well as others: and unless presented under a new light, was likely to afford ground to the objection of Crambe bis cocta. Lo attain the indispensable quality of novelty, something, it was thought, might be gained by contrasting the character of the vassals of the church with those of the dependants of the lay barons, by whom they were sur- rounded. But much advantage could not be derived from this. There were, indeed, differences betwixt the two classes, but, like tribes in the min- eral and vegetable world, which, resembling each other to common eves, Can be sufficiently well discriminated by naturalists. they were yet too similar, upon the whole, to be placed in marked contrast with each other. Machinery remained—the introduction of the supernc.tural and marvel- lous; the resort of distressed authors since the days of Florace, but whose privileges as a sanctuary have been disputed in the present age, and well: nigh exploded. The popular belief no longer allows the possibility of extst- ence to the race of mysterious beings which hovered betwixt this world and that which ts invisible. The fairies have abandoned thetr moonlight turf ; the witch no longer holds her black orgies in the hemlock dell ; and Even the last lingering phantom of the brain, The churchyard ghost, is now at rest again, From the discredit attached to the vulsar and more common modes inWAVERLEY NO VELS. will which the Scottish superstition displays itself, the Author was induced to have recourse to the beautiful, though almost forgotten, theory of astral spirits, or creatures of the elements, surpassing [non beings in knowledge and power, but inferior to them, as being subject, afler a certain space of ath which is to them annihilation, as they have no share in the These spirits are supposed to be of four distinct kinds, as the elements from which they have ther origin, and are known, to those who have studied the cabalistical philosoph yy, oY the names of Sylphs, Gnomes, Salamanders, and Naiads, as they belong to the elements of Air, Earth, Fire, or Water. The general reader will find an entertain- ing account of these elementary spirits im the French book, entitled Entre- tiens du Comte de Gabalis. Zhe ingenious Come de La Motte Fouqué composed, tm German, one of the most successful productions of his fertile brain,* where a beautiful and even afflicting effect is produced by the intro- duction of a water-nym ph, who loses the privilege of im mortality by consent ing to become accessible to human feelings, and uniting her lot with that of a mortal, who treats her with ingratitude. In imitation of an example so successful, the White Lady of Avenel was presented as connected with introduced into the following sheets. She is réj the family of Avenel by one of those mystic ties, W hich, in ancient limes, were supposed to exist, in certain circumstances, between the creatures of the elements and the children of men. Such instances of mystertous union are recognized in Ireland, in the real Milesian families, who are possessed of a Banshie ; and they are known among the traditions of the Highlands, which, ul being or spirit lo the service of partic years, to a de promise made to the sons of A dam. in many cases, attached an immork ular families or tribes. These demons, if they are to be called so, an nounced good or evil fortune to the families connected with them; and though some only condescended to meddle with matters of importance, others, like the May Mollach, or Maid of the Hairy Arms, condescended to mingle in ordinary sports, and even to direct the Chief how to play at draughts. There was, therefore, no great violence in supposing such a being as this to have existed, while the elementary spirits were believed in; but it was more difficult to describe or imagine tts attributes and principles of action, Shakspeare, the first of authorities mm such a case, has painted Ariel, that beautiful creature of his fancy, as only approaching so near to humanity as to know the nature of thatsympathy which the creatures of clay felt for each ether, as we learn from the expression—* Mine would, tf [ were Auman.” The inferences from this are singular, but seem capable o regular deduc- tion. A being, however superior to man in length of life—in power over the elements—in certain perceptions respecting the present, the past, and the future, yet still incapable of human passions, of sentiments of moral good and evil, of meriting future rewards or punishments, belongs rather to the * [Undine.]INTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. ix class of animals, than of human creatures, and must there ove be presumed fo act more from temporary benevolence or caprice, than from anything ap proaching to feeling or reasoning. Nuch a being’s superiority in power can j, . > > y “+ I, c J. * . + oniy be compared to that of the elephant or lion, who are greater in strength J; y yo J, sor , ae pity, }, o- ] than man, though inferior in the scale of creation. The partialities which we suppose such spirits to entertain must be like those of the dog ; their sua- den starts of passion, or the indul gence of a frolic, or mischief, may be com: pared to those of the numerous varieties of the cat. All these propensities are, however, controlled by the laws which render the elementary race subs ordinate to the command of man—liable to be subjected by his science (so the sect of Gnostics believed, and on this turned the Rosicrucian philosophy), or Tes ea 2210402 Tine Bite & sn : re vaeeenr , , , : fo be overpowered by his superior courage and da? tng, when it set their illus /t is with reference to this idea o of the supposed spirits of the elements, that the White Lady of Avenel is represented as acting a varying, caprictous, and inconsistent part in the pages assi oned to her in the narrative: mani« festing interest and attachment to the family with whom her destinies are associated, but evincing whim, and even a species of malevolence, towards ot her mortals, as the Sacristan, and the Border robber, whose incorrect life subjected them to recetve petty mortifications at her hand. The White Lady ts scarcely supposed, however, to have possessed either the power or the in- taaak ton to do more than inflict terror or create embarrassment, and ts also subjected by those mortals, who, by virtuous resolution and mental energy, could assert superiority over her. In these particulars she seems to consti- tute a being of a middle class, between the esprit follet who places its pleas- ure in misleading and tormenting mortals, and the benevolent fairy of the Last, who uniformly guides, aids, and supports them. Either, however, the Author executed his purpose indifferently, or the public did not approve of it; for the White Lady of Avenel was Jar from being popular. He does not now make the present statement, in the view of arguing readers intoa more favorable opinion on the subject, but merely with the purpose of exculpating himself from the charge of having wantonly intruded into the narrative a being of inconsistent powers and propensities, in the delineation of another character, the author of the Monastery failed, where he hoped for some success. As nothing ts so successful a sub- ject for ridicule as the fashionable folites of the time, it occurred to him that the more serious scenes of his narrative might be relieved by the humor of a eavaliero of the age of Queen Elizabeth. In every period, the attempt to gain and maintain the highest rank of soctety, has depended on the power of assuming and supporting a certain fashionable kind of affectation, usually connected with some vivacity of talent and energy of character, but dtstin- guished at the same time by a transcendent flight, beyond sound reason and common sense; both faculties too vulgar to be admitted into the estimate of one who claims to be esteemed ‘a choice spirit of the age.” These, in theseWAVERLEY NO VELS. x we tis to drive different phases, constitute the gallants of the day, whose boast tt ee the whims of fashion to extremuy : On all occasions, the manners of the soverersn, the court, and o sith of the peculiar discription of qualities by which those Whe 1 seek to distinguish themselves. The qwas distinguished by the must give the tone ¢ would attain the height of. fashion mus reien of Elizabeth, being that of a maiden queen, | bei se eae Hoses and especial the affectation of the deepest deference decorum of the cow tiers, and es) Y 3 eon : Ps » the acknowledgment of the Queen $ matchless per to the sovereign. After the a S a yolion riended to beauty as it existe d among thé fections, the same devotion was && hs facets lesser stars in her court, who sparkled, as it was the mode to say, vy He frected lustre. Tt is true, that gallant knights no longer vowed 0 Heaven, the peacock, and the ladies, to perform some feat of rr . which they endangered the lives of others as well as Baer OWN ; nee oe — t their chivalrous displays of personal gallantry seldom went further in Elizabeth’s days than the tilt-yard, where barricades, called barr ters, pte vented the shock of the horses, and limited the display of the CADAERED ‘i skill to the comparatively safe encounter of their lances, the language of the lovers to their ladies was still in the exalted terms which Amadis would have ad- dressed to Oriana, before encountering a dragon for her sake. This tone of romantic gallantry found a clever but conceited author, to reduce it to a species of constitution and form, and lay down the courtly manner of cone versation, in a pedantic book, called Euphues and his England. Of ¢his, a brief account is given in the text, to which it may now be proper to make some additions. The extravagance of Euphuism, or a symbolical jargon of the same class, predominates in the romances of Calprenade and Scuderi, which were read for the amusement of the fair sex of France during the long reign of Louis XIV., and were supposed to contain the only legitimate language of love and gallantry. In this reign they encountered the satire of Molire and Boileau. A similar disorte~, spreading into private society, formed the ground of the affected dialogue f the Précieuses, as they were styled, who formed the coterie of the Hotel ae Kambouillet, and afforded Molidre matter for his admirable comedy, Les Précieuses Ridicules. Ja England, the humor does not seem to have long survived the accession of Fames I. The Author had the vanity to think that a character, whose pecularities should turn on extravagances which were once universally fashionable, might be read ina fictitious story with a good chance of affording amusement to the existing generation, who, fond as they are of looking back on the actions and manners of their ancestors, might be also supposed to be sensible of their ab- surdities. He must fairly acknowledge that he was disappointed, and that the Euphuist, far from being accounted a well-drawn and humorous character of the period, was condemned as unnatural and absurd. It would be easy to account for this failure, by supposing the a fect te arise from the Author's want of skill, and, probably, many reade:s watINTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTER ¥. xi fA esr sare Pb wt J. Secaiaeaneonan to look far ther. But as the Author himself can scarcely be 1up] ose a wil ing to acquiesce in this final cause, ifany other can be alleged he has been led to suspect, that, contrary to what he originally upaosed he oy 7 a 2 : , : selec aes inmjpudt tously chosen, in which, and not in his mode of treating sf, day the source of the want of success.* ‘ The manners of a rude people are always founded o fore the feelings of a more polished alee nn ee ee? a ig it Sl es — : EOLA Site athize with " ¢?? } € need no Numerous notes, No antiquarian dissertations, to enable re a to recognize the sentiments and diction of the characters of weer’; wm have but, as Lear says, to strip off our lendings—to set aside the factitious principles and adornments which we have received from our comparatively artificial system of society, and our natural feelings are in unison with those of the bard of Chios and the heroes who live in a Verses. ft is the same with a great part of the narratives of my friend Mr. Cooper. We sympathize with his Indian chiefs and backwoodsmen, and acknowledge, in the characters which he presents to us, the same truth of human nature by which we should feel ourselves influenced if placed in the same condition, So much is this the case, that, though it ts difficult, or almost impossible, to reclaim a savage, bred from his youth to war and the chase, to the restraints and the duties of civilized life, nothing ts more easy or common than to find men who have been educated in all the habits and comforts of improved society, willing to exchange them for the wild labors of the hunter and the fishers. The very amusements most pursued and relished by men of all ranks, whose constitutions permit active exercise, are hunting, fishing, and, in some instances, war, the natural and necessary business of the savage of Dryden, where his hero talks of being “ As free as nature first made man, When wild in woods the noble savage ran.” But although the occupations, and even the sentiments, of human beings in a primitive state, find access and interest in the minds of the more art of the species, it does not therefore follow, that the national ed period, should afford either the These generally, civilized p tastes, opinions, and follies, of one civiliz same interest or the same amusement to those of another. when driven to extravagance, are founded, not upon any natural taste proper to the species, but upon the growth of some peculiar cast of affectation, eneral, and succeeding generations in particular, with which mankind in g feel no common interest or sympathy. The extravagances of coxcombry in manners and apparel are indeed the lecitimate,and often the successful, objects of satire during the time when they exist. In evidence of this, theatrical critics may observe how many dramatic jeux d’esprit are well received cvery season, because the. satirist levels at some well-known 09 ® Note B. The White Lady, and Euphuism.xii WAVERLEY NOVELS. fashionatle absurdity ; or, in the dramatic phrase, “ shoots folly as it fltes.”? But when the peculiar kind of folly keeps the wing no longer, uw ws rel koned but waste of powder to pour a discharge of ridicule on what has ceased to exist ; and the pieces in which such forgotten “ade s* are made the se ject of yidicule, fall quietly into oblivion with the follies which & ave — fashion, or only continue to exist on the scene, because they contai# SOULE other more permanent interest than that which connects them with manners and follies of a temporary character. This, perhaps, affords a reason why the comedies of nate Jon On, founded upon system, or what the age termed humors, —o ee was meant factit.ous and affected characters, superinduced on that mnie was common to the rest of their race, — in spite of acule satire, deep scholarship, and strong sense, do not now afford general pleasure, but are confined to the closet of the antiguary, whose studies have assured him that the personages of the dramatist were once, though theyare now no longer, portraits of existing nature. Let us take another example of our hypothesis from Shakspeare himself, who, of all authors, drew his portraits for all ages. With the whole sum of the idolatry which affects us at his name, the mass of readers peruse, without amusement, the characters formed un the extravagances of temporary fashion, and the Euphuist Don Armado, the pedant Holofernes, even Ny and Pistol, are read with little pleasure by the mass of the public, being portraits of which we cannot recognize the humor, because the originals nu longer exist. In like manner, while the distresses of Romeo and Fuliet cuntinue to interest every bosom, Mercutio, drawn as an accurate representatlon of the finished fine gentleman of the period, and as such received by the unanimous approbation of contemporaries, has so little to interest the present age. that, stripped of all his puns and quirks of verbal wit, he only retains his place in the scene in virtue of his fine and fanciful speech upon dreaming, which be- longs to no particular age, and because he is a personage whose presence is indispensable to the plot. We have already prosecuted perhaps too far an argument, the tendency of which is to prove, that the introduction of a humorist, acting, like Sir Piercie Shafton, upon some forgotten and obsolete model of folly, once fashion- able, is rather likely to awaken the disgust of the reader, as unnatural, than find him food for laughter. Whether owing to this theory, or wether to the more simple and probable cause of the author's failure in the delineation of the subject he had proposed to himself, the formidable objection of incred- ulus odi was applied to the Euphuist, as well as to the White Lady of Avenel ; and the one was denounced as unnatural, while the other was re- jected as impossible. There was little in the story to atone for these failures in two principal points. The incidents were inartificially huddled together. There was no part of the intrigue to which deep interest was found to apply ; and thsINTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. xiii conclusion was brought about, not by incidents arising out of the story itself, but in consequence of public transactions, with which the narrative has little connection, and which the reader had little opportunity to become acquainted with. This, if not a positive fault, was yet a yreat defect in the Romance. Tt is true, that not only the practice of some great authors in this department, mut even the general course of human life itself, may be queted in favor of this more obvious, and less artifuial practice, of arranging a narrative. Tt ts seldom that the same circle of personages who have surrounded an inds- widual at his first outset in life, continue to have an interest in his career till his fate comes to a crisis. On the contrary, and more especially if the events of his life be of a varied character, and worth communicating to others, or to the world, the hero's later connections are usually tovelly separated from those with whom he began the voyage, but whom the indi- vidual has outsailed, or who have drifted astray, or , underéd on the pas- sage. This hackneyed comparison holds good in another point. The nu- merous vessels of so many different sorts, and destined for such different purposes, which are launched in the same mighty ocean, acthough each endeavors to pursue its own course, are in every Case more influenced by the winds and tides, which are common to the element which thev all navigate, than by their own separate when human prudence has done its best, some general, perhaps national, exertions. And it is thus in the world, that event, destroys the schemes of the individual, as the casual touch of a more powerful being sweeps away the we h of the spider. Many excellent romances have been composed in this view of human life, where the hero ts conducted through a. variety of detached scenes, in which various agents appear and disappear, without, perhaps, having any permanent influence on the progress of the story. Such ts the structure of Gil Blas. Roderick Random, and the lives and adventures of manv other heroes. who are described as running through different stations of life, and encountering various adventures, which are only connected with each other by having h uppened to be witnessed by the same individual, whose identity unites them together, as the string of a necklace links the beads, which are otherwi e dela hed. But though such an unconnected course of adventures ts what most fre- quently occurs in nature, yet the province of the romance-writer being arti ficial, there is more required from him than a mere compliance with the simplicity of reality,—just as we demand from the scientific gardener, that he shall arrange, in curious knots and artificial parterres, the flowers which listributes freely on hill and dale. Fielding, accordingly, in but especially in Tom Fones, his chef-d’ceuvre. Aas set “mature boon”? « most of his novels, the distinguished example of a story regularly built and consistent in all cts parts, in which nothing occurs, and scarce a personage is introduced, thas has not some share in tending to advance the catastrophe.VA V. VOVELS. xIVv WAVERLEY / Ty demand equal correctness a nd felicity in those who may follow in tha track of that illustrious novelist, would be to feller too much ae pouter of giving pleasure, by surrounding it with penal rules ; since of a sort of light literature it may be especially said—tout genre est permis, hors le genre ennuyeux. Still, however, the more closely and happily the story ts combined, and the more natural and felicitous the Cala ser Teli the nearer such a composition will approach the perfection of the novelist’s art ; nor can an author neglect this branch of his profession, without incurring pro portional censure. er: For such censure the Monastery gave but toomuch occasion. The intrigue of the Romance, neither very interesting in itself, nor very happily de- tailed, is at length finally disentangled by the breaking out of national hos- filities between England and Scotland, and the as sudden renewal of the truce. Instances of this kind, it ts true, cannot in reality have been mncom- mon, but the resorting to such, in order to accomplish the catastrophe, as by a tour de force, was objected to as inartificial, and not perfectly intelligible to the general reader. Still the Monastery, though exposed to severe and just criticism, did not fail, judging from the extent of ts circulation, to have some interest for the public. And this, too, was according to the ordinary course of such mat- ters: for it very seldom happens that literary reputation is gained by a single effort, and still more rarely is it lost by a solitary miscarriage. The Author, therefore, had his days of grace allowed him, and time, sf he pleased, to comfort himself with the burden of the old Scotch song, “ Tf it isna weel bobbit, We'll bob it again.” ABBOTSFORD, 15/ November, 183,INTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY, AINEZRODU CTORY..E PLS ILE FROM CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, LATE OF HIS MA FESTY’$ mw REGIMENT OF INFANTRY, TO THE AUTHOR OF WA VERLEY, S7R,—Although I do not pretend to the pleasure of your personal acquaints _— Hike rs l believe to be equally strangers to you, Iam never- theless interested in your publications, and desire their coulinuance ;—not that I pretend to much taste in fictitious composition, or that Iam apt to be interested in Jour grave scenes, or amused by those which are meant to be lively. Twill not ai SOULSE Jrom you, that 1 have yawned over the last ine terview of Ma lvor and his sister, and fell fairly asleep while the school- master was reading the humors of Dandie Dinmont. You see, sir, that £ scorn to solicit your favor ina way to which you are no stranger. Tf the papers f enclose you are worth nothing, I will not endeavor to recommend them by personal flattery, as a bad cook pours rancid butter upon stale fish. No, sir! what I respect in you 1s the light you have occasionally thrown on national antiquities, a study which I have commenced rather late in life, but to which IT am attached with the devotion of a first love, because it is the only study I ever cared a farthing for. You shall have my history, sir (tt will not reach to three volumes), before that of my manuscript ; and as you usually throw outa few lines of verse (y way of skirmishers, I suppose) at the head of each division of prose, I have had the luck to light upon a stanza in the schoolmaster’s copy of Burns which describes me exactly. I love it the better, because it was originally designed for Captain Grose, an excellent antiquary, though, like yourself, somewhat too apt to treat with levity his own pursuits} 'Tis said he was a soldier bred, And ane wad rather fa'en than fled ; But now he’s quit the spurtle blade, And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the—antiguarian trade, I think they call it, I never could conceive what influenced me, when a boy, in the choice of a profession, Military zeal and ardor it was not, which made me stand ontNOVELS. xvi WAVERLEY for a commission in the Scots Fusiliers, when my tutors One Cueaeaes wished to bind me apprentice to old David Stiles, Clerk (ol Signet. I say, military seal it was not; for L wns 0 fighting o in my cared not a penny to read the history of the heroes who own person, and As for courage, Thad, as 1 turned the world upside down i former ages. : , 7 rq} } ie Hw have since discovered, just as much of it as. served my turn, ane not one grain of surplus. I soon found out, indeed, that in action ae danger in running away than in standing fast ; and ae : “om oe afford to lose my commission, which was my chief means of Sup} " Z. ut, as for that overvoiling valor, which I have heara many of ans talk Sf: though I seldom observed that it influenced them in the actual affair—that exuberant zeal, which courts Danger as a bride,—truly my courage was of a contplexion nruch less ecstatical. Again, the love of a red coat, which, in default of all other aptitudes to che profcssion, has made many a bad soldier and some good ones, Was an utter strang.r to my disposition. I cared not a“ bodle” for the company of the misses: N-y, though there was a boarding-school in the village, and though we used to meet with its fair inmates at Simon Lightfoot’s weekly Practising, I cannot recollect any strong emotions being excited on these oc- casions, excepting the infinite regret with which f went through the folite ceremonial of presenting my partner with an orange, thrust into my pocket by my aunt for this special purpose, but which, had I dared, ( certainty would have secreted for my own personal use. As for vanity, or love oj finery for itself, I was such a stranger to it, that the difficulty was great to make me brush my coat, and appear in proper trim upon parade. L shall never forget the rebuke of my old Colonel on a morning when the King re viewed a brigade of which ours made part. “Lam no friend to extrava- vagance, Ensign Clutterbuck,” said he; “ but, on the day when we are to pass before the Sovereign of the kingdom, in the name of God I would hav. at least shown him an inch of clean linen.” Lhus, a stranger to the ordinary motives which lead young men to make the army thetr chotce,and without the least desire to become either a hero or a dandy, I really do not know what determined my thoughts that way, unless it .vere the happy state of half-pay indolence enjoyed by Captain Doolittle, who had set up his staff of rest in my native village. Every other person had, or seemed to have, something to do, less or more. They did noe, endeed, precisely go to school and learn tasks, that last of evils in my estt mation ; but it did not escape my boyish observation, that they were all bothered with something or other like duty or labor—all but the ha ppy Cap» tain Doolittle. The minister had his parish to visit, and his preach ing to prepare, though perhaps ke made more fuss than he needed about both. Lhe laird had his farming and improving operations to superintend ; and, besides, he had to attend trustee meetings, and lieutenancy meetings, and head-courts, and meetings of justices,and what not—was as early u (p (that(NTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. xvii # detesten), and as much in the open air, wet and dry, as his own Lvrieve, The shopkeeper (the village boasted but one of eminence) stood indeed pretty much at his ease behind his counter, for his custom was by no MeANS OVeF- burdensome: but still he enjoyed his status, as the Bailie calls it, upon con- dition of tumbling all the wares in his booth over and over, when anyone chose to want a yard of muslin, a mouselrap, an ounce of caraways, a paper of pins, the Sermons of Mr. Peden, or the Life of Jack the Giant Queller (mot Killer, as u suatly erroncously written and pronounced,— See my essay on the true history of this % orthy, where real facts have in a peculiar de- gree been obscured by fable). In short, all in the village were under the necessity of doing something which they would rather have left undone, excepting Captain Doolittle, who walked every morning in the open street, which formed the high mall of our village, in a blue coat with a red neck, and played at whist the whole evening, when he could make upa party. This happy va utly of all employment appeared to me so delicious, that it became the primary hint, which, according to the system of Helvetius, as the minister says, determined my infant talents towards the profession I was destined to tllustrate. But who, alas ! can forma just estimate of their future prospects in this deceit/ul world? J was not long engaged in my new profession, before 1 discovered, that tf the independent indolence of half-pay was a paradise, the officer must pass through the purgatory of duty and service in order to Lain admission to it, Captain Doolittle might brush his blue coat with the red neck, or leave tt unbrushed, at his pleasure ; but Lnsign Clutterbuck had no such option. Captain Doolittle might go to bed at ten o clock, if he had amind ; but the Ension must make the rounds in his turn, What was worse, the Captain might repose under the testor of his tent-bed until noon, if he so pleased; but the Ensign, God help him, had to appear upon parade at peep of day. As for duty, ] made that as easy as 1 could, had the sergeant to whisper to me the words of command, and bustled through as other folks did. Of service, I saw enough for an indolent man—war buffeted up and down the world, and visited both the East and West Indies, Egypt, and other distant places, which my youth had scarce dreamed of. The French I saw, and felt too; witness two fingers on my right hand, which one of thetr cursed hussars took off with his sabre as neatly as an hospital surgeon. Al length the death ofan old aunt, who left me some fifteen hundred pounds, snugly vested in the three per cents, gave mea longs wished-for opportunity of retiring, with the prospect of enjoying a clean shirt and 2 guinea four times a week at least. For the purpose of commencing my new way of life, I selected for my residence the village of Kennaquhatir, in the south of Scotland, celebrated for the ruins of its magnificent Monastery, intending there to lead my future life in the otium cum dignitate of halfpay and annuity. I was not long, however, in making the grand discovery, that in order to enjoy leisure, tt #8 2xvili WAVERLEY NOVELS. absolutely necessary it should be preceded by acu pttae sy ad se it was delightful to wake at daybreak, dreaming Of the réveillé — then to recollect my happy emancipation from the slavery that doomed me to wae at a piece of clattering parchment, turn on my other side, damn the os ade, and go to sleep again. But even this enjoyment had its termination , and time, when it became a stock entirely at my own disposal, began to hang 3 heavy on my hand. L angled for two days, during which time I lost twenty hooks,and severa scores of yards of gut and line, and caught not even a minnow. Hunting was out of the question, for the stomach of a horse by no means agrees with the half-pay establishment. When I shot, the shepherds gtd ploughmen, and my very dog, quizzed me every lime that I missed, which was, generally speaking, every time 1 fired. Besides, the country gentlemen in this quarter like their game, and began to talk of prosecutions and interdicts. lI did nok give up fighting the French to commence a domestic war with the “ pleasant men of Teviotdale,” as the song calls them ; sol &en spent three days (ery agreeably) in cleaning my gun, and disposing it upon two hooks over my chimney-piece. The success of this accidental experiment set me on trying my skill in the mechanical arts. Accordingly [ took down and cleaned my landlady’s cuckoo clock, and in so doing silenced that companion of the spring forever anda day. J mounted a turning-lathe, and in attempting to use it, [very nearly cribbed off, with an inch-and half former, one of the fingers which the hussar had left me. Books f tried, both those of the little circulating library, and of the more rational subscription collection maintained by this intellectual people. But neither the light reading of the one, nor the heavy artillery of the other suitcd my purpose. L always fell asleep at the fourth or fifth page of history or disquisition; and it took me a month's hard reading to wade through a half-bound trashy novel, during which I was pestered with ap- plications to return the volumes, by every half-bred milliner’s miss about the place. Ln short, during the time when all the town besides had some- thing to do, [ had nothing for it but to walk in the churchyard, and whistle till tt was dinner time. During these promenades, the ruins necessarily forced themselves on m Ly atte.rtion, and by degrees, I found myself engaged in studyine the more minute ornaments, and at length the general plan, of this noble structure. The old sexton aided my labors, and gave me his portion of traditional lore. fwery day added something to my stock of knowledge respecting the ancient state of the building; and at length I made discoveries concerning the purpose of several detached and very ruinous portions of it, the use of which had hitherto been either unknown altogether or erroneousl ly explained, L he knowledge which I thus acquired Thad frequent opportunities of wetailing to those visitors whom the Progress of a Scottish tovr brought teINTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. xix visit this celebrated spot. Without encroaching on the privilege of my friend the sexton, I became gradually an assistant Cicerone in the task of description and explanation, and often (seetng a fresh party of visitors arrive) has he turned over to me those to whom he had told half his story, with the flattering observation, ** What needs L say any mair about it ? There's the Captain kens mair anent it than J do, or any man in the town.’ Then would / salute the strangers courteously, and expatiate to their astonished minds upon crypts and chancels, and naves, arches, Gothic and Saxon architraves, mullions and flying buttresses. It not urfrequently happened, that an acquaintance which commenced in the Abbey concluded in the inn, which served to relieve the solitude as well as the monotony of my landlady’s shoulder of mutton, whether roast, cold, or hashed. By degrees my mind became enlarged ; I found a book or two which ene lichtened me on the subject of Gothic architecture, and I read now with pleasure, because I was interested in what Tread about. Even my character began to dilate and expand. JI spoke with more authority at the club, and ws listened to with deference, because on one subject, at least, [ possessed more information than any of its members. Indeed, l found that even my stories about Egypt, which, to say truth, were somewhat threadbare, were now listened to with more respect than formerly. ‘“‘ The Captain,” they said, “had something in him after a’ ,—there were few folk kend sae muckle about the Abbey.”’ With this general approbation waxed my own sense of self-importance and my feeling of general comfort. I ate with more appetite, I digested with more ease, [ lay down at night with joy, and slept sound till morning, when ZT arose with a sense of busy importance, and hited me to measure, to examine and to compare the various parts of this interesting structure. I lost all sense and consciousness of certain unpleasant sensations of a nondescript sature, about my head and stomach, to which I had been in the habit of at- tending, more for the benefit of the village apothecary than my own, for the pure want of something else to think about. JI had found out an occupation unwittingly, and was happy because [ had something todo. In a word, I had commenced local antiquary, and was not unworthy of the name. Wailst I was in this pleasing career of busy idleness, for so it might at best be called. it happened that ] was one night sitting in my little parlor, adjacent to the closet which my landlady calls my bedroom, in the art of preparing for an early retreat to the realms of Morpheus. Dugdale’s Mo- nasticon, borrowed from the library at A , was lying on the table before me flanked by some excellent Cheshire cheese (a present, by the way, from an honest London citizen, to whom [had explained the difference between a Gothicand a Saxon arch), anda glass of Vanderhagen’s best ale. This armed at all points against my old enemy Time, I was leisurely and deliciously preparing for bed—now reading a line of old Dugdale —now sipping my ale, or munching my bread and cheese —now undoing= WAVERLEY NOVELS. wo cf my waistcoat the strings at my breeches’ knees, or a button or two cf my waistcoat, until the village clock should strike ten, before which time L means? at a rile never to go to bed. A loud knocking, how 2ver, anlerruplea m J ordinary process on this occasion, and the votce of Mispeheariesh landlord of the aang was heard vociferating,*® “ What the deevil, Mrs. Grimslees, the Captatr is no in his bed? anda gentlemen at our house has ordered a fowl and minced collops, and a bottle of sherry, and has sent toask him to supper, to tell him all about the Abbey.” “ Na,” answered Luckie Grimslees, in the true sleepy tone of a Scottish matron when ten o'clock is gommg to strike, “he's no in his bed; but L’sé warrant him no gae out at this time o night to keep folks-sitting up watting for him—the Captain's a decent man.” I plainly perceived this last compliment was made for my hearing, by way both of indicating and of recommending the course of conduct which Mrs. Grimslees desired I should pursue. But I had not been knocked about the world for thirty years and odd, and lived a bluff bachelor all the while, to come home and be put under petticoat government by my landlady. Ac- cordingly I opened my chamber-door, and desired my old friend David to walk up stairs. “Captain,” said he, as he entered, “Tam as glad to find you up as if I had hooked a twenty pound saumon. Theres a gentleman up yonder that will not sleep sound in his bed this blessed night unless he has the pleasure to drink a glass of wine with you.” “ You know, David,’ I replied, with becoming dignity, “that I cannot with profriety ga out to visit strangers at this time of night, or accept of ins vitations from people of whom 1 know nothing.” David swore a vound oath, and added, “ Was ever the like heard of ? fle has ordered a fowl and egg sauce, a pancake and minced collops, and a bottle of sherry-—D'ye think I wad come and ask you to go to keep company with ony bit English rider that sups on toasted cheese and a cheerer of rum- toddy? Thes is a gentleman every inch of him, and a virtuoso, a clean virtuoso—a sad-colored stand of claithes, and a wig like the curled back of a mugewe. dhevery first question he speered was about the auld drawbrig that has tren at the bottom of the water these twal score years—I have seen the fundations when we were sticking saumon—And how the deevil suld he ken onything about the auld drawbrig, unless he were a virtuoso 2” + David being a virtuoso in his own way, and moreover a landholder and * The George was, and is, the principal inn in the village of Kennaquhair, or Melrose. But the landlord of the period was not the same civil and quiet person by whom the inn snow kept. David Kyle, a Melrose proprietor of no little importance, a first-rate pe of consequence in whatever belonged to the business of the town, was the original owner and landlord of the inn. Poor David, like many other busy men, took so much care of public affairs, as in some degree to. neglect his own There are persons still alive in Kennaquhair who .can recognize him and his peculiarities in the following sketch of mine Host of the George. { There is more to be said about this old bridge hereafter, See Note E. rsonINTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. XXxi keritor, was a qualified judge of all who frequented his house, and therefore f could not avoid again tying the strings of my knees. “ That's right, Captain,” vociferated David ; “you twa will be as thick as three in a bed an ance ye forgather. I haena seen the like o him my very sell since I saw the great Doctor Samuel Johnson on his tower through Scotland, whilk tower is lying in my back parlor for the amusement of my guests, wt the twa boards torn of” “ Then the gentleman ts a scholar, David ?” “L’se uphaud him a scholar,” answered David ; “he has a black coat en, or a brown ane, at ony rate,” [s he a clergyman?” “Lam thinking no, for he looked after his horse’s supper before he spoke 9 Ais ain, replied mine host. “ Has he a servani?” demanded I. “cc ~~ ovis ae 7? rer oor oar a Ps g 2 . A 4€ SETVAUHI, QHNSWErTeER David ° : oul a LTAnA Jace QO >, 7 . . Ais ain, that wad gar onyboay be willing to serve him that looks upon him.” “And what makes him think of distur bing me? Ah, David, this has been some of your ¢ /; wlering ; you are perpetually bringing your guests on my shoulders, as if it were my business to entertain every man who comes Lo the Ge Mr “ What the deil wad ye hae me do, Captain?” answered mine host s #e gentleman lights down, and asks me in a most earnest manner. what man of , sense and learning there is about our town, that can tell him about the an- tiqguities of the place, and specially about the auld Abbey—ye wadna hae me tell the f enitlem Z7j7t a lee ? and vVé ken We el eneugh there 1S naehody in the town can say a reasonable word about it, be it no yoursell, except the bedral, and heisas fou asa piper by this time. So, says I, there's Captain Clut- terbuck, that’s avery civil gentleman, and has little to do forby telling a’ the auld cracks about the Abbey, and dwells just hard by. Then says the gen- tleman to me,‘ Sir,’ says he very civilly, ‘have the goodness to step to Cap- fain Clutterbuck with my compliments, and say lam a stranger, whe have been led to these parts chiefly by the fame of these Ruins, and that I would call upon Aim but the hour is late” And mair he said that I have forgot ten, bul [ weel remember it ended,—‘ And, landlord, get a bottle of your best sherry, and supper for two.— Ye wadna have had me refuse to do the ger 9%? tleman’s bidding, and me a publican | “ Well, David,” said 1,“ I wish your virtuoso had taken a fitter hour— ” , but as you say he is a gentleman “T7’se uphaud him that—the order speaks for ttsell—a bottle of sherry— minched collops and a fowl—that’s speaking like a gentleman, I trow ?—~ That's right, Captain, button weel up, the night’s raw—but the waters clearing for a that; we'll be on’t neist night wi my Lora’s boats, and welt hae ill luck if [ dinna send you a kipper to relish your ale at een,” * * The nobleman whose boats are mentioned in the text is the late kind and amiablexxii WAVERLEY NOVELS. In five minutes after this dialogue, I found myself in the parlor of the George, and in the presence of the stranger. He was a grave personage, about my ae age ae ee jyfty): and really had, as my friend David expressed or Somer ae ae hi face that inclined men to oblige and to serve him. ¥ et this expression of authority was not at all of the cast which I aoa seen in the dee a a general of brigade, neither was the stranger's dress a all martial, : consisted of a uniform suit of tron-gray clothes, cut in rather an o - fashioned form. fs legs were defended with strong Ee gambadoes, which, according to an antiquarian contrivance, opened at the sides, and were secured by steel clasps. fis countenance was worn as igi by toil and sorrow as by age, for it intimated that he had seen and endured much. (which we shall call about His address was singularly pleasing and gentlemanlike, and the apology which he made for disturbing me at such an hour and in such a manner, was so well and handsomely expressed, that [could not reply otherwise than by declaring my willingness to be of service to him. “7 have been a traveller to-day, sir,” said he, “and I would willingly defer the little I have to say till after supper, for which I feel rather more appetized than usual.” We sate down to table, and notwithstanding the stranger’s alleged appe- tite, as well as the gentle preparation of cheese and ale which I had already laid aboard, I really believe that I of the two did the greater honor to my friend Davia’s fowl and minced collops. When the cloth was removed, and we had each made a tumbler of negus, of that liquor which hosts call Sherry, and guests call Lisbon, I perceived that the stranger seemed pensive, silent, and somewhat embarrassed, as if he had something to communicate which he knew not well how to introduce. To pave the way for him, I spoke of the anctent ruins of the Monastery and of their history. But, tomy great surprise, I found I had met my match with a witness. The stranger not only knew all that I could tell him, but a great deal more ; and what was still more mortifying, he was able, by reference to dates, charters, and other evidence of facts, that, as Burns SAYS, “downa be disputed,” to correct many of the vague tales, which I had adopted on loose and vulgar tradition, as well as to confute more than one of my favorite theories on the subject of the old monks and their dwellings, which I had sported freely in all the presumption of superior information, And here I cannot but remark, that much of the stranger's arguments and inductions rested upon the authority of Mr. Deputy Register of Scotland,* Lord Sommerville, an intimate friend of the Author. D privileged attendant when Lord Sommerville ha occasions, eighty or a hundred fish were often killed between Gleamer and Leaderfoot. * Thomas Thomson, Esq., whose well-deserved panegyric ought to be found on ar ether page than one written by an intimate friend of thirty years’ standing. avid Kyle was a constant and d a party for spearing salmon ; on such ;INITRODOUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. X ie ~—~e oer y f , J -sshasvets _ © “g ls . : C : . end Ais (ucubrations ; a gentleman whose indefatigable research into the nae tional records ts like to destroy my trade, and that of all local antiquaries, by substituting truth instead of legend and romance. Alas! I would the lea? ned Se Ma oe Cs rots out penn. |g . . - . ntleman did but know how difficult it is for us dealers in petty me Wares of antiquity lo Pluck from our memories a rooted “ legend,” Raze out the written records of our brain, . a4 4 ~~ tTrulh OF to-day i Midi Led i71l0 a lié by 10-2107 VOW. Finding myself like to be overpowered in the Monastery, which I had hi it herto PECLr 1 1 aS piy ctla 1 , Lr beg t7l, like a skilful ge Wer hs lo evacuaté t rat pl icé 0 fi bi i Wey All i fight my Ww ry throu oh the adjace ut country. ff had recourse Lo my acquaint w1ceé with the fa milies and a ntiguities of the Zz large with- netvhborhood, ground on which I thought I might skirmish a a haw . - A a eo Cae e “/y wre t7 pe oo Ob7 J, oy «ora >, of it its being possible for the stranger to meet me with advantage. Dut lwas The man in the iron-cray suit showed a much more minute knowledge © < o eo r ; , y y . r ae } ys iow these particulars than I had the least pretension to. Ile could tell the very which the family of De Haga first settled on their ancient barony.* Vota Thane within reach but he knew his family and connections, how stors had fillen by the sword of the English, how many in domestic brawl, and how many by the hand of the executioner jor march Their es he was acquainted with from turret to foundation- MIAINY of / 1s ance (reason. teir castles he 7 - y, : 17] : 4 - . 4°27 > iene I, A - stone: and as for the miscellaneous antiquilies scattered about the country, Cr r : a } 1 ings oe ones jane _ hice hnew evervone of them, from a cromiccn fo a Cairn, @72a could give as , ; i. ; - Be SON = ; od an account of each as if he had lived in the time of the Danes or ee oe , : Twas now in the mortifying predicament of one who suddenly finds ha scholar when he came to teach, and nothing was left for me but to : ’ a 2 6 . 7 - y os I oe ‘t-b up as much of his conversation as I could, for the benefit of the next s i ry ’ qs os ea LT 540 company. I told, indeed, Allan Ramsay's story of the Monk and Afiller’; Nee : bite to retreat with some honor unaer cover of a parting volley. Wife in order Here, however, my flank was again tur ned by the eternal stranger. * The family of De Haga, modernized into Haig, of Bemerside, rophecies of Thomas the Rhymer :— is of the highest an tiquity, and is the subject « f one of they retide, betide, whate’er betide. Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside.XXIV WAVERLEY NOVELS. said he; “but you cannot be “ You are pleased to be facetious, Se : tioned is the subject of a tale ignorait that the ludicrous incident you men much older than that of Allan Ramsay.” I nodded, unwilling to acknowledge my ignorance, though, in fact, l of my friend Daviad’s post- new no more what he meant than did one horses. , “7 do not allude,’ continued my omniscient companion, “ to the curious ipl, called the poem published by Pinkerton from the Maitland Manuser : Fryars of Berwick, although it presents @ Very minute and amusing picture of Scottish manners during the reign of Fumes V.; but rather to the Italian novelist, by whom, so far as 1 know, the story was first printed, although unguestionably he first took his original from some ancient fabliau.”’ * “Tt is not to be doubted,” answered I, not very well understanding, however, the proposition to which I gave such unqualified assent. “ Vet,” continued my companion, “* [ question much, had you known my situation and profession, whether you would have pitched upon this precise anecdote for my amusement.” This observation he made in a tone of perfect good-humor. I pricked up my ears at the hint,and answered as politely as [ could, that my ignorance of his condition and rank could be the only cause of my having stumbled on anything disagreeable ; and that Twas most willing to apologize for my unintentional offence, $0 soon as T should know wherein it consisted. “* Nay, no offence, sir,” he replied ; “ offence can only exist where it is taken. I have been toolong accustomed to more severe and cruel miscon- structions, to be offended at a popular jest, though directed at my prom Jession.” “Am Ito understand, then,” I answered, ‘‘ that lam speaking with a Catholic clergyman?” “ An unworthy monk of the order of Saint Benedict,” said the stranger, “ belonging to a community of your own countrymen, long established im ae Be by ee of the Revolution.” ee e » “you are a native Scotchman, and from this neigh- “ Not so,” answered the monk ; “ Tam a Scotchman by extraction only and never was in this neighborhood during my whole life.” . Neuer in this neighborhood, and yet so minutely acquainted with its history, its traditions, and even its external scenery! You surprise me, sir,” I replied. oe handled, forms also the subject of ieee, nee af abe Ramsay certainly borrowed, without ee ae No Song, mo Suriny LApan gment, his tale of the Monk and Miller’s Wife from the old Scottish ; ieee : William Dunbar] cottish poem entitled the Fseiris of Berwick, usually attributed teINTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. XXV “Tt is not surprising,” he said,“ that Ihave that sort of local inform. @tion, when it 1s considered, that my uncle, an excellent man, as well as a good Scotchman, the head also of our religious community, employed much of his leisure in m tking me acquainted with these particulars ; and that I myself, disgusted with what has been passing around me, have jor many years amused myself, by digesting and arranging the various scraps of in for ‘Maabimadbonnen h Ll derived from my worthy relative, and other aged brethren of our order.” “1 presume, sir,” said I,“ though I would by no means intrude the question, that you are now returned to Scotland with a view to settle amongst your countrymen, since the great political catastrophe of our time has reduced your corps?” “No, sir,” replied the Benedictine,“ such is not my intention. A Luropean polentatle, who still cherishes the Catholic faith, has offered us a@ retreat within his dominions, where a Jew of my scattered brethren are already ASS¢ mobled, Lo pray lo God for blessings on their protector, and pardon to their enemies. No one, 1 believe, will be able to olject to Us, under our new establishment, that the extent of our revenues wiil be incon= sistent with our vows of poverty and abstinence; but let us strive to be thankful to God, that the snare of temporal abundance is removed from us.” c Many of your convents, abroad, sir,” said I, “* enjoyed very handsome incomes—and yet, allowing for times, [question if any were better provided for than the Monastery of this village. Jt is said to have possessed nearly wo thousand pounds in yearly money-rent, fourteen chalders and nine bolls fifty-six chalders five bolls barley, forty-four chalders and ten é of wheat, bolls oats, capons and poultry, butter, salt, carriage and arriage, peats ccaghl kain, wool and ale.” “ Even toomuch of all these temporal goods, sir, “ which. thouch wellintended by the pious aonors, Se? ved only to make the ‘7 o - aa a 7 - as . a a - 17 e establishment the envy and the prey of those by whom i was finally de ” said my companion, ” voured. ° vin ‘sé i Are , “ Tn the meanwhile, however,” I observed, “ the monks had an easy life of it, and as the old song goes, —made gude kale On Fridays when they fasted.’ “7 understand you, sir,” said the Benedictine ; “it is difficult, saith the proverb, to carry a full cup without spilling. Unquestionably the wealth of the comm unity, as it endangered the safety of the establishment by exciting the cupidity of others, was also in frequent instances a snare lo the brethren themselves. And yet we have seen the revenues of convents expended, not only in acts of beneficence and hospitality to individuals, but in works of wor ile folse general and permanent advantage to the world at large. The noble fXXVi WAVERLEY NOVELS. collection of French historians, commenced in 1737s under the inpection and at the expense of the community of Saint Maur,* wile long cae that the revenues of the Benedictines were not always spent in self-indulgence, and that the members of that order did not uniformly slumber in sloth ana indolence, when they had discharged the formal duties of their rule.” : As I knew nothing earthly a the time about the communily of St. Maur, and their learned laborers, I could only return ¢ mumbling assent to this proposition. Thave since seen this noble work in the library of a distinguished family, and I must own [am ashamed to reflect, that, in so wealthy a country as ours, a similar digest of our historians should not be undertaken, under the patronage of the noble and the learned, in rivalry of that which the Benedictines of Paris executed at the expense of their own conventual funds. “ J perceive,” said the ex-Benedictine, smiling, brethren any merit, whether liter- “that your heretical prejudices are too strong to allow us poor ary or spiritual.” “ Far from it, sir,” said I; “ Tassure you I have been much obliged to monks in my time.—When I was quartered in a Monastery in Flanders, in the campaign of 1793, 7 never lived more comfortably in my life. They were jolly fellows, the Flemish Canons, and right sorry was [ to leave my good quarters, and to know that my honest hosts were to be at the mercy of the Sans-Culottes. But—fortune de la guerre!” The poor Benedictine looked down and was silent. I had unwittingly awakened atrain of bitter reflections, or rather I had touched somewhat rudely upon a chord which seldom ceased to vibrate of itself. But he was too much accustomed to this sorrowful train of ideas to suffer it to overcome him. On my part, I hastened to atone for my blunder. “ If there was any object of his journey to this country in which I could, with propriety, assist him, I begged to offer him my best services.” I own I laid some little emphasis on the words, “ with propriety,” as I felt tt would ill become me, a sound Protestant, and a servant of government so far as my half-pay was concerned, to implicate myself in any recruiting which my com anion might have undertaken in behalf of foreign seminaries, or any similar design for the advancement of Popery, which, whether the Pope be actually the old lady of Babylon or no, tt did not become mein any manner to ad. vance or countenance. My new friend hastened to relieve my indecision. “I was about to re. quest your assistance, sir,” he said, “in a matter which cannot but interest you as an antiquarian,and a person of research. But TI assure you it relates entirely to events and persons removed to the distance of two centur ies and ahalf. I have experienced too much evil from the violent unsettlement ‘ ve : : ie oa [This collection, published under the direction of Dom. Martin Bouquet in 1738 and interrupted during the French Revolution, has since been resumed, and ibindh ti the year 1328.] : @INTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. xxvii aa aad : Lng Of the country in which Tw . cash lal , of the c vhich I was born, to be a rash laborer in the work of im movation tn lhet of my ancestors.” / avain assured hi g ransli sao pee Tr H , hy o ad him of my willingness to assist him in anything that was not contrary to my allegiance or religion. Y pr, ty he replied, “ affects netther.—May God bless the reign- wing family in Britain! They are not, indeed, of that dynasty to restore , but the Providence who h aS Wau led hi ‘ Dresent rye clay be by rp C 7 , : as ci s present Mayesty io the throne, has given him the virtues / Aich piv a sfors sir2 lad rt $7 Pred WMECHE THY GHCESEO?S SLTUOCLTER QHa Suffered in Vain . “corer fo Ars fs . * roe er sAsris e mecessary L0 Ais lime firmness and intrepiadily—a true love of Ais coumlry, d ’ saele béisesod «4 - , ae J san I y I, . y * and an eniightened view of the dangers by which he is surrounded.—For e grvliotron of these re . ; saat oortest I ; ] I hy the religion of these realms, I am contented to hope that the great Power, whose myslérious aispensalion has rent them from the bosom of the church, will, in his own good time and manner, restore them to its holy pale The effnvric »- y eassisan Lot > . » y . a er - a. a y efforts of an individdl, CbsScUure ANd Humbe aS MmySel/, Might well retard, but , ”? Ip fay “ly. could never advance, a work so mig “ May I then inquire, sir,” said 1, “with what purpose you seek this country f : Ere my companion replied, he took from his pocket a clasped paper book, about the size of a regimental orderly-book, full, as it seemed, of memoranda ; and, drawing one of the candles close to him | for David, as a strong proof of his respect for the stranger, had indulged us with two), he seemed to peruse the contents very earnestly. “ There is among the ruins of the western end of the Abbey church,” said he, looking up to me, yet keeping the memorandum-book half open, and occasionally glancing at tt, as if to refresh his memory, “a sort of re- cess or chapel beneath a broken arch, and in the immediate vicinity of one of those sh tttered Gothic columns which once supported the magnificent roof, whose fall has now encumbered that part of the building with its ruins.” “ 7 think.” said I, “that I know whereabouts you are. Is there notin the side wall of the chapel, or recess, wh ich vou mention, alarge carved stone, bearing a coat of arms, which no one hitherto has been able to decipher ?” “ You are rivht,” answered the Benedictine; and again consulting his memoranda, he added, “ the arms on the dexter side are those of Glendin- being a cross parted by a cross indented and countercharged of the same: and on the sinister three spur-rowels for those of Avenel ; they are two ancient families, now almost extinct in this country—the arms party Nine, per pale.” “ J think” said T,“ there is no part of this ancient structure with which you are not as well acqu tinted as was the mason who built it. But tf your information be correct, he who made out these bearings must have had betrer eyes than mine.” “ His eves,” said the Benedictine, “ have long been closed in death ; prob ably when he inspected the monument wt was in a more perfect state, or he alors bhsvid F may have « crived Ais information from the tradition of the place.7 > 7 i XXVIi WAVERLEY NOVELS. “ Tassure you,” said 1, “ that no such tradition now exists. Ihave made several reconnotssances among the old people, in hopes SOLO Some thing of the armorial bearings, but [ never heard 0 such a penile It seems odd that you should have acquired it in a forergn land. “ These trifling particulars,” he replica, “ were formerly looked upon as more important, and they were sanctified to the exiles who retained recollec- tion of them, because they related to a place dear indeed eo memory; but which their eyes could never again behold. It is possible, in like manner, that on the otaniac or Susquehannah, you may find traditions current concerning places in England, which are utterly forgotten in the netghbor- hood where they originated. But to my purpose. In this recess, marked by the armorial bearings, lies buried a treasure, and it ts in order to re- wioue it that I have undertaken my present journey.” “ 4 treasure!” echoed I, in astonishment. “ Ves,” replied the monk, “an inestimable treasure, for those who know how to use it rightly.” I own my ears did tingle a little at the word treasure, and that a hand- some tilbury, with a neat groom in blue and scarlet livery, having a smart cockade on his glazed hat, seemed as it were to glide across the room before my eyes, while a voice, as of a crier, pronounced in my ear, “‘ Captain Clut- terbuck’s tilbury—drive up.” But I resisted the devil, and he fled from me. “7 believe,” said Lf, “all hidden treasure belongs either to the king or the lord of the soul; and as I have served his majesty, I cannot concern myself in any adventure which may have an end in the Court of Exchequer.” “ The treasure I seek,” said the stranger, smiling,“ will not be envied by princes or nobles,—it is simply the heart of an upright man.” “4h! I understand you,” I answered ; “some relic, forgotten in the confusion of the Reformation. I know the value which men of your per- suasion put upon the bodies and limbs of saints. I have seen the Three Kings of Cologne.” “ The relics which I seek, however,” said the Benedictine, ‘are not pre- etsely of that nature. The excellent relative whom I have already men- tioned, amused his leisure hours with putting into form the traditions of his family, particularly some remarkable circumstances which took place about the first breaking out of the schism of the church in Scotland. He be came so much interested in his own labors, that at length he resolved that the heart of one individval, the hero of his tale, should rest no longer in a land of heresy, now deserted by all his kindred. As he knew where it was deposited, he formed the resolution to visit his native country for the purpose of recovering this valued relic. But age,and at length disease, interfered with his resolution, and it was on his deathbed that he charged me to under- take the task in his stead. The various important events which have crowded upon each other, our ruin and our extle, Axxrz wwe for many years obliged me to postpone this delegated duty. Why, indeed, transfer the relicsINTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. XXxix of a holy and worthy man toa country, where religion and virtue are be- come the mockery of the scorner ? I have now a home, which [trust may be permanent, if anything in this earth can be termed so. Thither will 1 transport the heart of the good father, and beside the shrine which it shall ) ’ TY Ave 5s ave. occupy, [ will construct my own “ Tle must, indeed, have been an excellent man,” replied I, “ whose mem- ory, at so distant a pertod, calls forth such strong marks of regard.” “ He was, as you justly term him,” said the ecclesiastic, “indeed excel- bent—excellent in his lifeand doctrine—excellent, above all, in his self-denied and disinterested sacrifice of all that life holds dear to principle and to friend hip. But you shall read his history. J shall be happy at once to gratify your curiosity, and to show my sense of your kindness, if you will have the goodness to procure me the means of accomplishing my object,” j d ti» , mats teats I, + Cw awh iee ci ipniae ‘Meiek dein ade J replied to the Benedh tié, thal, as the ruovish an St which Ae p? O- posed to search was no part of the ordinary burial-ground, and as [ was on the best terms with the sexton, I had little doubt that I could procure him the means of executing his pious purpose. With this promise we parted for the night ; and on the ensuing morning 1 made it my business to see the sexton, who, for a small gratuity, readily granted permission of search, on condition, however, that he should be pre- sent himself, to see that the stranger removed nothing of intrinsic value. “ To banes, and skulls, and hearts, tf he can find ony, he shall be wel- s come,” said this euardian of the ruined Monastery ; “there's plenty a’ about, an’ he’s curious of them; but tf there be ony picts” (meaning perhaps pyx) “or chalishes, or the like of such Popish veshells of gold and silver, deil hae me an I conneve at their being removed.” The sexton also stipulated, that our researches should take place at night, being unwilling to excite observation, or give rise to scandal. My new acquaintance and f spent the day as became lovers of hoar antt- quily. We visited every corner of these magnificent ruins again and again during the forenoon ; and, having made a comfortable dinner at David’s, we walked in the afternoon to such places in the neighborhood as ancient tradition or modern conjecture had rendered markworthy. Night found us in the interior of the ruins, attended by the sexton, who carried a dark lantern, and stumbling alternately over the graves of the dead, and the frag- ments of that architecture, which they doubtless trusted would have canopied their bones till doomsday.” Lam by no means particularly superstitious, and yet there was that in the present service which I did not very much like. There was something awful in the resolution of disturbing, at such an hour, and in such a place, the stilland mute sanctity of the grave. My companions were free from this impression—the stranger from his energetic desire to execute the purpose for which he came—and the sexton from habitual indifference. We soon stood in the aisle, which, by the account of the Benedictine, contained thsVER TOVELS. LK WAVERLEY NO} LS 17, and were busily employed in removing the stranger pointed out. Lf a half-pay Captain could have represented an ancient Border-knight, or an ex Bene- dictine of the nineteenth century a wizard monk of the sixteenth, we might have aptly enough personified the search after Michael Scott S lamp and book of magic power. But the sexton would have been de trop in the group.* Ere the stranger, assisted by the sexton in his task, had been long at wn stones, which seemed to have made part of a bones of the family of Glendinnt the rubbish from a corner which work, they came to some he small shrine, though now displaced and destroyed. “ Let us remove these with caution, my friend,” said the stranger, ‘lest we injure that which I came to seek.” “ They are prime stanes,” said the sexton, “picked free every ane of them ;—warse than the best wad never serve the monks, [se warrant.” A minute after he had made this observation, he exclaimed, “I hae fund something now that stands again’ the spade, as if tt were neither earth nor stane.”” The stranger stooped eagerly to assist him. “ Na, na, haill o my ain,” said the sexton ; “nae halves or quarters ; ” and he lifted from amongst the ruins a small leaden box. “ Vou will be disappointed, my friend,” said the Benedictine, “if you expect anything there but the mouldering dust of a human heart, closed in an inner case of porphyry.” 1 interposed 1s a neutral party, and taking the box from the sexton, reminded him, that if there were treasure concealed in it, still it could not become the property of the finder. TI then proposed, that as the place was too dark to examine the contents of the leaden casket, we should adjourn to David's, where we might have the advantage of light and fire while carry- tng on our investigation. The stranger requested us to go before, assuring us that he would follow in a few minutes. : LT fancy that old Mattocks suspected these few minutes might be employed in efecting farther discoveries amongst the tombs, for he glided back through a stde-aisle to watch the Benedictines motions, but presently returned, ana told me in a whisper, that “the gentleman was on his knees amang the cauld stanes, praving like ony saunt.” ; ! stole back, and beheld the ola man actually employed as Mattocks had informed me. The language seemed to be Latin: and as the whisered, yet solemn accent, glided away through the ruined aisles, I could not help * This; ; rae on one of those passages which must now read awkwardly, since evervone knows hat th ’ ; i : aes and the Author of the ‘‘ Lay of the Last Minstrel” is the same person sut befor ’ j ‘i en re a avowal was made, the author was forced into this and similar offences inst good tas | : Zood taste, to meet an argument, often repeated, that there was something very mysterious in the Author of Waverley’s i i Ss eek t averley s reserve concerning Sir Walter Scott, an author sufficiently voluminous : 1 y voluminous at least. I had a great mind to remove the passages from this edition, but 1 1 lai ’ the more candid way is to explain how they came there.INTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. XXX] reflecting how long it was since they had heard the fi rms of that religion, for the exercise of which they had been reared at such cost of time, taste, labor, and expense. ** Come away, come away,” said; “let us leave himself, Mattocks ; this is no business of ours,” “My certes, no, Captain,” said Mattocks amiss to keep an ce on him. My father, him to > “ne'ertheless, it winna be rest his saul, was a horse-couper, and used to say he never was cheated in a naig in his life, saving by a west- country whig frae Kilmarnock, that said a svace ower a dram 0 whiskey. But this gentleman will be a Roman, I’ se warrant?” ** You are perfectly right in that, Saunders,” said I "* Ay, LT have seen twa or three of their priests that were chased ower here Some score 0 years syne. They just danced like mad when they looked on the friars heads, and the nuns’ heads, in the cloister yonder ; they took to yet, mair than he ae | a _ Fa a ° were a througa-stane!* I never kend a Roman, to say pend him, but ane them like auld acquaintance like.—Od he 1s mot stirrin —mair by token, he was the only ane in the town to ken—and that was auld Fock of the Pend. Tt wad hae been lang ere ye Sand Fock praying in the Abbey in a thick night, wi his knees on a cauld stane. Fock likit a kirk we achimleyiwt. Mony a merry ploy I hae had wi’ him dowr at the inn yonder ; and when he died, decently I wad hae earded him ; brt, or I gat his grave weel howkit, some of the quality, that were o his ait unhappy persuasion, had the corpse whirried away up the water, and luriea him after their ain fleasure, doubtless—they kend best. I wad hae wade nae great charge. Lwadna hae excised Johnnie, dead or alive—*tay, see— the strance gentleman ts coming.” “ Hold the lantern to assist him, Mattocks,” satd 1— This ¢«s rough walkine, sir.” “ Ves,” replied the Benedictine ; “I may say with a poet, whe double 9 less familiar to you T should be surprised if he were, thought I internally. The stran,er continued: “ Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night ee Have my old feet stumbled at graves . “ We are now clear of the churchyard,” said I, “ and have be*#+~ short walk to Davia’s, where I hope we shall find a cheerful fire to emeven us after our night’s work.” We entered. accordingly, the little parlor, into which Mattock was also about to push himself with sufficient effrontery, when Davie with post cate oath, expelled him by head and shoulders, d—-sing hts curiosity, that would not let eentlemen be private in their own sn. Ap parently mine host considered his own presence as NO tnlrUsr-as jor he * A tombstone,WAVERLEY NOVELS. XXXIll tp to the table on which [had laid down the leaden box. It was waded 1 ; ie lain so many years in frail and wasted, as might be guessed, from RS within, a case made of the ground. On opening it, we found deposlea WHMIN, Z A Porphyry, aS the stranger had announced to es rey “7 fancy,” he said, “ gentlemen,” your curtostt will © . Zi is | rs : pas haps I should say that your suspicions will nol be removed ee SS 7 : this casket ; yet it only contains the mouldering remains of a heart, once the seat of the noblest thoughts.” ; pase He undid the box with great caution ; but the shrivelled substance which it contained bore now no resemblance to what it might once have been, the means used having been apparently unequal to preserve ds shape and color, although they were adequate to prevent its total decay. We TARE quite satisfied, notwithstanding, that it was what the slzanger asserted, the Kena 2S of a human heart; and David readily promised his influence z70 the village, which was almost co-ordinate with that of the Bailie himself, to silence alt idle rumors. He was, moreover, pleased to favor us with his company to supper ; and having taken the lion’s share of two bottles of sherry, he not only sanctioned with his plenary authority the stranger's removal of the heart, but, I believe, would have authorized the removal of the Abbey itself, were tt not that it happens considerably to advantage the worthy publican’s own custom. The object of the Benedictine’s visit to the land of his forefathers being now accomplished, he announced his intention of leaving us early in the ensue ing day, but regusted my company to breakfast with him before his departure. Lcameaccordingly, and when we had finished our morning's meal, the priest took me apart, and pulling from his pocket a large bundle of papers, he put them into my hands. “ These,” said he, “* Captain Clutterbuck, are genuine Memoirs of the sixteenth century, and exhibit in a singular, and, as [ think, an interesting point of view, the manners of that period. Jam induced to belicve that their publication will not be an unacceptable present to the British public ; and willingly make over to you any profit that May accrue from such a transaction.” I stared a little at this annuncialion, and observed, that the hand seemed too modern for the date he assigned to the manuscript, “Do not mistake me, sir,” said the Benedictine; “I did not mean to say the Memoirs were written in the sixteenth century, but only that they were compiled from authentic materials of that period, but written in the taste and language of the present day. My uncle commenced this book ; and L, partly to improve my habit of English compositon, partly to divert melancholy thoughts, amused my letsure hours with continuing and con- cluding it. You will see the period of the story where my uncle leaves off his narrative, and [commence mine, In Jact, they relate in a Y afferent persons, as well as to a different period.” Retaining the ; 7 ‘OC ung the papers in my hand, L proceeded to state to him my doubts, great measure toINTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. XXXi]i whether, asa good Protestant. Zcoulg undertake or superintend a publication written probably in the spirit of Popery. “ You will find,” he said, “no matter of controversy in these sheets ~ ‘i ote mor any sentiments stated, with which, I trust, the good in all persuasions not be willing to join. Tremembered I was wr iting for ala nad unhappily divided from the Catholic faith; and I have taken care to say nothing “Ty W114 which. justly inte dete could. giv €or ound for ace using me of partiality, But tf, uPOon collati ng my narrative with the broofs to which 7 refer you— for you will find ‘Opies of man Ly of the orizina papers in that parcel—y Ou are of opinion that I have been partial to my own Jatth, I fr ‘eely give you leave to correct my errors in that respect. Lown, however, lam not consci: ous of this defect, and have rather to fear that the ee may be of opinion that I have mentioned circumstances re ‘Specting the decay of disci; . line which preceded, and ? urtly 0 ‘casioned, the Lreat schism, called by you the Reformation, over which I ought to have drawn a veil. And indeed, this 1s one reason why I choose the papers should age ear in a foreign land, and pass to the s through the hands of a stri anger,’ Lo this L had nhiey te to reply, unless to object my own incompetency to the task the good father was destrous to impose 2 ‘pon mé. On thts subject he was pleased to say more, I fear, than his know uvledge of me fully war- ranted—more, at any rate, than my modesty will permit me to record. At length he ended, with advising me, if I continued to feel the difiidence which I stated, to apply to some veteran of literature, whose experience might sup- ply my deficiencies. Upon these terms we parted, with mutual expressions of regard, and I have never since heard of him. After several attempts to peruse the quires of paper thus singularly con- ferred on me, in which I was interrupted by the most inexplicable fits of awning, Lat length, in a sort of despair, communicated them to our village club, from whom they found a more favorable reception than the unlucky conformation of m y nerves had been able to afford them. They unanimously pronoun ed the work to be exceeaingly good, and assured me I would be guilty of the greatest possible injury to our flourishing village, if I should suppress what threw such an interesting and radiant light upon the history of the ancient Monastery of Saint Mary. At length, by dint of listening to their opinion, [ became dubious of my own ; and, indeed, when [ heard passages read forth by the sonorous voice of our worthy pastor, I was scarce more tired than I have felt myself at some of his own sermons. Such and so great is the difference betwixt reaad- nga thing one’s self, making toilsome way through all the difficulties of manuscript, and, as the man says in the play, “ having the same read to vou ;"—u1t is positively like being wafted over a creek in a boat, or wading through it on your feet, with the mud up to your knees. Still, however, there remained the great difficulty of finding some one who could act as Ci WAVERLEY NOVELS. XXX1V fae editor, corrector at once of the press and of the language, which, according Clk 9 ¢ ie to the schoolmaster, was absolutely necessary. Since the trees walked forth to choose themselves a king, never was ant we , , CCd ¢ v ey ; honor so bandied about. The parson would not leave the quiet of his chim- the bailie pleaded the dignity of his situation, and the approach ey-Cormer— & 2 going to Edinburgh to make of the great anniu al fair, as reasons against arrangements for print ing thé Benedictine’ s manuscript. 2 alone seemed of malleable stuff ; and, a lestrous perhaps of emulating the fame of Fedediah Cleishbotham, evinced a wi ‘sh to UNTETEa this EE commission. Buta remonstrance from three opulent farmers, those sons he had at bed, board, and schooling, for twenty pounds per annum a- head, came like a frost over the blossoms of his literary ambition, and he was com- pelled to decline the service | In these circumstances, sir, I apply to you, by the advice of our little council of war, nothing doubling you will not be disinclined to take the duty The schoolniaster upon you, as it 1s much conne cted with that in which you have distinguished yourself. What 1 request is, that you will review, or rather revise and correct, the enclosed packet, and prepare it for the press, by such alterations, additions, and curtailments, as you think necessary. Forgive my hinting to you, that the deepest well May be exhausted,—the best COV ps of grenadters, as our old general of brigade expressed as ise be usedup. A few hints can do you no harm ; and, for the prize-m , let the battle b se st won, and it shall be parted at the drum-head. L hi ope you will take nothis amiss that I have said. Lama plain soldier, and little accustomed to com- pliments- I may add, that I should be well contented to march in the front weet you—that is, to put my name with yours on the title-page. L have the honor to be, Sir, Your unknown humble Servant, CUTHBERT CLUTTERBUCK VILLAGE OF KENNAQUHAIR, — of April, 13— For the Author of “ Waverley,” etc., ) care of Mr. John Ballantyne, Hanover Street, Edinburgh, "(4 J } + > J 7 LO LhOS€ WA ; “/} , PCUMET Ai i y7? / / tCve f fy 2 j SL LO " y y / iad : —— Sore ; / t€Q7 ied, Vu } j, o s* j ba ? Q@7 V ZS a ; +e l saat / Qlé@d W1lO0 T/A snivruded u s0uLAL an a whether in b a-score of our A spiel). bas j a well-ki , viv VU} ~~ ™ S ~ ~~ x ™. ~~ ~ ™, a mr S ™ » ANSWER rH F WAVERLEY,” TO THE FOREGOING HAROM CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK. La sntesiet bh ctaasria , fof that, notwithstanding the distance ane Mm ANSWeEY iit LHe terms of familiarly. OUT Y are Celle? P7t¢ WL LO Mle than QL ¢ ale, t] Lf am ziot greatly ‘4 ° 7 é i 2 oe ‘ fn ‘ er rc opip// i. aa os WICH AAS AfJOYraACaA Much PleaSUre, AS Welt AS profil, ohn ol . / os a 1 that Aart Ff the tery: i é¢ Le J¢tCCE SfPEMEE VY SL FECL Lt LY ee tvzé (Cila — , , eo ree a - ae - so ¢h Aas tléd the proviice of Utopia. “lS DProauclious, CHOUK d ; d d < 7 ~ ; 7 ; fp r J E . Se ae xz . a i Pile ids 7 +s ra Spee FIEVETTEILELESS, ti2kE WtAHY CIHRET 4AXU7iCS, a » 4 f Le ; e ’ ; as , ~ C ; A 4- jy Ll V IWJOVER EPVe UY titOS€ Witte: EXODTESS thle OF lh Z iil af Lil QAVYQUMNM-ArLHREY 1S OF1e71 the SCawnaalL—lhe Privalé OOORCASES OF sSonte OF AVE-SCCLLNG Ves ‘Ha’ MARY, 4 SQY HOLl Of the TULSE Q nd ean ths chesanmriinenb vat ties “MCs, WHE? tle $7 FIM O-1 01 Rk Of ther velvet cap pulled over their ears, their feet insinu- y [ J I, ¥ , vs, ~ ~ tippers, are to be found, were their retreats suddenly ” fe 4 J, ; - vd / l } ‘ é Z LQ 5 17 ¢ 7 V10V Le estan crete . 4 aera sak Pye Pr y, . oy oe eR 5 ene te ti} ‘HSE Q2HaA lé€aAynead aArisaain the fe SALTTS 5 and 71 5 ~ T poy 7* les 7 . > U aly as they would lid of thetr snuff-box. T , ; 7 y. aN though [ 7, / Did you know the a ’ ry . ap ae Bo l ig ia of Birmincham, (¢ via Clutterbuck ? [ believe not, a to he ; ; a with you, twas only once muy fortune to meet hin, ‘ ryryy aia 7 I Ls ‘tL it matters not. Z é were assemoled about half _ , 7 , , z 7 BAe ee rn Lights, who had amongst them, Heaven knows how, of your country, Fedediah Cletshbotham. This come to Edinburgh during the Christmas vac was led in leash from house kk (xxxv); WAVERLEY NO VELS. XXXVI house along with the puisards, the SINE CUET 5 and ohn season, which “ exhibited their unparallelea et fe 4 : i . igs: if required.” Amidst this company stood M: re a es ‘ bes oe od discovered the means 2 “multiplying our nationar ? a - Bee haps even beyond his own stupendous powers of clef see ae Ae x tion ; bringing the treasures of the abyss to the summit Y the its the feeble arm of man the momentum of an ait ae E a ne factures to arise, as the rod of the prophet produced ee oe thé pei affording the means of dispensing wath that time and tide ae d GE JF no man, and of saing without that wind which defied the one a threats of Xerxes himself.* This potent commana rv of a é ae 7 ies abridger of lume and space—this MALEATE, LOS cloudy hes — og produced a change on the world, the effects of which, extrao ee as they are, are perhaps only now beginning to be jes ee only ae me c o- found man of science, the most successful combiner Of pou ana cate ulator of numbers as adapted to practical eae ee ee onty Hee of the MLOS f generally well-informed,—but one of the best and kindest of humun lene There he stood, surrounded by the little band I have mentioned of Northern literati, men not less tenacious, generally speaking, of their own fame and their own opinions, than the national regiments are supposed to be jealous of the high character which they have won upon service. Me- thinks I yet see and hear what I shall never see or hear again. In his eighty-fifth year, the alert, kind, benevolent old man, had his attention alive to everyone's question, his information at everyone's command. His talents and fancy overfiowed on every subject. One gentleman was a deep philologist,—he talked with him on the origin of the alphabet as if he had been coeval with Cadmus; another, a celebrated critic.—you would have said the old man had studied political economy and belles-lettres all hts life,—of science it is unnecessary to speak, it was his own distinguished walk. And yet, Captain Clutterbuck, when he spoke with your countryman Yedediah Cleishbotham, you would have sworn he had been coeval with Claverse and Burley, with the persecutors and persecuted, and could num- ber every shot the dragoons had fired at the fugitive Covenanters. In fact, we discovered that no novel of the least celebrity escaped his perusal, and that the gifted man of science was as much addicted to the productions of your native country (the land of Utopia aforesaid), in other words, as shameless and obstinate a peruser of novels, as if he had been a very mul- liner’s apprentice of eighteen. TI know little apology for troubling you with * Probably the ingenious author alludes to the national adage : The king said sail, But the wind said no. Our schoolmaster (who is also a land-surveyor) thinks this whole passage refers to Mr os é - Watt’s improvements on the steam-engine.—/Voze 5y CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK.ANSWER TO LHE LIN LRODUCTOR} EPISTLE RE XXXVI1i these things, excepling the desire to , commemorate a delz cht ful evening, anda which makes you Land of delusive fiction. J] Lf, with a paraphrase for ur country club, excepting wish to en Ourage you to shake Off that modest aiffidence afraid of being supposed connected with the Sairy- will reguite youn lag of verse, from Horace himse VOuH?T OWN U Se, my dear Cap lain, and i r+ that Of Ve bm Feverence the clergy man and schoolmaster :-— Ne sit ancillz tibi amor pudori, etc Lake thou no scorn, Of fiction born, Fair fiction’s muse to woo, Old Homer’s theme Was but a dream, Himself a fiction faving told you your countr VL must next, my dear Cap in Clutter. buck, make Jree to mention your own immediate descent. You are not to suppose your land oy prodis 225 So little known lo us as the CQ7 ‘eful conceal- ment Of your origin would seem to imply. B ul you have it in common with many of your country, studiously and a nxtously to hide any connection with Lhere is this difference, indeed. betwixt a. Jour countrymen and those of our more material world, that many of the most estimable of them, such as an old fi tg hland gentleman called Ossian, a monk of Bristol called Rowley, , are incltii . .£0 pass themselves Off as denizens of the land of realty, whereas most of our Jellow-citizens and others who deny their country are such as that country would be very willing to disclaim. The especial circum- y ge ua Isle ae rervices, impose not upon us. stances you mention relating to your life and services, impose not up . 5 shee r ; sedate f the substantial - 2es to which you belong We know lhe versatu Ziy OQ) The unsuos wtia oy DEC a : Por rope * ap Ayo "P41 4 ( e Permits them to assume all manner of disguises ; we have seen them appar lled in the caftan of a Perstan, and the silken robe of a Chinese,* and are a 2 l/é ZJta ri d 721, d a ra y every disguise. But how can prepared to suspect their real character under every « ete af ak cr f 10 manners, Or deceived by the evasion ? ’@ be tenorant of your country and ma Jy - : oi oo; ap Se ve been made to it when the vovaces Of Ai1scove? y wht h have beer 7 mals ther those recorded by Purchas or by Hi wkluyt § ?t And to show TIVal 171 number [AOSE CCOFV AEA | C740 eee ee ‘ ls 1nhabitants, to name Sindbad, Aboulfouaris, and Robinson Crusoe. These were the ai for discoveries. Could we have sent Captain Greenland to look ee 2 north-west passage, or Peter Wilkins to examine Bafin’s Bay, w a Bhs coveries might we not have expected? But there.are feats, and these both - s -avellers, we have only the skill and perseverance of your navigators and travel habitants of your country, mumerousand extraordinary, performed by the inhabita i which we read without once attempting to emulate. ‘ / Iw you , ", Which was to assure you, that f knov J / wander from my purpose, u hich was to ¢ Ape. WL, WW y * See the Persian Lr/ters, and the Citizen of the World t See Les Voyages Lwaginaires,ill WAVERLEY NOVELS. XXXV1 a - oy MacDuff’s peculiarity Ul as the mother who did not bear you, for Mac d, Pe tea : | “WO? SS, 1NACE ’ ae Bale pace. Vou are, no orn 0] WOON, unless, } ec: ee 1 oeworth May, in her : Ji a tive sense,in which the celebrated Maria PEG | os ig ee ; - of the first family in Lugiana. : hlessedness, be termed mother Of the first family 0 Re Gi ihe 2 “the land of Utopia, a sort of persons for y » Editors of the tame 3 , You belong, sir, to the Editors of Se Sy Boule Be OP Rere hom I have the highest esteem. How is wt possivt a 7 a a R our corporation the sage Cid Hamet Benengelt, -eckon among V a f ctator’s Club, poor Ben Silton, and many vs to works which have cheered our when you 7 short-faced president of the Spe 7 others, who have acted as gentleman-usne 20'S johtest hours : heaviest, and added wings to our lig Ite piss p a & VS What I have remarked as peculiar to Lavior , oa venture to enrol you, is the happy combination nr i : | vorks which you have the good: which usually put you in possession of the works which you have £ i » sea-shore, and a wave ss to bring into public notice. One walks on the sea-shore, « | ne 5 ae, r casket, containing a manuscript casts on land a small cylindrical trunk or casket, c 8 water. which is with difficulty deciphered, ana 50 much damaged with sea-water, WHICH is & L] i : ‘chase a pound of butter forth* Another steps into achandler’s shop, to purchase a poun pf ; vhich it is laid is the script of a and behold! the waste paper on which it is laid is the manuscrip a Syee 5 aA pe ta eat he Inner cabalist.t A third is so fortunate as to obtain from a woman Who lets lodg, , : 2 J cau, the property o ceased ings, the curious contents of an antique bureau, the propert of a aece of the class in which 1 lodger.t All these are certainly possible occurrences ; but, L feet not how: they seldom occur to any Editors save those of your country. At least foam answer for myself, that in my solitary walks by the sea, [ never saw it cast ashore anything but dulse and tangle, and now and then a deceased star- fish ; my landlady never presented me with any manuscript save her cursed bill ; and the most interesting of my discoveries in the way of waste-paper, was finding a favorite passage of one of my own novels wrapt round an ounce of snuff. No, Captain, the funds from which I have drawn my power of amusing the public, have been bought otherwise than by fortuitous adventure. L have buried myself in libraries to extract from the nonsense of ancient days new nonsense of my own. TL have turned over volumes, which, from the jot-hooks IT was obliged to decipher, might have been the cahalistic manuscripts of Cornelius Agrippa, although I never saw “ the door open and the devil come in.”§ But all jhe domestic inhabitants of the from this learned sepulchre I emerged like the Magician in the Persian Tales from his twelvemonth’s residence in the mountain, not like him to braries were disturbed by the vehemence of my studies ;— From my research the boldest spider fled, And moths, retreating, trembled as I read. * See the History of Automathes. t Adventures of a Guinea. § See Southey’s Ba t Adventures vf an Atom. ilad on the Young Man who read ina Conjuror’s Books.ANSWER TO THE INTRODUCTORY EBISEE Xxxix soar over the heads of the meuttitude, but to elhoz , amone r¢ ths» # mingle in the crowd, and to the throng, making my way from the highest so tety to the o of wauderontne th» ern+rs aphy i > 2 lowest, undergoing thi orn, or, what ts harder to br ook, the patroniz ing “Ase slec "e909 a 2 we saerl gan rl. ag. fae j condescension of the one, and endup ing the vuloar familiarity of the other ,— ana ali, you will say » for what ?—to collect materials for one of those manu- “4 phe - j, p00 wh > ar SCY 1 Dts with which mere « AaAnNCe SO ofte 2 Accommodates Jour countrymen 7a a successful novel.—* O Athenians, how hard we labor to deserve your praise!” 4 ioe o . appae-a fo OLE? words, Zo CUP 7 L might stop here, my aear Clutterbuck ; it would have a touching effect, and the air of proper leference to our dear Public. But 1 will not be y s ware td s—19 4], , , Cad ot vv a I-49; 08 J, i aad: : , Jaise with J COU—\ENOUGH Falsehood is—excuse the obser ation—the current wre 4 Reread iti Vein Shei peek sao kee 27 oO; é “7 ir} 1 LA Tui iS, i fave studied QIzz1a lived for the purpose §raiiying my own curiosity, and pas EMS my own time ; and thou: ch the , Lf have been frequently before the Mente ek eG et {regu part] z hupsirlaasna ws 2 , Public, perhaps more fr quen th / than prudence warranted, yet I cannot -] 7 , nen thee the ne Wop hace andy haa J 7 , og nk Argo Claim from rhe th Ta yr au to LAOS¢ WHO Have a Yicated thet CASE and 7? r é =i Zé J ,46 aa or F errr leisure to the impreo. MLE w2a entertainme ut Of others. : ; i A ’ y Having OMMUNicaléed thus freeé V with VOU, MY aear Cr Ptarn, 2v Jollows, of course, that I will gratefully accept of your communication, which, as x Benedictine observed, divides itself both by subject, manner, and age, into two parts. But lam sorry I cannot gratify your literary ambition, by suffering your name to appear upon the title-page ; and Z will candidly tell you the reason. The Editors of your country are of such a soft and passive disposition, 7 - , , , 7 7. a tJ, that ‘they have requently done themsetves great disgrace by giving up the y - , y ; . . ’ FS m oad}: VS Who first brou p At them into public 0lice and public Javor, and ee umes to be used bv those guacPs | a 2a wnepr SLOWS who live upon the ideas of others. Thus I shame to tell how ae sage Cid Hlamet Benen- geli was induced by one Fuan Avellaneda to play the Turk with the inge- nious Miguel Cervantes, and to publish a Second Part of theadventures of his hero the renowned Don Quixote, without the knowledge or co-operation of Ais princtpal aforesaid. Tt is true, the Arabian sage returned to his alle- giance, and thereafter composed a genuine continuation of the Knight of La Mancha, in which the said Avellaneda of Tordesillas ts severely chastised, for in this you pseudo-editors resemble the jugcler’s disc iplined ape, to which a sly old & tsman likened James ., “tf you have Fackoo in your hand, Jou can make him bite me ; if I have Yackoo in my hand, Tian make him : t Misa ; bite you.” Yet, notwithstanding the amende oe thus made by Crd Hamet Benengeli, his temporary defection did not the less occasion the de- cease of the ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote, if he can be said to die whose memon yisimmortal. Cervantes put him to death, lest he should again fall into bad hands. Awful, yet just consequence of Cid Hamet’s defection. Zo quote a more modern and much less important instance. Iam ‘ - ee 7.92 - Pay Ad: 7 a ~~ y sorry to observe my old acquaintance Fedediah Cleishbotham has misbehavedxl WAVERLEY NOVELS. himself so far as to desert his original patron, and , set up Ss ne aa am afraid the poor pedagogue will make little by his new allies, untess the pleasure of entertaining the puolic, and, jor aS EE I know, ae SEG of the long robe, with disputes about his identity.* Observe, therefore, Captain Clutterbuck, that wise by these great examples, [ receive you asa pariner, buta sleeping partner only. Ast give you no title to em ploy or use the jirm of the copartnery we are about to form, L will announce - yy property in wes litle-page, and put my own mark on my own chattles, which the attorney telis wie it will be a crime to counterfeit, as much as it would to imitate the auto- ovraph of any other empiric—a crime amounting, as advertisements upon little vials assure us, to nothing short of felony. If, therefore, my dear friend, your name should hereafter appear in any title-page without mine, readers will know what to think of you. I scorn to use either arguments or threats ; but you cannot but be sensible, that, as you owe your literary existence to me on the one hand, so, on the other, your very all is at my disposal. i can at pleasure cut off your annnity, strike your name from the half- pay establishment, nay, actually put you to death, without beine answerable toanyone. These are plain words toa gentlemen who has served during the whole war ; but Tam aware, you will take nothing amiss at my hands. And now, my good sir, let us address ourselves to our task, and arrange, as we best can, the manuscript of your Benedictine, so as to suit the taste of this critical age. You will find Ihave made very liberal use of his per- mission, to alter whatever seemed too favorable to the Church of Rome, which I abominate, were it but for her fasts and penances. Our reader is doubtless impatient, and we must own, with Fohn Bunyan, We have too long detained him in the porch, And kept him from the sunshine with a torch, Adieu, therefore, my dear Captain—remember me respectfully to the parson, the schoolmaster and the bailie, and all friends of the happy club in the village of Kennaguhair, I have never seen, and never shall see, one of their faces ; and notwithstanding, J believe that as yet Lam better acquainted o? with them than any other man who lives.—I shall soon introduce you to * T am since more correetly informed, that Mr. Cleishbotham died some months since at Gandercleugh, and that the person assuming his name is an impostor. The real Jedediah made a most Christian and edifying end ; and, as 1 am credibly informed, hav- ing sent for a Cameronian clergyman when he was zw extremis, was so fortunate as to convince the good man, that, after all, he had no wish to bring down on the scattered / ne > 66 ate remnant of Mountain folks, “ the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.’ Hard that the speculators - \- a ah . . . in print and paper will not allow a good man to rest quiet in his grave. This note, and the passages in the text, were occasioned by a London booksel ing printed, asa speculation, an additional collection of the Tal was not so fortunate as to succeed in passing on the world ler hav- es of my Landlord, which as genuine.4 ANSWER TO THE INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. xli my jocund friend, Mr. Fohn Ballantyne of Trinity Grove, whom you will find warm from his match at singlestick with a brother Publisher.* Peace to their differences! Tt ts a wrathful trade, and the irritable genus com- prehends the bookselling as well as the book-writing species.—Once more adieu | THE AUTHOR OF Wa VERLEY. * In consequence of the pseudo Tales of my Landlord printed in London, as already mentioned, the late Mr, John Ballantyne, the Author’s publisher, had a controversy with the interloping bibliopolist, each insisting that his Jedediah Cleishbotham was the rea) Simon Pure,THE MONASTERY. (1820.) oks, they did the mischief! ‘he 1es | the superstition, Of a most gross and sup rstitious age— May He be praised that sent the healthful tempest And scatter’d all these pestilential vapor! But that we owed them a//to yonder Harlot Throned on the seven hills with her cup of gold, I will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger, That old Moll White took wing with cat and broomstick, And raised the last night’s thunder. OLD Pray. THE village described in the Benedictine’s manuscript by the name of Kennaquhair, bears the same Celtic termination which occurs in Traquhair, Caquhair, and other compounds. The learned Chalmers derives this word Quhair, from the winding course of a stream ; a definition which coincides, in a remarkable degree, with the serpentine turns of the river Tweed near the village of which we speak. It has been long famous for the splendid Monastery of Saint Mary, founded by David the First of Scotland, in whose reign were formed, in the same county, the no less splendid establishments of Melrose, Jedburgh, and Kelso. The donations of land with which the King endowed these wealthy fraternities procured him from the Monkish historians the epithet of Saint, and from one of his impoverished descendants the splenetic censure, “that he had been a sore saint for the Crown.’’” * (This saying in regard to King David’s liberality in building and endowing religious houses in Scotland, as used by his successor James the First, is preserved in the old Scottish } Chronicles, and repeated by Sir David Lyndsay in his Dialogue on the Monarchies, as well (37) as in the Satyre on the Three Estates. :38 THE MONASTERY. It seems probable, notwithstanding, that David, who was « wise as well as a pious monarch, was not moved solely Y religious motives to those great acts of munificence to t . church, but annexed political views to his pious en His possessions 1n Northumberland and tae ae yee precarious after the loss of the Battle of ane tare oe oF since the comparatively fertile valley of Teviotdale was likely to become the frontier of his kingdom, it is probable he wished to secure at least a part of these valuable possessions by placing them in the hands of the monks, whose property was for a long time respected, even amidst the rage of afrontier war. In this manner alone had the King some chances of ensuring protection and security to the cultivators of the soil; and, in fact, for several ages the possession of these Abbeys were each a sort of Goshen, enjoying the calm light of peace and immunity, while the rest of the country, occupied by wild clans and marauding barons, was one dark scene of confusion, blood and unremitted outrage. ; But these immunities did not continue down to the union of the crowns. Long before that period the wars betwixt England and Scotland had lost their original character of international hostilities, and had become on the part of the English a struggle for subjugation, on that of the Scots a desperate and infuriated defence of their liberties. ‘This introduced on both sides a degree of fury and animosity unknown to the earlier period of their history ; and as religious scruples soon gave way to na- tional hatred spurred by a love of plunder, the patrimony of the Church was no longer sacred from incursions on either side. Still, however, the tenants and vassals of the great Abbeys had many advantages over those of the lay barons, who were harassed by constant military duty, until they became desperate, and lost all relish for the arts of peace. ‘The vassals of the Church, on the other hand, were only liable to be called to arms on general occasions, and at other times were permitted in com- parative quiet to possess their farms and feus.* They of course exhibited superior skill in everything that related to the culti- vation of the soil, and were therefore both wealthier and better informed than the military retainers of the restless chiefs and nobles in their neighborhood. The residence of these church vassals was usually in a small * Small possessions conferred-upon vassals and their heirs, held for a small quit-rent, or moderate proportion of the produce. This was a favorite manner, by which the churchmen peopled the patrimony of their convents ; and many descendants of such Jeuars, as they are called, aix still to be found in possession of their family inheritances in the neighborhood of the great Monasteries of Scotland. sTHE MONASTERY. 20 village or hamlet, where, for the sake of mutual aid and pre tection, some thirty or forty families dwelt together. This was called the Town, and the land belonging to the various families by whom the Town was inhabited, was called the Township. They usually possessed the land in common, though in various proportions according to their several grants. ‘The part of the ‘Township properly arable, and kept as such continually under the plough, was called zz-fe/d. Here the use of quantities of manure supplied in some degree the exhaustion of the soil, and the feuars raised tolerable oats and bear, * usually sowed on alternate ridges, on which the labor of the whole community was bestowed without distinction, the produce being divided after harvest, agreeably to their respective interests. There was, besides, owvtjie/d land, from which it was thought possible to extract a crop now and then, after which it was abandoned to the “‘skiey influences,” until the exhausted powers of vegetation were restored. These out-field spots were selected by any feuar at his own choice, among the sheep-walks and hills which were always annexed to the Township, to serve as pasturage to the community. The trouble of cultivating these patches of out-field, and the precarious chance that the crops would pay the labor, were considered as giving a right to any feuar, who chose to undertake the adventure, to the produce which might result from it. There remained the pasturage of extensive moors, where the valleys often afforded good grass, and upon which the whole cattle belonging to the community fed indiscriminately during the summer, under the charge of the Town-herd, who regularly drove them out to pasture in the morning, and brought them back at night, without which precaution they would have fallen a speedy prey to some of the Snatchers in the neighborhood. These are things to make modern agriculturists hold up their hands and stare; but the same mode of cultivation is not yet entirely in desuetude in some distant parts of North Britain, and may be witnessed in full force and exercise in the Zetland Archipelago. ae The habitations of the church-feuars were not less primitive than their agriculture. In each village or town were several small towers, having battlements projecting over the side walls, and usually an advanced angle or two with shot-holes for flanking the door-way, which was always defended by a strong door of the oak, studded with nails, and often by an exterior grated door of iron. These small peel-houses were ordinarily * Or bigg, a kind of coarse barley.THE MONASTERY. 40 inhabited by the pnoPG feuars ue ey ae ah ee q - aching danger, the wnole Oe 5 aoe: ints of defence. It was then no easy mat- to garrison these points Das ate into the villase. Roe —heeame ter for a hostile party to penetrate into OES were habituated to the use of bows and ite ape anc - ae being generally so placed, that the discharge from OF dee ae oF another, it was impossible to assault any of them ind1- ee Be i erics of these houses was usually sufficiently wretched, for it would have been folly to have furnished them In a manner which could excite the avarice of their lawless neighbors. Yet the families themselves exhibited in their appearance a degree of comfort, information, and independence, which could hardly have been expected. Their in-field supplied them with bread and home-brewed ale, their herds and flocks with beef and mutton (the extravagance of killing lambs or calves was never thought of). Each family killed a mart, or fat bullock, in November, which was salted up for winter use, to which the goodwife could, upon great occasions, add a dish of pigeons, or a fat capon—the ill-cultivated garden afforded " lang-Cale. and the river gave salmon to serve as a relish during the season Or dent. Of fuel they had plenty, for the bogs afforded turf ; and the remains of the abused woods continued to give them logs for burning, as well as timber for the usual domestic purposes. In addition to these comforts the goodman would now and then sally forth to the greenwood, and mark down a buck of season with his gun or his cross-bow ; and the Father Confessor seldom refused him absolution for the trespass, if duly his share of the smoking haunch. Some, still bolder. made, either with their own domestics. or by associating themselves with the moss-troopers, in the language of shepherds, “a start and overloup ;”’ and the golden ornaments and silken head-gear worn by the females of one or two families of note, were invid- iously traced by their neighbors to such successful excursions. This, however, was a more inexpiable crime in the eyes of the Abbot and Community of Saint Mary’s, than the of the “gude king’s deer -” ; nance and punish, by every means in their power, offences which were sure to lead to severe retaliation upon the property of the church, and which tended to alter the Character of their peaceful vassalage. As for the information posse invited to take borrowing one and they failed not to discounte- ssed by those devendants of theTHE MONASTERY. 4s Abbacies, they might have bten truly sai : a taught, even though their fare cop os ee ee Sull, however, tl - snjoyed op ee . 4 x a va hicl ee they enjoye pportul uties of knowledge from hn h ot hers og exc luded. The monks were in ceneral well ee ae tl — vassals and tenants, and familiar in the amilles or the cg class among them, where they were sure to be received with the respect due to their twofold character of s} ritual father and secular landlord. ‘Thus-it often hap- pened, when a boy displayed talents and inclination for study one of the brethren, with a view to his being bred to the church, or out of good-nature, in order to pass. away his own idle time, he had no better motive, initiated him into the mysteries of reading and writing, and imparted to him such - knowledge as he himself possessed. And the heads of a ese allied families, having more time for reflection, and more skill, as well as stronger motives for improving their small Papers bore amongst. their neighbors the character of shrewd, intelligent men, who claimed respect on account of their comparative wealth, even while they were despised for a less warlike and enterprising turn than the other Borderers. They lived as much as they well could amongst themselves, avoiding the company of others, and dreading nothing more than to be involved in the deadly feuds and ceaseless conten tions of the secular landholders. Such is a general picture of these communities. During the fatal wars in the commencement of Queen Mary’s reign, they had suffered dreadfully by the hostile invasions. For the English, now a Protestant people, were so far from sparing the church-lands, that they forayed them with more unrelenting severity than even the possessions of the laity. But the peace of rsso had restored some degree of tranquillity to those acted and harassed regions, and matters began again gradually to settle upon the former footing. The monks repaired their ravaged shrines—the feuar again roofed his small fortalice which the enemy had ruined—the poor laborer rebuilt his cottage—an easy task, where a few sods, stones, and some pieces of wood from the next copse, furnished all the materials necessary. The cattle, lastly, were driven out of the wastes and thickets in which the remnant of them had been secreted ; and the mighty bull moved at fhe head of his seraglio and their followers, to take possession of their wonted pastures. There ensued peace and quiet, the state of the age and nation considered, to the Monastery of Saint Mary, and its dependencies, for several tranquil years. distracTHE MONASTERY. CHAPTER SECOND. In yon ‘one vale his early youth was bred, Not soli‘ary then—the bugle-horn _ Of fell Alecto often walked its windings, | From where the brook joins the majestic river, To the wild northern bog, the curlew’s haunt, Where oozes forth its first and feeble streamlet. OLD PLAY. WE have said, that most of the feuars dwelt in the village belonging to their townships. ‘This was not, however, uni- versally the case. A lonely tower, to which the reader must now be introduced, was at least one exception to the general rule. It was of small dimensions, yet larger than those which occurred in the village, as intimating that, in case of assault, the proprietor would have to rely upon his own unassisted strength. Two or three miserable huts, at the foot of the fortalice, held the bondsmen and tenants of the feuar. ‘The site was a beautiful green knoll, which started up suddenly in the very throat of a wild and narrow glen, and which, being surrounded, except on one side, by the winding of a small stream, afforded a position of considerable strength. But the great security of Glendearg, for so the place was called, lay in its secluded, and almost hidden situation. To reach the tower it was necessary to travel three miles up the glen, crossing about twenty times the little stream, which, wind- ing through the narrow valley, encountered at every hundred yards the opposition of a rock or precipitous bank on the one side, which altered its course, and caused it to shoot off in an oblique direction to the other. The hills which ascend on each side of this glen are very steep, and rise boldly over the stream, which is thus imprisoned within their barriers. The sides of the glen are impracticable for horse, and are only to be traversed by means of the sheep-paths which lie along their sides. It would not be readily supposed that a road sa hopeless and so difficult could lead to any habitation more important than the summer shealing of a shepherd. Yet the glen, though lonely, nearly inaccessible, and sterile, was not then absolutely void of beauty. The turf which covered the small portion of level ground on the sides of the stream, was as close and verdant as if it had occupied theTHE MONASTERY. 43 scythes of a hundred gardeners once a-fortnight; and it was garnished with an embroidery of daisies and wild flowers, which the scythes would certainly have destroyed. The little brook, now confined betwixt closer limits, now left at large to choose its course through the narrow valley, danced carelessly on from stream to pool, light and unturbid, as that better class of spirits who pass their way through life, yielding to insur- mountable obstacles, but as far from being subdued by them as the sailor who meets by chance with an unfavorable wind, and shapes his course so as to be driven back as little as pos- sible. The mountains, as they would have been called in England, Scottice the steep draes, rose abruptly over the little glen, here presenting the gray face of arock, from which the turf had been peeled by the torrents, and there displaying patches of wood and copse, which had escaped the waste of the cattle and the sheep of the feuars, and which, feathering naturally up the beds of empty torrents, or occupying the concave recesses of the bank, gave at once beauty and variety to the landscape. Above these scattered woods rose the hill, in barren, but purple majesty ; the dark rich hue, particularly in autumn, contrasting beauti- fully with the thickets of oak and birch, the mountain ashes and thorns, the alders and quivering aspens, which checkered and varied the descent, and not less with the dark-green and velvet turf, which composed the level part of the narrow glen. Yet, though thus embellished, the scene could neither be strictly termed sublime nor beautiful, and scarcely even pic- turesque or striking. But its extreme solitude pressed on the heart ; the traveller felt that uncertainty whither he was going, or in what so wild a path was to terminate, which, at times, strikes more on the imagination than the grand features of a show scene, when you know the exact distance of the inn where your dinner is bespoke, and at the moment preparing. These are ideas, however, of a far later age ; for at the time we treat of, the picturesque, the beautiful, the sublime, and all their intermediate shades, were ideas absolutely unknown to the in- habitants and occasional visitors of Glendearg. These had, however, attached to the scene feelings fitting the time. Its name, signifying the Red Valley, seems to have been derived, not only from the purple color of the heath, with which the upper part of the rising banks was profusely clothed, but also from the dark red color of the rocks, and of the pre- cipitous earthen banks, which in that country are called SCAUIS. Another glen, about the head of Ettrick, has acquired the sameTHE MONASTERY. a4 name from similar circumstances ; and there are probably more in Scotland to which it has been given. a As our Glendearg did not abound in mortal visitants, super- stition, that it might not be absolutely destitute ot ee had peopled its recesses with beings belonging to another we d. The savage and capricious Brown Man of the Moors, a aa which seems the genuine descendant of the northern dwarts, was supposed to be seen there frequently, especially after the autumnal equinox, when the fogs were thick, and objects not easily distinguished. The Scottish fairies, too, a whimsical, irritable, and mischievous tribe, who, though at times caprict- ously benevolent, were more frequently adverse to mortals, were also supposed to have formed a residence in a particu- larly wild recess of the glen, of which the real name was, in allusion to that circumstance, Corrze nan Shian, which, in cor- rupted Celtic, signifies the Hollow of the Fairies. But the neighbors were more cautious in speaking about this place, and avoided giving it a name, from an idea common then throughout all the British and Celtic provinces of Scotland, and still retained in many places, that to speak either good or ill of this capricious race of imaginary beings is to provoke their resentment, and that secrecy and silence is what they chiefly desire from those who may intrude upon their revels, or dis- cover their haunts. A mysterious terror was thus attached to the dale, which alforded access from the broad valley of the Tweed, up the little glen we have described, to the fortalice called the Tower of Glendearg. Beyond the knoll where, as we have said, the tower was situated, the hills grew more steep, and narrowed on the slender brook, so as scarce to leave a footpath ; and there the glen terminated in a wild waterfall, where a slender thread of water dashed in a precipitous line of foam over two or three precipices. Yet farther in the same direction, and above these successive cataracts, lay a wild and extensive mo- rass, frequented only by waterfowl, wide, waste, apparently almost interminable, and Serving in a great measure to separ- ate the inhabitants of the glen from those who lived to the northward. To restless and indefatigable moss-troopers, indee morasses were well known, and sometimes They often rode down the glen—called at this tower—asked and received hospitality—but still with a sort of reserve on the part of its more peaceful inhabitants, who entertained them as a party of North-American Indians might be received by a new d, these afforded a retreat.THE MONASTERY o 45 European settler, as much out of fear as uppermost wish of the landlord is the s Savage cuests, 10S pitality, while the speedy departure of the | This had not always been the current of feeling in the little valley and its tower. Simon Glendinning, its fener in- nabitant, boasted his connection by blood to that ancient family of Glendonwyne, on the western border, He used to narrate at his fireside. in the autumn evenings, the feats of the family to which he belonged, one of whom fell by the side of I tit tne Drave Earl of Douglas at Otterbourne. On these. occa- sions simon usually held upon his knee an ancient broad- sword, which had belonged to his ancestors before any of the family had consented to accept a flef under the peaceful do- minion of the Monks of Saint Mary’s. In modern days Simon might have lived at ease on his own estate. and quietly mur- mured against the fate that had doomed him to dwell there, and cut off his access to martial renown. But sO Many oppor- tunities, nay, sO many calls there were for him, who in those aa spoke big, to make good his words by his actions, that on Glendinning was soon under the necessity of marching with the men of the Halido me, as it was called, of § Saint Mary’s, in that disastrous campaign which was concluded | oy the battle f Pinkie. 4 Ol The Ca tholic cle rgy were deep; ly interested in that national quarrel, the principal object of which was to Biever the union of the infant Queen Mary with the son of the heretical Henry VIII. The Monks had called out their vassals under an ex- perienced leader. Many of themselves had taken arms, and marched to the field, under a banner representing a female, supposed to personify the Sc ttish C hurch, kneeling in the atti- tude of prayer, with the legend, Affiicte Sponse ne obliviscaris.* The Scots, however, in all their wars had more > occasion for good and habbits generals than for excitation, whether politi- cal or enthusiastic. Their headlong and impatient courage uniformly induced them to rush into action without duly weighing either their own situation or that of their enemies, and the inevitable consequence was frequent defeat. With the dolorous slaughter of Pinkie we have nothing to do, excepting that, among ten thousand men of low and high degree, Simon Glendinning of ae Tower of Glendearg bit the dust, no way disparaging in his death that ancient race from which he claimed his descent. When the doleful news, which spread terror and mourning * Forget not the afflicted spouse.THE MONASTERY. 46 through the whole of Scotland, fea ie Toys se: dearg, the widow of Simon, Elspeth Byes qe ao ne name, was alone in that desolate coe sat ne s or two, alike past martial and agricultural abor, anc ie ie p- less widows and families of those who had fallen with their master. The feeling of desolation was universal ;—but what availed it? The monks, their patrons and protectors, were driven from their Abbey by the English forces, who now over- ran the country, and enforced at least an appearance of sub- mission on the part of the inhabitants. rhe Protector Somer- set formed a strong camp among the ruins of the ancient Castle of Roxburgh, and compelled the neighboring country to come in, pay tribute, and take assurance trom him, as the phrase then went. Indeed there was no power of resistance remaining ; and the few barons whose high spirit disdained even the appearance of surrender could only retreat into the wildest fastnesses of the country, leaving their houses and property to the wrath of the English, who detached parties everywhere to distress, by military exaction, those whose chiefs had not made their submission. ‘The Abbot and his community having retreated beyond the Forth, their lands were severely forayed, as their sentiments were held peculiarly inimical to the alliance with England. Amongst the troops detached on this service was a small party commanded by Stawarth Bolton, a captain in the Eng- lish army, and full of the blunt and unpretending gallantry and generosity which has so often distinguished that nation. Re- sistance was in vain. Elspeth Brydone, when she descried a dozen of horsemen threading their way up the glen, with a man at their head, whose scariet cloak, bright armor, and dancing plume, proclaimed him a leader, saw no better protection for herself than to issue from the iron gate, covered with a long mourning veil, and holding one of her two sons in each hand, to meet the Englishman—state her deserted condition—place the little tower at his command—and beg for his mercy. She stated in a few brief words her intention, and added, “ I sub- mit, because I have nae means of resistance.” ‘* And I do not ask your submission, mistress, for the same reason,” replied the Englishman. “To be satisfied of your peaceful intentions is all I ask; and from what you tell me there is no reason to doubt them.” ~ At least, sir,” said Elspeth Brydone, “ take share of what our spence and our garners afford. Your horses are tired— your folk want refreshment.”THE MONASTERY 4} Not a whit—not a whit,” answered the honest English- man ; “it shall never be said we disturbed by carousal the widow of a brave soldier while she was mourning for her hus- band.—Comrades, face about.—Yet stay,”’ he added, checking his war-horse, ‘“‘ my parties are out in every direction ; they must have some token that your family are under my assur- ance of safety.—Here, my little fellow,” said he, speaking to the eldest boy, who might be about nine or ten years old, ‘lend me thy bonnet.” 7 The child reddened, looked sulky, and hesitated, while the mother, with many a_/ye and nay pshaw, and such sarsenet chidings as tender mothers give to spoiled children, at length succeeded in snatching the bonnet from him, and handing it to the English leader. Stawarth Bolton took his embroidered red cross from his barret-cap, and putting it into the loop of the boy’s bonnet, said to the mistress (for the title of lady was not given to dames of her degree), “ By this token, which all my people will respect, you will be freed from any importunity on the part of our forayers.”’ * He placed it on the boy’s head ; but it was no sooner there, than the little fellow, his veins swelling, and his eyes shooting fire through tears, snatched the bonnet from his head. and, ere his mother could interfere, skimmed it into the brook, The other boy ran instantly to fish it out again, threw ‘+t back to his brother, first taking out the cross, which, with great veneration, he kissed and put into his bosom. The Englishman was half diverted, half surprised with the scene. “What mean ye by throwing away Saint George's red cross?” said he to the elder boy, in a tone betwixt jest and earnest. ‘Because Saint George is a southern saint,” said the child, sulkily. “Good by taking it out of t manded of the younger. “Because the priest says it is tl to all good Christians.” : !’? said the honest soldier. I protest “ Why, good again ! ye unto you, mistress, [ envy you these boys. Are they both yours ‘de Stawarth Bolton had bert Glendinning, the elder of th * Note C. '? said Stawarth Bolton.—* And what did you mean he brook again, my little fellow?” he de- 1e common sign of salvation reason to put the question, for Hal- ie two, had hair as dark as the Gallantry,48 THE MONASTERY. rayen’s plumage, black eyes, large, bold and sparkinen a clittered under eyebrows of the same complexion Me S - eep embrowned, though it could not be termed sw arthy, and an alt of activity, frankness, and determination, far beyond his age. On the other hand, Edward, the younger brother, was light- haired, blue-eyed, and of fairer complexion, in countenance rather pale, and not exhibiting that rosy LEG which colors the sanguine cheek of robust health. Yet the boy had nothing sickly or ill-conditioned in his look, but was, on the contrary, a fair and handsome child, with a smiling face, and mild, yet cheerful eye. : The mother glanced a proud motherly glance, first at the one, and then at the other, ere she answered the Englishman, “ Surely, sir, they are both my children.” “ And by the same father, ntistress?”’ said Stawarth ; but, seeing a blush of displeasure arise on her brow, he instantly added, “Nay, I mean no offence ; I would have asked the same question at any of my gossips in merry Lincoln.—Well, dame, you have two fair boys ; | would I could borrow one, for Dame Bolton and I live childlessin our old hall.—Come, little fellows, which of you will go with me?” The trembling mother, half-fearing as he spoke, drew the children towards her, one with either hand, while they both an- swered the stranger. ‘‘I will not go with you,” said Halbert, boldly, “for you are a false-hearted Southern ; and the South- erns killed my father; and I will war on you to the death, when I can draw my father’s sword.” ‘“God-a-mercy, my little levin-bolt,” said Stawarth, “ the goodly custom of deadly feud will never go down in thy day, I presume.—And you, my fine white-head, will you not go with me, to ride a cock-horse ? ” 7 “No,” said Edward, demurely, “for you are a heretic.” “Why, God-a-mercy still!” said Stawarth Bolton. “ Well, lame, I see I shall find no recruits for my troop from you; and yet I do envy you these two little chubby knaves.” He sighed a moment, as was visible, in spite of gorget and corselet, and then added, “ And yet, my dame and I would but quarrel which of the knaves we should like best ; for I should wish for the black-eyed rogue—and she, | warrant me, for that blue- eyed, fair-haired darling. Natheless, we must brook our soli- tary wedlock, and wish joy to those that are more fortunate. et Balison: do ghou remain here till recalled—protect y, as under assurance—do them no wrong, and sufter no wrong to be done to them, as thou wilt answer it.—Dame,THE MONASTERY. 49 Brittson is a married man, old and steady ; feed him on what you will, but give him not over much liquor.” Dame Glendinning again offered refreshments, but with a faltering voice, and an obvious desire her invitation should not be accepted. ‘The fact was, that, supposing her boys as pre cious in the eyes of the Englishman as in her own (the most or- dinary of parental errors), she was half afraid that the admira- tion he expressed of them in his blunt manner might end in his actually carrying off one or other of the little darlings whom he appeared to covet so much. She kept hold of their hands, therefore, asif her feeble strength could have been of service, had any violence been intended, and saw, with joy she could not disguise, the little party of horse countermarch, in order to de- scend the glen. Her feelings did not escape Stawarth Bolton : “T forgive you, dame,” he said, “for being suspicious that an English falcon was hovering over your Scottish moorbrood. But fear not—those who have fewest children have fewest cares ; nor does a wise man covet those of another household. Adieu, dame; when the black-eyed rogue is able to drive a foray from England, teach him to spare women and children, for the sake of Stawarth Bolton.” “God be with you, gallant Southern!” said Elspeth Glen- dinning, but not till he was out of hearing, spurring on his good horse to regain the head of his party, whose plumage and armor were now glancing and gradually disappearing in the distance, as they winded down the glen. “Mother,” said the elder boy, “I will not say amen to a prayer for a Southern.” “Mother,” said the younger, more reverentially, “is it right to pray for a heretic ?”’ “The God to whom I pray only knows,” answered poor Elspeth ; “but these two words, Southern and heretic, have already cost Scotland ten thousand of her best and bravest, and me a husband, and you a father ; and, whether blessing or banning, I never wish to hear them more.—Follow me to the Place, sir,’ she said to Brittson, “ and such as we have to offer you shall be at your disposal.” 4THE MONASTERY. CHAPTER THIRD. They lighted down on Tweed water, And blew their coals sae het, And fired the March and Teviotdale, All in an evening late. AuLD MAITLAND. THE report soon spread through the patrimony of Saint Mary’s and its vicinity, that the Mistress of Glendearg had re- ceived assurance from the English Captain, and that her cattle were not to be driven off, or her corn burned. Among others who heard this report, it reached the ears of a lady, who, once much higher in rank than Elspeth Glendinning, was now by the same calamity reduced to even greater misfortune. She was the widow of a brave soldier, Walter Avenel, de- scended of a very ancient Border family, who once possessed immense estates in Eskdale. These had long since passed from them into other hands, but they still enjoyed an ancient Barony of considerable extent, not very far from the patrimony of Saint Mary’s, and lying upon the same side of the river with the nar- row vale of Glendearg, at the head of which was the little tower of the Glendinnings. Here they had lived, bearing a respect- able rank amongst the gentry of their province, though neither wealthy nor powerful. This general regard had been much augmented by the skill, courage, and enterprise which had been displayed by Walter Avenel, the last Baron. When Scotland began to recover from the dreadful shock she had sustained after the battle of Pinkie-Cleuch,* Avenel was one of the first who, assembling a small force, set an ex- ample in those bloody and unsparing skirmishes, which showed that a nation, though conquered and overrun by invaders, may yet wage against them such a war of detail as shallin the end become fatal to the foreigners. In one of these, however, Wal- ter Avenel fell, and the news which came to the house of his fathers was followed by the distracting intelligence, that a party of Englishmen were coming to plunder the mansion and lands of his widow, in order, by this act of terror, to prevent others from following the example of the deceased. The unfortunate lady had no better refuge than the miser- * [This engagement took place in x ona field about sey The Scotch forces were defeated w ae Ont Sey ort iles east of Edinburgh. afterwards Duke of Somerset. ] ith much loss by the English under the Earl Hertford,Ht ' ‘ H Lod sl HNOMAUH HWW r ‘ — r IN IL HHL f r u a HSI'ION “NIViLed VTHE MONASTERY. 51 able cottage of a shepherd among the hills, to which she was hastily removed, scarce conscious where or for what purpose her terrified attendants were removing her and her infant daughter from her own house. Here she was tended with all the duteous service of ancient times by the shepherd’s wife, Tibb Tacket, who in better days had been her own bowerwoman. For a time the lady was unconscious of her misery ; but when the first stunning effect of grief was so far passed away that she could form an estimate of her own situation, the widow of Avenel had cause to envy the lot of her husband in his dark and silent abode. The domestics who had guided her to her place of refuge, were presently obliged to disperse for their own safety, or to seek for necessary subsistence ; and the shep- herd and his wife, whose poor cottage she shared, were soon after deprived of the means of affording their late mistress even that coarse sustenance which they had gladly shared with her. Some of the English forayers had discovered and driven off the few sheep which had escaped the first researches of their avarice. Two cows shared the fate of the remnant of their stock ; they had afforded the family almost their sole support, and now famine appeared to stare them in the face. “We are broken and beggared now, out and out,” said old Martin the shepherd—and he wrung his hands in the bit- terness of agony, “the thieves, the harrying thieves! nota cloot left of the haill hirsel !” “And to see poor Grizzy and Crumbie,” said his wife, “turning back their necks to the byre, and routing while the stony-hearted villains were btogging them on wi’ their lances !”’ “ There were but four of them,” said Martin, “ and I have seen the day forty wad not have ventured this length. But our strength and manhood is gane with our puir maister.” ‘For the sake of the holy rood, whisht, man,” said the gude wife, “our leddy is half gane already, as ye may see by that fleightering of the ee-lid—a word mair and she’s dead out- right.” ; “T could almost wish,” said Martin, “we were a’ gane, for what to do passes my puir wit. I care little for mysell, or you, Tibb—we can make a fend—work or want—we can do baith, but she can do neither.” They canvassed their situation thus openly before the lady, convinced by the paleness of her look, her quivering lip, a dead-set eye, that she neither heard nor understood what they were saying.ah eee ae ee rental £2 THE MONASTERY. “There is a way,”’ said the shepherd, “bors kenna Hohe could bring her heart to it—there’s Simon Tenn S YY ow of the glen yonder, has had assurance from the Southern loons, And nae soldier to steér them for one cause OF other. Now if the leddy could bow her mind to take quae with Hneeee Glendinning till better days cast up, nae doubt it wad be doing an honor to the like of her, but i “An honor,” answered Tibb, “ ay, by my word, sic an honor as wad be pride to her kin mony a lang year after her banes were in the mould. Oh! gudeman, to hear ye even the Lady of Avenelto seeking quarters wi a Kirk-vassal’s widow ! “oath should I be to wish her to it,” said Martin ; © but what may we do ?—to stay here is mere starvation ; and where to go, I’m sure | ken nae mair than ony tup I ever herded. “ Speak no more of it,” said the widow Avenel, suddenly joining in the conversation, “| will go to the tower.—Dame Elspeth is of good folk, a widow, and the mother of orphans— she will give us house-room until something be thought upon. These evil showers make the low bush better than no bield.” “See there, see there,” said Martin, “you see the leddy has twice our sense.” “ And natural it is,” said Tibb, “‘ seeing that she is convent- bred, and can lay silk broidery, forby white-seam and shell- work.” “Do you not think,” said the lady to Martin, still clasping her child to her bosom, and making it clear from what motives she desired the refuge, “ that Dame Glendinning will make us welcome?” “Blithely welcome, blithely welcome, my leddy,” answered Martin cheerily, ‘‘and we shall deserve a welcome at her hand. Men are scarce now, my leddy, with these wars ; and gie me a thought of time to it, I can do as good a day’s darg as ever I did in my life, and Tibb can sort cows with ony living woman.” ‘““And muckle mair could I do,” said Tibb, “ were it ony feasible house ; but there will be neither pearlins to mend, nor pinners to busk up, in Elspeth Glendinning’s.” ‘“Whisht wi’ your pride, woman,” said the shepherd , “eneugh ye can do, baith outside and inside, an ye set your mind to it ; and hard it is if we twa canna work for three folks’ meat forby my dainty wee leddy there. (Come awa, come awa, nae use in staying here langer ; we have five Scots miles over peed muir, and that is nae easy walk for a leddy born and red.’ Household stuff there was little or none to remove ot care1M —VMONAS TR PP WUONASLLELLR J 53 for ; an old pony which had escaped the plunderers, owing partly to its pitiful appearance, partly from the reluctance which it showed to be caught by strangers, was employed ta carry the few blankets and other trifles which they possessed. When Shagram came to his master’s well-known whistle, he was surprised to find the poor thing had been wounded, though slightly, by an arrow, which one of the forayers had shot off in anger a he had long chased it in vain. © ‘Ay, Shagram,” said the old man, as he applied something to the w ound, § “must you rue the lang-bow as weel as all of us? ‘What corner in Scotland rues it not?” said the Lady of Avenel. : ‘ Ay, ay, madam,” said Martin, “‘ God keep the kindly Scot from the cloth-yard shaft, and he will geeD himself from the handy stroke. But let us go our way ; the trash that is left I can come back for. ‘There is nae ane to stir it but the good neighbors, and they 7 ‘For the love of God, goodman,” said his wife, in a remon- strating tone, “haud your peace! Think what ye’re saying, and we hae sae muckle wild land to go over before we win to the girth gate.” The husband nodded acquiescence ; for it was deemed highly imprudent to speak of the fairies, either by their title of good neighbors or by any other, especially when about to pass the places which they were supposed to haunt.* They set forward on their pilgrimage on the last day of October. “This is thy birthday, my sweet Mary,” said the mother, asa sting of bitter recollection crossed her mind. ‘Oh, who could have believed that the head, which, a few years since, was cradled amongst so many rejoicing friends, may perhaps this night seek a cover in vain!”’ The exiled family then set forward,—Mary Avenel, a lovely girl between five and six years old, riding gypsy fashion upon Shagram, betwixt two bundles of bedding ; the Lady of Avenel walking by the animal’s side ; Tibb leading the bridle, and old Martin walking a little before, looking anxiously around him to explore the way. Martin’s task as guide, after two or three miles’ walking, became more difficult than he himse!f had expected, or than he was willing to avow. It happened that the extensive range of pasturage, with which he was conversant, lay to the west, and to get into the little valley of Glendearg he had to proceed easterly. In the wil der districts of Scotland, the passage from * Note D. The Fairies.HE MONASTERY. 54 another, otherwise t oe ee reascending the other, is often very Tae Heights and hollows, mosses, and rocks infet Wena | all those local impediments which throw a traveller out OL 11S ee So that Martin, however sure of his general direction, san conscious, and at Jength was forced reluctantly to admit, t nat he had missed the direct road to Glendearg, though he insisted they must be very near it. “If we can but win across this wide bog,” he said, “ I shall warrant ye are on the top of the .) on to get across the bog was a point of no small difficulty. The farther they ventured into it, though proceeding with all the caution which Martin’s experience recommended, the more unsound the ground became, until after they had passed some places of great peril, their best argument for going forward came to be, that they had to encounter equal danger in re- turning. The Lady of Avenel had been tenderly nurtured, but what will not a woman endure when her child is in danger? Com- plaining less of the dangers of the road than her attendants, who had been inured to such from their infancy, she kept her- self close by the side of the pony, watching its every footstep, and ready, if it should flounder in the morass, to snatch her little Mary from its back. At length they came to a place where the guide greatly hesitated, for all around him were broken lumps of heath, divided from each other by deep sloughs of black tenacious mire. After great consideration, Martin, selecting what he thought the safest path, began himself to lead forward Shagram, in order to afford greater security to the child. But Shagram snorted, laid his ears back, stretched his two feet forward, and drew his hind feet under him, so as to adopt the best possible posture for obstinate resistance, and refused to move one yard in the direction indicated. Old Martin, much puzzled, now hesitated whether to exert his absolute authority, or to defer to the contumacious obstinacy of Shagram, and was not greatly comforted by his wife’s observation, who, seeing Shagram stare with his eyes, distend his nostrils, and tremble with terror, hinted that “he surely saw more than they could See. han by descending that which In this dilemma, the child suddenly exclaimed— Bonny leddy signs to us to come yon gate.” They all looked in the direction where the child pointed, but saw nothing. save 2 wreath of rising mist, which fancy might form into “a human figure ; but which afforded to Martin only the sorrowful con-THE MONASTERY. ao viction, that the danger of their situation was about to be in- creased by a heavy fog. He once more essayed to lead forward Shagram ; but the animal was inflexible in its determination not to move in the direction Martin recommended. “Take your awn way for it, then,” said Martin, “and let us see what you can do for us.” Shagram, abandoned to the discretion of his own free-will, set off boldly in the direction the child had pointed. There was nothing wonderful in this, nor in its bringing them safe to the other side of the dangerous morass ; for the instinct of these animals in traversing bogs is one of the most curious parts ol their nature, and is a fact generally established. But it was remarkable, that the child more than once mentioned the beau: tiful lady and her signals, and that Shagram seemed to be in the secret, always moving in the same direction which she in- dicated. The Lady of Avenel took little notice at the time, her mind being probably occupied by the instant danger ; but her attendants exchanged expressive looks with each other more than once. “ All-Hallow Eve!” said Tibb, in a whisper to Martin. “For the mercy of Our L ady, not a word of that now!” said Martin in reply. ‘Tell your beads, woman, if you cannot be silent.”’ When they got once more on firm ground, Martin recognized certain landmarks or cairns, on the tops of the neighboring hills, by which he was enabled to de his course, and ere long they arrived at the Tower of Gendearg It was at the sight of this little rnc that the misery of her lot pees hard on the poor Lady of Avenel. When by any accident they had met at church, market, or other place ot public resort, she remembered the distant and respectful air with which the wife of the warlike baron was addressed by the spouse of the humble feuar. And now, so much was her pride humbled, that she was to ask to share the precarious safety of the same feuar’s widow, and her pittance of food, which might perhaps be yet more prec carious. Martin probably cuessed what was passing in her mind, for he looked at her with a wist: ful glance, as if to de eprecate any change of resolution ; and an- rather than his words, she said, while the le once more glanced from her eye, “If ld but die—but for this infant— swering to his looks, sparkle of subdued pric it were for myself alone, I coulc the last pledge of Av enel “ True, my lady,’ > said Martin, hastily ; the possibility of her retracting, he added, and, as if to prevent ‘“T will step on andTHE MONASTERY. see Dame Elspeth—I kend her husband weel, and have bought and sold with him, for as great a man as he was. Martin’s tale was soon told, and met all acceptance from her companion in misfortune. ‘The Lady of Avenel had been meek and courteous in her prosperity ; in adversity, therefore, she met with the greatest sympathy. Besides, there was a point of pride in sheltering and supporting a woman of such superior birth and rank ; and, not to do Elspeth Glendinning injustice, she felt sympathy for one whose fate resembled her own in so many points, yet was so much more severe. Every species of hospitality was gladly and respectfully extended to the dis- tressed travellers, and they were kindly requested to stay as long at Glendearg as their circumstances rendered necessary, or their inclination prompted. CHAP TER POUR T H; Ne’er be I found by thee o’erawed, In that thrice hallow’d eve, abroad, When goblins haunt, from fire, or fen, Or mine, or flood, the walks of men! CoLuins’s Ode to Fear. As the country became more settled, the Lady of Avenel would have willingly returned to her husband’s mansion. But that was no longer in her power. It was a reign of minority, when the strongest had the best right, and when acts of usur- pation were frequent amongst those who had much power and little conscience. Julian Avenel, the younger brother of the deceased Walter, was a person of this description. He hesitated not to seize upon his brother’s house and lands, so soon as the retreat of the English permitted him. At first, he occupied the property in the name of his niece ; but when the lady proposed to return with her child to the mansion of its fathers, he gave her to understand, that Avenel, being a male fief, descended to the brother, instead of the daughter, of the last possessor. The ancient philosopher declined a dispute with the emperor who commanded twenty legions, and the widow of Walter Avenel Was in no condition to maintain a contest with the leader of twenty moss-troopers. Julian was also a man of service, who could back a friend in case of need, and was sure, therefore,HE MONASTERY. 57 to find protectors among the ruling powers. In short, however clear the little Mary’s right to the possessions of her father. her mother saw the necessity of giving way, at least for the time, to the usurpation of her unc! Fier parence and forbearance were so far attended with advantage, that Julian,-for very shame’s sake, could no longer suffer her : be absolutely dependent on the charity of Elspeth Glendinning. ?” said Elspeth Glen- dinning. “What else can I think?” said Tibb. “ Tt may hae been something waur in his likeness,” said Dame Glendinning. “T ken naething about that,” said Tibb,—“ but his likeness it was, that I will be sworn to, just as he used to ride out a-hawking ; for having enemies in the country, he seldom laid off the breastplate ; and for my part,” added Tibb, “I dinna think a man looks like a man unless he has steel on his breast, and by his side too.” “T have no skill-of your harness on breast or side either,” said Dame Glendinning ; “but I ken there is little luck in Hallowe’en sights, for 1 have had ane mysell.” “Indeed, Dame Elspeth? ” said old Tibb, edging her stool closer to the huge elbow-chair occupied by her friend, “ I should like to hear about that.” “ Ve maunken, then, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, “ that when I was a hempie of nineteen or twenty, it wasna my fault if I wasna at a’ the merry-makings time about.” _ “That was very natural,” said Tibb ; “but ye hae sobered since that, or ye wadna haud our braw gallants sae lightly.” ‘‘T have had that wad sober me or ony ane,” said the ma- tron. ‘ Aweel, Tibb, a lass like me wasna to lack wooers, for I wasna sae ill-favored that the tikes wad bark after me.” How should that be,” said Tibb, “and you sic a weel- favored woman to this day?” “Fie, fie, cummer,” said the matron of Glendearg, hitching her seat of honor, in her turn, a little nearer to the cuttie-stool on which Tibb was seated; ‘“‘ weel-favored is past my time ofTHE MONASTERY. 6 3 day ; but I might pass then, for I wasna sae tocherless but What [ had a bit land at my breast-lace. My father was por- tioner of Little-dearg.”’ “Ye hae tell’d me that before,” said Tibb ; “* but anent the Hallowe’en ?”’ ““Aweel, aweel, I had mair joes than ane, but I favored nane o’ them ; and sae, at Hallowe’en, Father Nicolas the cel- larer—he was cellarer before this father, Father Clement, that now is—was cracking his nuts and drinking his brown beer with us, and as blithe as might be, and they would have me try a cantrip to ken wha suld wed me: and the monk said there was nae ill in it, and if there was, he would assoil me for it. And wha but I into the barn to winnow my three weights o’ naething—-sair, sair my mind misgave me for fear of wrang-do- ing and wrang-suffering baith ; but I had aye a bauld spirit. [ had not winnowed the last weight clean out, and the moon was shining bright upon the floor, when in stalked the presence of my dear Simon Glendinning, that is now happy. I never saw him plainer in my life than I did that moment ; he held up an arrow as he passed me, and I swarf’d awa wi’ fright. Muckle wark there was to bring me to mysell again, and sair they tried to make me believe it was atrick of Father Nicolas and Simon between them, and that the arrow was to signify Cupid’s shaft, as the Father called it ; and mony a time Simon wad threep it to me after I was married—gude man, he liked not it should be said that he was seen out o’ the body !—But mark the end o’ it, Tibb ; we were married, and the gray-goose wing was the death o’ him after a’!”’ ‘‘As it has been of ower mony brave men,” said Tibb; “I wish there wasna sic a bird as a goose, in the wide warld, forby the clecking that we hae at the burn-side.” “ But tell me, Tibb,”” said Dame Glendinning, ‘ what does your leddy aye do reading out o’ that thick black book wi’ the silver clasps ?—there are ower mony gude words in it to come frae ony body but a priest—An it were about Robin Hood, or some o’ David Lindsay’s ballants, ane wad ken better what to say toit. I am no misdoubting your mistress nae way, but I wad like ill to hae a decent house haunted wi’ ghaists and gyre- carlines.” “Ve hae nae reason to doubt my leddy, or onything she says or does, Dame Glendinning,” said the faithful Tibb, something offended ; “and touching the bairn, it’s weel kend she was born on Hallowe’en, was nine years gane, and they that are born on Hallowe’en whiles see mair than ither folk.”64 THE MONASTERY. + “And that wad be the cause, then. that the bairn didna mak muckle din about what it Saw °-——1f it had been my Hal- dert himself, forby Edward, ae is of SoLter nature, he wad hae yammered the hai ill night. of a constancy. But it’s like Mistress Mary has SIC ee ts mair atural to her, “That may weel be,” said Tibb ; ‘ ‘for on Hallowe’en she was born, as I tell ye, ae our auld parish priest wad fain hae had the night owe er, and All-Hallow day begun. 3ut fora that, the sweet bairn is just like ither bairns, as ye may. see yourself ; anacexe a this blessed night, and ance before when we were in th at weary bog on the road here, I kenna that it Pa I aS But what saw SA in the bog, then,” said Dame Glendin- ning, “forby moor-cocks and heather bleaters “The wean saw something like a white leddy that weised \ 33 ? us:the gate,” said Tibb ; “ when we were like to hae perished in the saree ags—certain it was that Shagram reisted, and I ken Martin hinks he saw something.”’ “And what might the white leddy be?” said Elspeth; “ have ye ony guess o’ that?” “Tt’s weel kend that, D ame . Elspeth,” said Tibb ; “if ye had lived under erit folk as I hae dune, ye wadna be to seek in that matter.’ “T hae aye keepit my ain 1 ha’ house abune my head,” said Ispeth, not without emphasis, ‘and if I havena lived wi’ grit folk, grit folk have lived aie meee “ Weel, weel, dame,” said Tibb, “ your pardon’s prayed, there was nae offence meant. But ye maun ken the great an- cient families canna be just served wi’ the ordinary saunts (praise to them !) like Saunt Anthony, Saunt ne and the like, that come and gang at every sinner’s bidding, but they hae a sort of saunts or angels, or what not, to , themsells - and as for the White Maiden of Avenel, she is kend ower the haill country. Andsheis aye seen to yammer and wail before ony 0’ that family dies, as was weel kend by twenty folk before the death of Walter Avenel, haly be his cast!” — ‘If she can do nae mair than that,” said Elspeth, some- what scornfully, ‘they needna make many vows to her, I trow. Can she make nae better fend for ar n than that, and has nae- thing better to do than wait on them? ”’ e Mony braw services can the Wh e Maiden do for them to the boot , and has dune in He auld histories,’ said libb, “but I mind o’ naething in my day, except it was het that the bairn saw in the bog.” T es!LHE MONASTERY. 65 a mh ] "Ee | ‘ib ~ 99 ; ‘ . . Aweel, aweel, Tibb,” said Dame ( lendinning, rising and ain T . is ee ae ee bias ; a 9 pills c x lighting the iron lamp, MueSe are ereat privileces of your oral oll But Our Ladv a Saunt Pan 8 and aC oe LAL JUT La LY al) | Oaunt Paul ATe cood cneugen saunts tor me, and I’se warrant them nev er leave me in a boo that they Can help me out Oo: seeing | send tOur Waxen éandiée to their chapels every Candlemas: and if they are not seen to weep at my death, I’se warrant them smile at my joyful rising again, whilk Heaven send to all of us. Amen.” ~~ ~ 4 ~ «men, answered Tibb, devoutly; “and now it’s time ] should hap up the wee bit gathering turf, as the fire is owe! low. Busily she set herself to perform this duty. The relict of simon Glendinning did but pause a moment to cast a heedful and cautious glance all around the hall. to see ings wi ee : ne hall, to see iat nothing was out Of its proper place ; then, Wishing 11Db good-night, she re- tired to repose. “The deil’s in the « arline,”’ said Tibb to herself : ‘because she was the wife of a cock-laird, she thinks herself orander. I self 9 : trow, than the bowerwoman of a lady of that ilk!” Having given vent to her suppressed spleen in this little ejaculation, Pibb also betook herself to slumber. GHAPIER BIFEH. A priest, ye cry, a priest !—lame shepherds they, How shall they gather in the straggling flock ? Dumb dogs which bark not—how shall they compel The loite: va ts to the Master’s fold ? Fitter to bask bef the | ng fire, And snuff the m at-hat 1 Phillis dresses, Than on the w-wreath battle with the wolf he REFORMATION. THE health of the Lady of Avenel had been gradually de- caying ever since her disaster. It seemed:as if the few years which followed her husband’s death had done on her the work of half a century. She lost the fresh elasticity of form, the color and the mien of health, and became wasted, wan, and feeble. She appeared to have no formed complaint ; yet 1t was evident to those who looked on her, that her strength waned daily. Her lips at length became blenched and her eye dim ; yet she spoke not of any desire to see a priest, until Elspeth 566 THE MONASTERY. Glendinning in her zeal c apoint which she deeme ould not refrain from touching upon d essential to salvation. Alice of Avenel received her hint kindly, and thanked her for it. “ Tf any good priest would take the trouble of such a jour- ney,” she said.+* he should be welcome s:forjshe prayers and lessons of the good must be at all times advantageous. This quiet acquiescence was not quite what Elspeth Glendin- ning wished or expected. She made up, however, by her own enthusiasm, for the lady’s want of eagerness to avail herself of ghostly counsel, and Martin was despatched with such haste as Shagram would make, to pray one of the religious men of Saint Mary’s to come up to administer the last consolations to the widow of Walter Avenel. When the Sacristan had announced to the Lord Abbot, that the Lady of the umquhile Walter de Avenel was in very weak health in the Tower of Glendearg, and desired the assistance of a father confessor, the lordly monk paused on the request. “We do remember Walter de Avenel,” he said ; “a good knight and a valiant ; he was dispossessed of his lands, and slain by the Southron—May not the lady come hither to the sacrament of confession? the road is distant and painful to travel.” “The lady is unwell, holy father,” answered the Sacristan, ‘and unable to bear the journey.” “ True—ay—yes—then must one of our brethren go to her —Knowest thou if she hath aught of a jointure from this Walter de Avenel?” “Very little, holy father,” said the Sacristan ; “she hath resided at Glendearg since her husband’s death, well-nigh on the charity of a poor widow, called Elspeth Glendinning.” ‘Why, thou knowest all the widows in the country-side ! ” said the Abbot. “Ho! ho! ho!” and he shook his portly sides at his own jest. _ “Ho! ho! ho!” echoed the Sacristan, in the tone and tune in which an inferior applauds the jest of his superior.—Then added, with a hypocritical snuffle, and a sly twinkle of his eye, sgt Hae duty, most holy father, to comfort the widow—He! This last laugh was more moderate, until the Abbot should put his sanction on the jest. “Ho! ho!” said the Abbot ; “ then, to leave jesting, Father es thou thy riding gear, and go to confess this Dame venel,”’ ‘‘ But,” said the Sacristan——THE MONASTERY. 67 “Give me no Buts , neither But nor If pass between monk and Abbot, Father Philip ; the bands of discipline must not be relaxed—heresy gathers force like a snow-ball—the multitude expect confessions and preachings from the Benedictine, as they would from so many beggarly friars—and we may not desert the vineyard, though the toil be grievous unto us.” ‘And with so little advantage to the holy monastery,” said the Sacristan. “True, Father Philip ; but wot you not that what preventeth harm doth good? This Julian de Avenel lives a light and evil life, and should we neglect the widow of his brother, he might foray our lands, and we never able to show who hurt us—more- over it is our duty to an ancient family, who, in their day, have been benefactors to the Abbey. Away with thee instantly, brother ; ride night and day, an it be necessary, and let men see how diligent Abbot Boniface and his faithful children are in the execution of their spiritual duty—toil not deterring them, for the glen is five miles in length,—fear not withholding them for it is said to be haunted of spectres,—nothing moving them from pursuit of thei: spiritual calling; to the confusion of calumnious heretics and the comfort and edification of all true and faithful sons of the Catholic Church. I wonder what our brother Eustace will say to this?” Breathless with his own picture of the dangers and toil which he was to encounter, and the fame which he was to acquire (both by proxy), the Abbot moved slowly to finish his luncheon in the refectory, and the Sacristan, with no very good will, accompanied old Martin in his return to Glendearg ; the greatest impediment in the journey being the trouble of restraining his pampered mule, that she might tread in some- thing like an equal pace with poor jaded Shagram. After remaining an hour in private with his penitent, the monk returned moody and full of thought. Dame Elspeth, who had placed for the honored guest some refreshment in the hall, was struck with the embarrassment which appeared in his countenance. Elspeth watched him with great anxiety. She observed there was that on his brow which rather resembled a person come from hearing the confession of some enormous crime, than the look of a confessor who resigned a reconciled penitent, not to earth, but to heaven. After long hesitating, she could not at length refrain from hazardinga question. She was sure, she said, the leddy had made an easy shrift. Five years had they resided together, and she could safely say, no woman lived better.68 THE MONASTERY. “ Woman.” said the Sacristan, sternly, “ thou speakest thou 4 ry 4 oe ; y ee re ‘ knowest not what—What avails clearing the outside of the x 9 51) Oe platter, if the inside be foul with heresy: A on ees ‘‘Our dishes and trenchers are not so clean as they could be wished, holy father,”’ said Elspeth, but half understanding what he said, and beginning with her apron to wipe the dust from the plates, of which she supposed him to complain. ‘“Forbear, Dame Elspeth,” said the monk ; “your plates are as clean as wooden trenchers and pewter flagons can well be ; the foulness of which I speak is ol that pestilential heresy which is daily becoming ingrained in this our Holy Church of Scotland and as a canker-worm in the rose-garland of the Spouse.” ; ‘Holy Mother of Heaven!” said Dame Elspeth, crossing herself, “have 1 kept house with a heretic ? i “No, Elspeth, no,” replied the monk ; “it were too strong a speech for me to make of this unhappy lady, but I would I could say she is free from heretical opinions. Alas! they fly about like the pestilence by noon-day, and infect even the first and fairest of the flock! For it is easy to see of this dame, that she hath been high in judgment as in rank.” “ And she can write and read, I had almost said, as weel as your reverence,’ said Elspeth. " Whom doth she write to, and what doth she read?” said the monk, eagerly. “ Nay,” replied Elspeth, “I cannot say I ever saw her write at all, but her maiden that was—she now serves the family— says she can write—And for reading, she has often read to us good things out of a thick black volume with silver clasps.” ‘“Let me see it,”’ said the monk, hastily, ‘‘ on your allegiance as a true vassal—on your faith as a Catholic Christian—instantly —instantly let me see it.” The good woman hesitated, alarmed at the tone in which the confessor took up her information; and being moreover of opinon, that what so good a woman as the Lady of Avenel studied so devoutly, could not be of a tendency actually evil. But borne down by the clamor, exclamations, and something like threats used by Father Philip, she at length brought him the fatal volume. It was easy to do this without suspicion on the part of the owner, as she lay on her bed exhausted with 6e 5 the fatigue of a long conference with her confessor, and as the small round, or turret closet, in which was the book and her other trifling property, was accessible by another door. Of all ner effects the book was the last she would have thought otTHE MONASTERY. 69 securing, for of what use or interest could it be in a family who neither read themselves, nor were in the habit of seeing any who did? so that Dame Elspeth had no difficulty in possessing herself of the volume, although her heart all the while accused her of an ungenerous and an inhospitable part towards hei friend and inmate. The double power of a landlord and a ‘feudal superior was before her eyes: and to say truth, the boldness, with which she might otherwise have resisted thi double authority, was, I grieve to say it, much qualified by the curiosity she entert: eo as a daughter of Eve, to have some explanation respecting the mysterious volume which the lady cherished with so much care, yet whose contents she imparted with such caution. For never had Alic Avenel read them any passage from the book in question ee ie iron door of the tower was locked, and all possibility of intrusion prevented. Even then, she had shown, by the selection of particulat passages, that she was more anxions to impress on their minds the principles which the volume contained, than to introduce them to it as a new rule of faith. When Elspeth, half curious, half remorseful, had placed the book in the monk’s hands, he exclaimed, after turning over the leaves, “ Now, by mine order, it is as I suspected !—My mule, my mule !—I will abide no longer here—well hast thou done, dame, in placing in my hands this perilous volume.” “Ts it then witchcraft or devil’s work ?” said Dame Elspeth in great agitation. “Nay, God forbid !”’ said the monk, signing himself with the cross. “It is the Holy Scripture. But it is rendered into the vulgar tongue, and therefore, by the order of the Holy Catholic Church, unfit to be in the hands of any lay person.’ ““And yet is the Holy geniptare™ communicated for our common salvation,” said Elspeth. ‘Good father, you: must instruct mine ignorance better ; but lack of wit cannot be a deadly sin, and truly, to my poor thinking, I should be glad to read the Holy Scripture. “T dare say thou wouldst,” said the monk ; “ and even thus did our mother Eve seek to have knowledge of good and evil and thus Sin came into the world, and Death by Sin.” “T am sure, and itis true,” said Elspeth. ‘Oh, if she had dealt by the counsel of Saint Peter and ste Paul!” “Tf she had reverenced the command of Heaven,” said the monk, “which, as it gave her birth, life, and happiness, fixed upon the grant such conditions as best corresponded with: its holy pleasure. I tell thee, Elspeth, “re Word slayeth—that 1s 770 THE MONASTERY. the text alone, read with unskilled eye like those strong medicines which sick men take by the advice of the learned. Such patients recover and thrive ; while those dealing in them, at their own hand, shall perish by their own deed.” ae. : “Nae doubt, nae doubt,” said the poor woman, “ your reverence knows best.” . “Not I,” said Father Philip, in a tone as deferential as he thought could possibly become the Sacristan of Saint Mary’s,— “Not I, but the Holy Father of Christendom, and our own holy father the Lord Abbot, know best. I, the poor Sacristan of Saint Mary’s, can but repeat what I hear from others my superiors. Yet of this good woman, be assured—the Word, the mere Word, slayeth. But the church hath her ministers to gloze and to expound the same unto her faithful congrega- tion ; and this I say, not so much, my beloved brethren—I mean my beloved sister” (for the Sacristan had got into the end of one of his old sermons)—“ This I speak not so much of the rectors, curates, and secular clergy, so called because they live after the fashion of the secu/um or age, unbound by those ties which sequestrate us from the world ; neither do I speak this of the mendicant friars, whether black or gray, whether crossed or uncrossed ; but of the monks, and especially of the monks Benedictine, reformed on the rule of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, thence called Cistercian, of which monks, Christian brethren— sister, I would say—great is the happiness and glory of the country in possessing the holy ministers of Saint Mary’s, whereof I, though an unworthy brother, may say it hath pro- duced more saints, more bishops, more popes—may our patrons make us thankful !—than any holy foundation in Scotland. Wherefore——But I see Martin hath my mule in readiness, and I will but salute you with the kiss of sisterhood, which maketh not ashamed, and so betake me to my toilsome return, for the glen is of bad reputation for the evil spirits which haunt it. Moreover, I may arrive too late at the bridge, whereby I may be obliged to take the river, which I observed to be some what waxen.” Accordingly, he took his leave of Dame Elspeth, who was confounded by the rapidity of his utterance, and the doctrine he gave forth, and by no means easy on the subject of the book, which her conscience told her she should not have communi- cated to anyone, without the knowledge of its owner. Nothwithstanding the haste which the monk, as well as his mule, made to return to better quarters than they had left at and unhallowed lips, isTHE MONASTERY. 71 the head of Glendearg ; notwithstanding the eager desire Father Philip had to be the very first who should acquaint the Abbot that a copy of the book they most dreaded had been found within the Halidome, or patrimony of the Abbey ; notwith- standing, moreover, certain feelings which induced him to hurry es fast as possible through the gloomy and evil-reputed glen, sull the difficulties of the road, and the rider’s want of habitude of quick motion, were such, that twilight came upon him ere he had nearly cleared the narrow valley. It was indeed a gloomy ride. The two sides of the vale were so near, that at every double of the river the shadows from the western sky fell upon, and totally obscured, the eastern bank ; the thickets of copsewood seemed to wave with a porten- tous agitation of boughs and leaves, and the very crags and scaurs seemed higher and grimmer than they had appeared to the monk while he was travelling in daylight, and in company. Father Philip was heartily rejoiced, when, emerging from the narrow glen, he gained the open valley of the Tweed, which held on its majestic course from current to pool, and from pool stretched away to other currents, with a dignity peculiar to itself amongst the Scottish rivers ; for whatever may have been the drought of the season, the Tweed usually fills up the space between its banks, seldom leaving those extensive sheets of shingle which deform the margins of many of the celebrated Scottish streams. The monk, insensible to beauties which the age had not re- garded as deserving of notice, was, nevertheless, like a prudent general, pleased to find himself out of the narrow glen which the enemy might have stolen upon him unperceived. He drew up his bridle, reduced his mule to her natural and luxurious amble, instead of the agitating and broken trot at which, to his no small inconvenience, she had hitherto proceeded, and, wiping his brow, gazed forth at leisure on the broad moon, which, now mingling with the lights of evening, was rising over field and forest, village and fortalice, and, above all, over the stately Monastery, seen far and dim amid the yellow light. The worst part of the magnificent view, in the monk’s appre- hension, was that the Monastery stood on the opposite side of the river, and that of the many fine bridges which have since been built across that classical stream, not one then existed There was, however, in recompense, a bridge then standing which has since disappeared, although its ruins may still be traced by the curious. - It was ofa very peculiar form. ‘Two strong abutments were72 THE MONASTERY. he river, at a part where the stream was peculiarly contracted. Upon a rock in the copie ote current was built a solid piece of masonry, constructed ike the pier of a bridge, and presenting, like 2 pier, an angle to the current of the stream. The masonry continued solid until the pier rose to a level with the two abutments upon either side, and from thence the building rose ine the form of a tower. The lower storey of this tower consisted only of an archway or passage through the building, over either entrance to which hung a drawbridge with counterpolseés, either of which, when dropped, connected the archway with the opposite abut- ment, where the farther end of the drawbridge rested. When both bridges were thus lowered, the passage over the river was complete. The bridge-keeper, wno was the dependant of a neighboring baron, resided with his family in the second and third storeys of the tower, which, when both drawbridges were raised, formed an insulated fortalice in the midst of the river. He was en- titled to a small toll or custom for the passage, concerning the amount of which disputes sometimes arose between him and the passengers. It is needless to say, that*the bridge-ward had usually the better in these questions, since he could at pleasure detain the traveller on the opposite side ; or, suffering him to pass half-way, might keep him prisoner in his tower till they were agreed on the rate of pontage.* But it was most frequently with the monks of Saint Mary’s that the warder had to dispute his perquisites. These holy men insisted for, and at length obtained, right of gratuitous passage to themselves, greatly to the discontent of the bridge- keeper. But whenthey demanded the same immunity for the numerous pilgrims who visited the shrine, the bridgekeeper waxed restive, and was supported by his lord in his resistance. The controversy grew animated on both sides; the Abbot menaced excommunication, and the keeper of the bridge, though unable to retaliate in kind, yet made each individual monk who had to cross and recross the river, endure a sort of purgatory, ere he would accommodate them witha passage. This was a great inconvenience, and would have proved a more serious one, but that the river was fordable for man and horse in or- dinary weather. It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, when Father Philip approached this bridge, the singular con- built on either side of t * Note E. Drawbridge at Bridge-end.THE MONASTERY. 13 struction of which gives a curious idea of the j insecurity of the _times. The river was not in flood, but it was above its ordinary level—a heavy water, as it is called in that count ry, through which the monk had no particular inclination to ride, if he could manage the matter better. _“ Peter, my good friend,” cried the Sacristan, raising his voice ; “my very excellent friend, Peter, be so kind as to lower the drawbridge. Peter, I say, dost thou not hear ?—it is thy gossip, Father Philip, who calls thee.” Peter heard him perfectly well, and saw him into the bar. gain ; but as he had considered the Sacristan as peculiarly his enemy in his dispute with the convent, he went quietly to bed, after reconnoitering the monk through his loop-hole, observing to his wife, that, “ riding the water in a moonlight night would do the Sacristan no harm, and would teach him the value of a brig the neist time, on whilk a man might pass high and dry, winter and summer, flood and ebb.” After exhausting his voice in entreaties and threats, which were equally unattended to by Peter of the Brig, as he was called, Father Philip at length moved down the river to take the ordinary ford at the head of the next stream. Cursing the rustic obstinacy of Peter, he began, nevertheless, to persuade himself that the passage of the river by the ford was not only safe but pleasant. The banks and scattered trees were so beautifully reflected from the bosom of the dark stream, the whole cool and delicious picture formed so pleasing a contrast to his late agitation, to the warmth occasioned by his vain en- deavors to move the relentless porter of the bridge, that the result was rather agreeable than otherwise. As Father Philip came close to the water’s edge, at the spot where he was to enter it, there sat a female under a large broken scathed oak-tree, or rather under the remains of such a tree, weeping, wringing her hands, and looking earnestly on the current of the river. The monk was struck with astonishment to see a female there at that time of night. But he was, in all honest service,—and if a step farther, I put it upon his own conscience,—a devoted squire of dames. After observing the maiden for a moment, although she seemed to take no notice of his presence, he was_mov ed by her distress, and willing to offer his assistance. ‘ Damsel,” said he, ‘“ thou seemest in no ordinary distress ; peradventure, like my self, thou hast been refused passage at the bridge by the churlish keeper, and thy crossing may concern thee, , either for performance of a vow, or some other weighty charge.”7A THE MONASTERY. The maiden uttered some inarticulate sounds, looked at the river, and then in the face of the Sacristan. It struck Father Philip at that instant, that a Highland Chief of distinction had been for some time expected to pay his vows at the shrine of Saint Mary’s; and that possibly this fair maiden might be one of his family, travelling alone for accomplishment of a vow, or left behind by some accident, to whom, therefore, it would be but right and prudent to use every civility in his power, espe cially as she seemed unacquainted with the Lowland tongue. Such at least was the only motive the Sacristan was ever known to assign for his courtesy ; if there was any other, I once more refer it to his own conscience. To express himself by signs, the common language of all nations, the cautious Sacristan first pointed to the river, then to his mule’s crupper, and then made, as gracefully as he could, a sign to induce the fair solitary to mount behind him. She seemed to understand his meaning, for she rose up as if to accept his offer; and while the good monk, who, as we have hinted, was no great cavalier, labored, with the pressure of the right leg and the use of the left rein, to place his mule with her side to the bank in sucha position that the lady might mount with ease, she rose from the ground with rather por- tentous activity, and at one bound sate behind the monk upon the animal, much the firmer rider of the two. The mule by no means seemed to approve of this double burden; she bounded, bolted, and would soon have thrown Father Philip over her head, had not the maiden with a firm hand detained him in the saddle. At length the restive brute changed her humor ; and, from refusing to budge off the spot, suddenly stretched her nose homeward, and dashed into the ford as fast as she could scamper. A new terror now invaded the monk’s mind—the ford seemed unusually deep, the water eddied off in strong ripple from the counter of the mule, and began to rise upon her side. Philip lost his presence of mind, which was at no time his most ready attribute, the mule yielded to the weight of the current, and as the rider was not attentive to keep her head turned up the river, she drifted downward, lost the ford and her footing at once, and began to swim with her head down the stream. And what was sufficiently strange, at the same moment, notwith- standing the extreme peril, the damsel began to sing, thereby increasing, if anything could increase, the bodily fear of the worthy Sacristan.THE MONASTERY. Fr Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, Goth current and ripple are dancing in light. We have roused the night raven, I heard him croak, As we plashed along beneath the oak That flings its broad branches so far and so wide, Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide. “Who wakens my nestlings,” the raven he said, “* My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red; For a blue swoln corpse is a dainty meal, And Ill have my share with the pike and the eel.”’ Il. Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, There’s a golden gleam on the distant height; here’s a silver shower on the alders dank And the drooping willows that wave on the bank. I see the abbey, both turret and tower, It is all astir for the vesper hour ; The monks for the chapel are leaving each cell, But where’s Father Philip, should toll the bell ? Tt. Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, Downward we drift through shadow and light, Under yon rock the eddies sleep, Calm and silent, dark and deep. The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool, He has lighted his candle of death and of dool : Look, Father, look, and you’ll laugh to see How he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee! IV. Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night ? A man of mean, or a man of might ? Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove, Or lover who crosses to visit his love? Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply, as we pass’d,— “* God’s blessing on the warder, he lock’d the bridge fast ! All that come to my cove are sunk, Priest or layman, lover or monk.” How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or where the terrified monk’s journey might have ended, is uncertain. As she sung the last stanza, they arrived at, or rather in, a broad tranquil sheet of water, caused by a strong wear or dam- head, running across the river, which dashed in a broad cataract over the barrier. The mule, whether from choice, or influenced by the suction of the current, made towards the cut intended to supply the convent mills, and entered it half swimming, halfSETAE MT OT ETS ToT aA r 76 THE MONASTERY. wading, and pitching the unlucky monk to and fro in the saddle at a fearful rate. As his person flew hither and thither, his garment became loose, and in an effort to retain it, his hand lighted on the volume of the Lady of Avenel which was in his bosom. No sooner had he grasped it, than his companion pitched him out of the saddle into the stream, where, still keeping her hand on his collar, she gave him two or three good souses in the watery fluid, so as to ensure that every other part of him had its share of wetting, and then quitting her hold when he was so near the side that by a slight effort (of a great one he was incapable) he might scramble on shore. ‘This accordingly he accomplished, and turning his eyes to see what had become of his extraordinary companion, she was nowhere to be seen ; but still he heard, as if from the surface of the river, and mixing with the noise of the water breaking over the damhead .a fragment of her wild song, which seemed to run thus :— “ Tanded—landed ! the black book hath won, Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun! Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be, For seldom they land that go swimming with me.” The ecstasy of the monk’s terror could be endured no longer ; his head grew dizzy, and, after staggering a few steps onward and running himself against a wall, he sunk down in a state of insensibility. CHAPTER SIXTH: Now let us sit in conclave. That these weeds Be rooted from the vineyard of the church, That these foul tares be severed from the wheat, We are, I trust, agreed-—Yet how to do this, Nor hurt the wholesome crop and tender vine-plants, Craves good advisement. : THE REFORMATION. THE vesner service in the Monastery Church of Saint Marv’s was now over. ‘he Abbot had disrobed himself of his mag- nificent vestures of ceremony, and resumed his ordinary habit, which was a black gown, worn over a white cassock, with a Narrow scapulary ; a decent and venerable dress, which wasTHE MONASTERY. 77 calculated to set off to advantage the portly mien of Abboi Boniface. : In quiet times no one could have filled the state of a mitred Abbot, for such was his dignity, more respectably than this worthy prelate. He had, no doubt, may of those habits of self-indulgence which men are apt to acquire who live for themselves alone. He was vain, moreover; and when. boldly confronted, had sometimes shown symptoms of timidity, not very consistent with the high claims which he preferred as an eminent member of the church, or with the punctual deference which he expected from his religious brethren, and all who were placed under hiscommand. But he was hospitable, charitable, and by no means of himself disposed to proceed with severity against anyone. In short, he would in other times have slumbered out his term of preferment with as much credit as any other “ purple Abbot,” who lived easily, but at the same time decorously—slept soundly, and did not disquiet himself with dreams. But the wide alarm spread through the whole Church of Rome by the progress of the reformed doctrines, sorely disturbed the repose of Abbot Boniface, and opened to hima wide field of duties and cares which he had never so much as dreamed of. There were opinions to be combated and refuted—practices to be inquired into—heretics to be detected and punished—the fallen off to be reclaimed—the wavering to be confirmed— scandal to be removed from the clergy, and the vigor of dis- cipline to be re-established. Post upon post arrived at the Monastery of Saint Mary’s—horses reeking, and riders ex- hausted—this from the Privy Council, that from the Primate of Scotland, and this other again from the Queen Mother, exhort ing, approving, condemning, requesting advice upon this sub- ject, and requiring information upon that. . These missives Abbot Boniface received with an important air of helplessness, or a helpless air of importance, whichever the reader may please to term it, evincing at once gratified vanity, and profound troubles of mind. The sharp-witted Primate of Saint Andrews had foreseen the deficiencies of the Abbot of Saint Mary’s, and endeavored to provide for them by getting admitted into his Monastery as Sub-Prior a brother Cistercian, a man of parts and knowledge, devoted tothe service of the Catholic Church, and very capable casions of difficulty, but to not only to advise the Abbot on oc i ase he should, from good make him sensible of his duty in case he nature or timidity, be disposed to shrink trom It.8 THE MONASTERY. ‘ Father Eustace played the same part in the Monastery aa the old general who, in foreign armies, 1S placed at the elbow of the Prince of the Blood, who nominally commands in chief, on condition of attempting nothing without the advice of his dry-nurse ; and he shared the fate of all such dry-nurses, being heartily disliked as well as feared by his principal. Still, however, the Primate’s intention was fully answered. Father Eustace became the constant theme and often the bugbear of the worthy Abbot, who hardly dared to turn himself in his bed without considering what Father Eustace would think of it. In every case of difficulty, Father Eustace was summoned and his opinion asked; and no sooner was the embarrassment removed, than the Abbot’s next thought was how to get rid of his adviser. In every letter which he wrote to those in power, he recommended Father Eustace to some high church preferment, a bishopric or an abbey ; and as they dropped one after another, and were otherwise conferred, he began to think, as he confessed to the Sacristan in the bitterness of his spirit, that the Monastery of Saint Mary’s had got a liferent lease of their Sub-Prior. Yet more indignant he would have been, had he suspected that Father Eustace’s ambition was fixed upon his own mitre, which, from some attacks of an apoplectic nature, deemed by the Abbot’s friends to be more serious than by himself, it was supposed might be shortly vacant. But the confidence which, like other dignitaries, he reposed in his own health, prevented Abbot Boniface from imagining that it held any concatenation with the motions of Father Eustace. The necessity under which he found himself of consulting with his grand adviser, in cases of real difficulty, rendered the worthy Abbot particularly desirous of doing without him in all ordinary cases of administration, though not without considering what Father Eustace would have said of the matter. He scorned, therefore, to give a hint to the Sub-Prior of the bold stroke by which he had despatched Brother Philip to Glendearg ; but when the vespers came without his re-appearance he became a little uneasy, the more as other matters weighed upon his mind, ‘The feud with the warden or keeper of the bridge threat- ened to be attended with bad consequences, as the man’s quar: rel was taken up by the martial baron under whom he served ; and pressing letters of an unpleasant tendency had just arrived from the Primate. Like a gouty man, who catches hold of his crutch while he curses the infirmity that reduces him to use it, the Abbot, however reluctant, found himself obliged to requireTHE MONASTERY. 79 Eustace’s presence, after the service was over, in his nouse, or rather palace, which was attached to, and made part of, the Monastery. Abbot Boniface was seated in his high-backed chair, the grotesque carved back of which terminated in a mitre, before a fire where two or three large logs were reduced to one red glowing mass of charcoal. At his elbow, on an oaken stand, stood the remains of a roasted capon, on which his reverence had made his evening meal, flanked by a goodly stoup of Bor- deaux of excellent flavor. He was gazing indolently on the fire, partly engaged in meditation on his past and present for- tunes, partly occupied by endeavoring to trace towers and steeples in the red embers. “Yes,” thought the Abbot to himself, ‘in that red petspec- tive I could fancy to myself the peaceful towers of Dundrennan, where I passed my life ere I was called to pomp and to trouble. A quiet brotherhood we were, regular in our domestic duties ; and when the frailties of humanity prevailed over us, we con- fessed, and were absolved by each other, and the more formid- able part of the penance was the jest of the convent on the culprit. I can almost fancy that I see the cloister garden, and the pear-trees which I grafted with my own hands. And for what have I changed all this, but to be overwhelmed with business which concerns me not, to be called My Lord Abbot, and to be tutored by Father Eustace? I would these towers were the Abbey of Aberbrothwick, and Father Eustace the Abbot,—or I would he were in the fire on any terms, so I were rid of him! The Primate says our Holy Father the Pope hath an adviser—I am sure he could not live a week with sucha one as mine. Then there is no learning what Father Eustace thinks till you confess your own difficulties—No hint will bring forth his opinion—he is like a miser, who will not unbuckle his purse to bestow a farthing, until the wretch who needs it has owned his excess of poverty, and wrung out the boon by impor- tunity. And thus I am dishonored in the eyes of my religious brethren, who behold_me treated like a child which hath no sense of its own—I will bear it no longer !—Brother Bennet ”’— (a lay brother answered to his call)—“ tell Father Eustace that I need not his presence.” “T came to say to your reverence, that the holy father is entering even now from the cloisters.” “ Be it so,” said the Abbot, “he is welcome,—remove these things—or rather, place a trencher, the holy father may be a little hungry-—yet, no—remove them, for there is no good fekBo THE MONASTERY. lowship in him—Let the stoup of wine remain, however, and place another cup.” : The lay brother obeyed these contradictory commands in the way he judged most seemly—he removed the carcass of the half-sacked capon, and placed two goblets beside the stoup of Bordeaux. At the same instant entered Father Eustace. He was a thin, sharp-faced, slight-made little man, whose keen gray eyes seemed almost to look through the person to whom he addressed himself. His body wasemaciated not only with the fasts which he observed with rigid punctuality, but also by the active and unwearied exercise of his sharp and piercing intellect ;— A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the puny body to decay, And o’er-inform’d the tenement of clay. He turned with conventual reverence to the Lord Abbot ; and as they stood together, it was scarce possible to see amore complete difference of form and expression. The good-natured rosy face and laughing eye of the Abbot, which even his _pres- ent anxiety could not greatly ruffle, was a wonderful contrast to the thin pallid cheek and quick penetrating glance of the monk, in which an eager and keen spirit glanced through eyes to which it seemed to give supernatural lustre. The Abbot opened the conversation by motioning to his monk to take a stool, and inviting to acup of wine. The courtesy was declined with respect, yet not without a remark, that the vesper service was past. ‘For the stomach’s sake, brother,” said the Abbot, color- ing a little—‘‘ You know the next.” “Tt is a dangerous one,” answered the monk, “to handle alone, or at late hours. Cut off from human society, the juice of the grape becomes a pcrilous companion of solitude, and therefore I ever shun it.” Abbot Boniface had poured himself out a goblet which might hold about half an English pint ; but, either struck with the truth of the observation, or ashamed to act in direct oppo- sition to it, he suffered it to remain untasted before him, and immediately changed the subject. ‘The Primate hath written to us,” said he, “ to make strict search within our bounds after the heretical persons denounced in this list, who have withdrawn themselves from the justice which their opinions deserve. It is deemed probable that they will attempt to retire to England by our Borders, andTHE MONASTERY. - the Primate requireth me to watch with vigilance, and what not. “‘Assuredly,” said the monk, “the magistrate should not bear the sword in vain—those be they that turn the world upside down—and doubtless your reverend wisdom will with due diligence second the exertions of the Right Reverend Father in God, being in the peremptory defence of the Holy Church.”’ “Ay, but how is this to be done?” answered the Abbot ; “Saint Mary aid us! ‘The Primate writes to me as if I were a temporal baron—a man under command, having soldiers under him! He says, send forth—scour the country—guard the passes—Truly these men do not travel as those who would give their lives for nothing—the last who went. south passed the dry-march at the Riding-burn with an escort of thirty spears, as our reverend brother the Abbot of Kelso did write unto us. How are cowls and scapularies to stop the way ?’ “Your Bailiff is accounted a good man at arms, holy father,’ said Eustace ; “your vassals are obliged to rise for the defence of the Holy Kirk—it is the tenure on which they hold their lands—if they will not come forth for the Church which gives them bread, let their possessions be given to others.” “We shall not be wanting,” said the Abbot, collecting him- self with importance, “to do whatever may advantage Holy Kirk—thyself shall hear the charge to our Bailiff and our officials—but here again is our controversy with the warden of the bridge and the Baron of Meigallot—Saint Mary! vexations do so multiply upon the House, and upon the generation, that aman wots not where to turn to! ‘Thou didst say, Father Eustace, thou wouldst look into our evidents touching this free passage for the pilgrims ?”’ “T have looked into the Chartulary of the House, holy father,” said Eustace, ‘“‘ and therein I find a written and formal erant of all duties and customs payable at the drawbridge of Brigton, not only by ecclesiastics of this foundation, but by every pilgrim truly designed to accomplish his vows at this House, to the Abbot Ailford, and the Monks of the house ot Saint Mary in Kennaquhair, from that time and forever. The deed is dated on Saint Bridget’s Even, in the year of Redemp- tion 1137, and bears the sign and seal of the granter, Charles of Meigallot, great-great-grandfather of this baron, and pur- ports to be granted for the — of his own soul and for theTHE MONASTERY. weal of the souls of his father and mother, and of all his prede cessors and successors, being Barons of Meigallot. : “ But he alleges,” said the Abbot, “that the bridge-wards have been in possession of these dues, and have rendered them available for more than fifty years—and the baron threatens violence—meanwhile, the journey of the pilgrims is interrupted, to the prejudice of their own souls and the diminu- tion of the revenues of Saint Mary. The Sacristan advised us to put on a boat ; but the warden, whom thou knowest to be a godless man, has sworn the devil tear him, but that if they put on a boat on the laird’s stream, he will rive her board from board—and then some say we should compound the claim for a small sum in silver.” Here the Abbot paused a moment for a reply, but receiving none, he added, ‘But what thinkest thou, Father Eustace? why art thou silent ?” ‘¢ Because I am surprised at the question which the Lord Abbot of Saint Mary’s asks at the youngest of his brethren.” “ Voungest in time of your abode with us, Brother Eustace,”’ said the Abbot, ‘“‘not youngest in years, or I think in experi- ence. Sub-Prior also of this convent.” ‘“‘T am astonished,” continued Eustace, “‘ that the Abbot of this venerable house should ask of anyone whether he can alienate the patrimony of our holy and divine patroness, or give up to an unconscientious, and perhaps a heretic baron, the rights conferred on this church by his devout progenitor. Popes and councils alike prohibit it—the honor of the living, and the weal of departed souls, alike forbid it—it may not be. To force, if he dare use it, we must surrender ; but never by our consent should we see the goods of the church plundered, with as little scruple as he would drive off a herd of English beeves. Rouse yourself, reverend father, and doubt nothing but that the good cause shall prevail. Whet the spiritual sword, and direct it against the wicked who would usurp our holy rights. Whet the temporal sword, if it be necessary, and stir up the courage and zeal of your loyal vassals.” The Abbot sighed deeply. “All this,” he said, ‘‘is soon spoken by him who hath to act it not ; but ” He was in- terrupted by the entrance of Bennet rather hastily. ‘The mule on which the Sacristan had set out in the morning had returned,” he said, “to the convent stable all over wet, and with the saddle turned round beneath her belly.” “Sancta Maria!” said the Abbot, “our dear brother hath perished by the way !” “It may not be,” said Eustace, hastily—“ let the bell beTHE MONASTERY. 83 tolled—cause the brethren to get torches—alarm the village— yee at = river—I myself will be the foremost.” ‘he real Abbot stood astonished and ag: then. he beheld his office filled, and saw all oe oe - i ave ordered, going forward at the dictates of the youngest monk in the convent. But ere the orders of Eustace, which nobody dreamed of disputing, were carried into execution, the necessity was prevented by the sudden apparition of the Sacristan. whose supposed danger excited all the alarm CHAPTER SEVENTH. Raze out the written troubles of the brain, Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart. MACBETH, Wuart betwixt cold and fright, the afflicted Sacristan stood before his Superior, propped on the friendly arm of the con- vent miller, drenched with water, and scarce able to uttei a syllable. After various attempts to speak, the first words he uttered Worce— “Swim we merrily— the moon shines bright.” “Swim we merrily!” retorted the Abbot, indignantly ; “a merry night have ye chosen for swimming, and a becoming salutation to your Superior!’ “Our brother is bewildered,” said kustace ;—‘ speak, . . . . a " D027 Father Philip, how is it with you: “Good luck to your fishing,” continued the Sacristan, making a most dolorous attempt at the tune of his strange companion. “Good luck to your fishing!” repeated the Abbot, still more surprised than displeased; “by my halidome he 1s drunken with wine, and comes to our presence with his jolly catches in his throat! If bread and water can cure this folly——”’ ; “With your pardon, venerable father,” said the Sub-Prior. ‘of water our brother has had enough; and methinks, the confusion of his eye is rather that of terror than of aughtTHE MONASTERY. unbecoming his profession. Where did you find him, Hob Miller?” “An it please your reverence, I did but go to shut the sluice of the mill—and as I was going to shut the sluice, I heard something groan near to me , but judging 1t was one of Giles Fletcher’s hogs—for, so please you, he never shuts his gate—I caught up my lever, and was about—Saint Mary for- give me !—to strike where I heard the sound, when, as the saints would have it, I heard the second groan just like that of a living man. So I called up my knaves, and found the Father Sacristan lying wet and senseless under the wall of our kiln. So soon as we brought him to himself a bit, he prayed to be brought to your reverence, but I doubt me his wits have gone a bell-wavering by the road. It was but now that he spoke in somewhat better form.” “Well!” said Brother Eustace, “thou hast done well, Hob Miller ; only begone now, and remember a second time to pause, ere you strike in the dark.” “Please your reverence, it shall be a lesson to me,” said the miller, “not to mistake a holy man for a hog again, so long as I live.” And, making a bow, with profound humility, the miller withdrew. “And now that this churl is gone, Father Philip,’ said Eustace, “wilt thou tell our venerable Superior what ails thee? art thou vo gravatus, man? if so we will have thee to thy cell” ‘‘Water! water! not wine,” muttered the exhausted Sacris- tan. “Nay,” said the monk, “if that be thy complaint, wine may perhaps cure thee ;” and he reached him a cup, which the patient drank off to his great benefit. “ And now,” said the Abbot, “let his garments be changed, or rather let him be carried to the infirmary ; for it will preju- dice our health, should we hear his narrative while he stands there, steaming like a rising hoar-frost.” ‘“T will hear his adventure,” said Eustace, “and report it to your reverence.” And, accordingly, he attended the Sacristan to his cell. In about half-an-hour he returned to the Abbot. ‘How is it with Father Philip?” said the Abbot; “and through what came he into such a state?” : ‘““He comes from Glendearg, reverend sir,” said Eustace ; : and for the rest, he telleth such a legend, as has not been heard in this Monastery for many a long day.” He then gave ‘he Abbot the outlines of the Sacristan’s adventures in theTHE MONASTERY. Q 6 a meeomerd journey, and added, that for some time he was in- clined to think his brain was infirm, seeing he had sune laughed, and wept all in the same breath. ‘ s ‘A wonderful thing it is to us,” said the Abbot. “that Satan has been permitted to put forth his hand thus far on one of our sacred brethren!” “True,” said Father Eustace ; “ but for every text there is a paraphrase ; and I have my suspicions, that if the drenching of Father Philip cometh of the Evil One, yet it may not have been altogether without his own personal fault.’ ‘How!” said the Father Abbot ; “I will not believe that thou makest doubt that Satan, in former days, hath been per- mitted to afflict saints and holy men, even as he afflicted the pious Job?” ‘God forbid I should make question of it,” said the monk, crossing hehe ‘yet, where there is an exposition of the Sacristan’s tale, which is less than miraculous, I hold it safe to consider it at least, if not to abide by it. Now, this Hob the Miller hath a buxom daughter. Suppose—lI say only sup- pose—that our Sacristan met her at the ford on her return from her uncle’s on the other side, for there she hath this evening been—suppose, that, in courtesy, and to save her stripping hose and shoon, the Sacristan brought her across behind him—suppose he carried his familiarities farther than the maiden was willing to admit ; and we may easily suppose, farther, that this wetting was the result of it.” ‘And this legend invented to deceive us!” said the Su- perior, reddening with wrath; “but most strictly shall it be sifted and ing uired into; it is not upon us that Father Philip must hope to pass the result of his own evil practices for doings of Satan. To-morrow cite the wench to appear before us— we will examine, and we will punish. ‘Under your reverence’s favor,” said Eustace, ‘‘ that were but pose policy. As things now stand with us, the heretics catch hold of each flying report which tends to the scandal of our clergy. We must abate the evil, not only by strengthening discipline, but also by suppressing and stifling the voice of scandal. If my conjectures are true, the miller’s daughter w1 ill be silent for her own sake; and your reverence’s ‘authority may also impose silence on her father, and on the Sacristan. If he is again foun to afford room for throwing dishonor on his order, ‘he can be published with severity, but at the same time with secrecy. For what say the Decretals | Facinora os- tends dum punientur, flagitia autem abscond debent,””’ ere86 THE MONASTERY. A sentence of Latin, as Eustace had before observed, had often much influence on the Abbot, because he understood it not fluently, and was ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance. On these terms they parted for the night. si The next day, Abbot Boniface strictly interrogated Philip on the real cause of his disaster of the previous night. But the Sacristan stood firm to his story ; nor was he found to vary from any point of it, although the answers he returned were in some degree incoherent, owing to his intermingling with them ever and anon snatches of the strange damsel’s song, which had made such deep impression on his imagination that he could not prevent himself from imitating it repeatedly in the course of his examination. The Abbot had compassion with the Sacristan’s involuntary frailty, to which something super- natural seemed annexed, and finally became of opinion, that Father Eustace’s more natural explanation was rather plausi- ble than just. And, indeed, although we have recorded the adventure as we find it written down, we cannot forbear to add that there was a schism on the subject in the convent, and that several of the brethren pretended to have good reason for thinking that the miller’s black-eyed daughter was at the bottom of the affair after all. Whichever way it might be in- terpreted, all agreed that it had too ludicrous a sound to be permitted to get abroad, and therefore the Sacristan was charged, on his vow of obedience, to say no more of his duck- ing; an injunction, which, having once eased his mind by telling his story, it may be well conjectured that he joyfully obeyed. The attention of Father Eustace was much less forcibly arrested by the marvellous tale of the Sacristan’s danger, and his escape, than by the mention of the volume which he had brought with him from the Tower of Glendearg. A copy of the Scriptures, translated into the vulgar tongue, had found its way even into the proper territory of the church, and had been dis- covered in one of the most hidden and sequestered recesses of the Halidome of Saint Mary’s. He anxiously requested to see the volume. In this the Sacristan was unable to gratify him, for he had lost it, as far as he recollected, when the supernatural being, as he conceived her to be, took her departure from him. Father Eustace went down to the spot in person, and searched all around it, in hopes of recovering the volume in question ; but his labor was in vain. He returned to the Abbot, and reported that it must have fallen into the river or the mill-stream ; “for I will hardlyTHE MONASTERY. 84 believe,” he said, “that Father Philip’s musical friend would fly off with a copy of the Holy Scriptures.” “Being,” said the Abbot, “ as it is, an heretical translation, st may be thought that Satan may have power over it.” “Ay!” said Father Eustace, “it is indeed his chiefest magazine of artillery, when he inspireth presumptuous and dar- ing men to set forth their own opinions and expositions of Holy Writ. But though thus abused, the Scriptures are the source of our salvation, and are no more to be reckoned unholy, be- cause of these rash men’s proceedings, than a powerful medi- cine is to be contemned, or held poisonous, because bold and evil leeches have employed it to the prejudice of their patients. With the permission of your reverence, I would that this mat- ter were looked into more closely. I will myself visit the Tower of Glendearg ere I am many hours older, and we shall see if any spectre or white woman of the wild will venture to interrupt my journey or return. Have I your reverend per- mission and your blessing ?”’ he added, but in a tone that ap- peared to set no great store by either. “Thou hast both, my brother,” said the Abbot ; but no sooner had Eustace left the apartment, than Boniface could not help breaking on the willing ear of the Sacristan his sin- cere wish, that any spirit, black, white, or gray, would read the adviser such a lesson, as to cure him of his presumption in esteeming himself wiser than the whole community. “IT wish him no worse lesson,” said the Sacristan, “than to go swimming merrily down the river with a ghost behind, and Kelpies, night-crows, and mud-eels, all waiting to have a snatch at him. Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright ! Good luck to your fishing, whom watch you to-night ? ” “ Brother Philip,” said the Abbot, “we exhort thee to say thy prayers, compose thyself, and banish that foolish chant from thy mind ;—it is but a deception of the devil’s.” “T will essay, reverend father,” said the Sacristan, “but the tune hangs by my memory like a bur in a beggar’s rags ; It mingles with the psalter—the very bells of the convent seem to repeat the words, and jingle to the tune ; and were you to put me to death at this very moment, it is my belief I should die singing it—‘ Now swim we merrily—’ it is as it were a spell upon me.” | He then again began to warble “Good luck to your fishing.”8g THE MONASTERY. And checking himself in the strain with difficulty, he ex claimed, “it is too certain—I am but a lost priest! Swim we ] 1 | —T shall sing it at the very mass—Woe 1s me! I shall mony der of my life, and yet never be able to sing all the remain change the tune!” The honest Abbot replied, “he knew many a good fellow in the same condition ;” and concluded the remark with “ho! ho! ho!”—for his reverence, as the reader may partly have observed, was one of those dull folks who love a quiet joke. The Sacristan, well acquainted with his Superior's humor, endeavored to join in the laugh, but his unfortunate canticle came again across his imagination, and interrupted the hilarity of his customary echo. ose ie “By the rood, Brother Philip,” said the Abbot, much moved, “you become altogether intolerable ! and I am con- vinced that such a spell could not subsist over a person of religion, and in a religious house, unless he were under mortal sin. Wherefore, say the seven penitentiary psalms—make diligent use of thy scourge and hair-cloth—refrain for three days from all food, save bread and water—I myself will shrive thee, and we will see if this singing devil may be driven out of thee ; at least I think Father Eustace himself could devise no better exorcism.” The Sacristan sighed deeply, but knew remonstrance was vain. He retired therefore to his cell, to try how far psalmody might be able to drive off the sounds of the syren tune which haunted his memory. Meanwhile, Father Eustace proceeded to the drawbridge, in his way to the lonely valley of Glendearg. In a brief con- versation with the churlish warder, he had the address to ren- der him more tractable in the controversy betwixt him and the convent. He reminded him that his father had been a vassal under the community; that his brother was childless; and that their possession would revert to the church on his death, and might be either granted to himself, the warder, or to some greater favorite of the Abbot, as matters chanced to stand betwixt them at the time. The Sub-Prior suggested to him also, the necessary connection of interests betwixt the Mon- astery and the office which this man enjoyed. He listened with temper to his rude and churlish answers ; and by keeping his own interest firm pitched in his view he had the satisfac: tion to find that Peter gradually softened his tone, and con: sented to let every pilgrim who travelled upon foot pass free of exaction until Pentecost next ; they who travelled on horse-THE MONASTERY. 89 back or otherwise, contenting to pay the ordinary custom Having thus accommodated a matter in which the weal of the convent was so deeply interested, Father Eustace proceeded on his journey, CHAPTER EIGHTH. Nay, dally not with time, the wise man’s treasure, Though fools are lavish on’t—the fatal Fisher Hooks souls, while we waste moments. Ot-p Piay. A NOVEMBER mist overspread the little \ illey, up which slowly but steadily rode the Monk Eustace. He was not insen- sible to the feeling of melancholy inspired by the scene and by the season. The stream seemed to murmur with a deep and op- pressed note, as if bewailing the departure of autumn. Among the scattered copses which here and there fringed its banks, the oak-trees only retained that pallid green that precedes their russet hue. The leaves of the willows were most of them stripped from the branches, lay rustling at each breath, and disturbed by every step of the mule ; while the foliage of other trees, totally withered, kept still precarious possession of the boughs, waiting the first wind to scatter them. The monk dropped into the natural train of pensive thought which these autumnal emblems of mortal hopes are peculiarly calculated to inspire. “There,” he said, looking at the leaves which lay strewed around, “ lie the hopes of early youth, first formed that they may soonest wither, and loveliest in spring to become most contemptible in winter ; but you, ye lingerers,”’ he added, looking to a knot of beeches which still bore their withered leaves, “you are the proud plans of adventurous manhood, formed later, and still clinging to the mind of age, although it acknowledges their inanity! None lasts—none endures, save the foliage of the hardy oak, which only begins to show itself when that of the rest of the forest has enjoyed half its existence. A pale and decayed hue is all it possesses, but still it retains that symptom of vitality to the last.—So be it with Father Eustace! The fairy hopes of my youth I have trodden under foot like these neglected rustlers—to the prouder dreams of my manhood I look back as to lofty chimeras, of which the pith and essence have long since faded; but my religious vows, the faithful professions which I have made inTHE MONASTERY. go my maturer age, shall retain life while aught of Eustace lives. Dangerous it may be—feeble it must be—yet live it shall, the proud determination to serve the church of which I am a member, and to combat the heresies by which she is assailed. Thus spoke, at least thus thought, a man zealous according to his imperfect knowledge, confounding the vital interests of Christianity with the extravagant and usurped claims of the Church of Rome, and defending his cause with an ardor worthy of a better. While moving onward in this contemplative mood, he could not help thinking more than once that he saw in his path the form of a female dressed in white, who appeared in the at- titude of lamentation. But the impression was only moment- ary ; and whenever he looked steadily to the point where he conceived the figure appeared, it always proved that he had mistaken some natural object, a white crag, or the trunk of a decayed birch-tree with its silver bark, for the appearance in question. Father Eustace had dwelt too long in Rome to partake the superstitious feelings of the more ignorant Scottish clergy ; yet he certainly thought it extraordinary that so strong an impres- sion should have been made on his mind by the legend of the Sacristan. “It is strange,’’ he said to himself, “ that this story, which doubtless was the invention of Brother Philip to cover his own impropriety of conduct, should runso much in my head, and disturb my more serious thoughts—I am wont, I think, to have more command over my senses. I will repeat my prayers, and banis:: such folly from my recollection.” The monk accordingly began with devotion to tell his beads, in pursuance of the prescribed rule of his order, and was not again disturbed by any wanderings of the imagination, until he found himself beneath the little fortalice of Glendearg. Dame Glendinning, who stood at the gate, set up a shout of surprise and joy at seeing the goodfather. ‘“ Martin,” she said, “Jasper, where be a’ the folk ?—help the right reverend Sub- Prior to dismount, and take his mule from him.—O father ! God has sent you in our need—I was just going to send man and horse to the convent, though I ought to be ashamed to give so much trouble to your reverence.” Fe ‘Our trouble matters not, good dame,” said Father Eustace ; in what can I pleasure you? I came hither to visit the Lady of Avenel.” ‘“Well-a-day !” said Dame Elspeth, “ and it was on her part ut I had the boldness to think of summoning you, for theTHE MONASTERY. Or good Lady will never be able to wear over the day ’—Would it please you to go to her chamber ?”’ ‘““Hath she not been shriven by Father Philip!” said the monk, ‘“Shriven she was,” said the Dame of Glendearg, ‘and by Father Philip, as your reverence truly says—but—lI wish it may have been a clean shrift—Methought Father Philip looked but moody upon it—and there was a book which he took away with him that She paused, as if unwilling to proceed. “Speak out, Dame Glendinning,” said the Father ; “with us it is your duty to have no secrets.” ‘“ Nay, if it please your reverence, itis not that I would keep anything from your reverence’s knowledge, but I’fear I should prejudice the lady in your opinion ; for she is an excellent lady —months and years hath she dwelt in this tower, and none more exemplary than she ; but this matter, doubtless, she will explain it herself to your reverence.” “I desire first to know it from you, Dame Glendinning,” said the monk ; “ and I again repeat, it is your duty to tell it to me.” “This book, if it please your reverence, which Father Philip removed from Glendearg, was this morning returned to us in a strange manner,” said the good widow. “ Returned !” said the monk ; “ how mean you?” “T mean,’ answered Dame Glendinning, “that it was brought back to the Tower of Glendearg, the saints best know how—that same book which Father Philip carried with him but yesterday. Old Martin, that is my tasker and the lady’s servant, was driving out the cows to the pasture—for we have three good milk-cows, reverend father, blessed be Saint Wal- dave, and thanks to the holy Monastery——”’ The monk groaned with impatience ; but he remembered that a woman of the good dame’s condition was like a top, which, if you let it spin on untouched must at last come to a pause ; but, if you interrupt it by flogging, there is no end to its gyrations. ‘“ But, to speak no more of the cows, your reverence, though they are likely cattle as ever were tied to a stake, the tasker was driving them out, and the lads, that is my Halbert and my Edward, that your reverence has seen at church on holidays, and especially Halbert, —for you patted him on the head and gave him a brooch of Saint Cuthbert, which he wears in his bonnet,—and little Mary Avenel, that is the lady’s daughter, they ran all after the cattle, and began to play up and down the pasture as young folk will, your reverence.THE MONASTERY. 92 And at length they lost sight of Martin and the cows ; and the; began to run up a little cleugh which we call Corrt-nan-Shian, -where there is a wee bit stripe of a burn, and they saw there— Good guide us!—a White Woman sitting on the burn-side wringing her hands—so the bairns were frighted to see a strange woman sitting there, all but Halbert, who will be sixteen corae Whitsuntide ; and, besides, he never feared onything—and when they went up to her—behold she was passed away!” “ For shame, good woman !” said Father Eustace ; ‘‘awoman of your sense to listen to a tale so idle !—the young folk told you a lie, and that was all.” “Nay, sir, it was more than that,’”’ said the old dame ; “for, besides that they never told me a lie in their lives, I must warn you that on the very ground where the White Woman was sitting they found the Lady of Avenel’s book, and brought it with them to the tower.” “That is worthy of mark at least,” said the monk. ‘ Know you no other copy of this volume within these bounds?” “None, your reverence,” returned Elspeth ; ‘ why should there ?—no one could read it were there twenty.” * “Then you are sure it is the very same volume which you -gave to Father Philip!” said the monk. “ As sure as that I now speak with your reverence.” “Ttis most singular!’ said the monk ; and he walked across the room in a musing posture. “ T have been upon nettles to hear what your reverence,would say,” continued Dame Glendinning, “ respecting this matter— There is nothing I would not do for the Lady of Avenel and her family, and that has been proved, and for her servants to boot, both Martin and Tibb, although Tibb is not so civil sometimes as altogether I have a right to expect ; but I can- not think it beseeming to have angels, or ghosts, or fairies, or the like, waiting upon a leddy when she is in another woman’s house, in respect it is no ways creditable. Onything she had to do was always done to her hand, without costing her either pains or pence, as a country body says ; and besides the dis- credit, I cannot but think that there is no safety in having such unchancy creatures about ane. But I have tied red thread round the bairns’ throats” (so her fondnesss still called them), “and given ilk ane of them a riding-wand of rowan-tree, for by sewing up a slip of witch-elm into their doublets ; and I wish to know of your reverence if there be onything mair that a lone woman can do in the matter of ghosts and fairies ?—Be here! that I should have named their unlucky names twice ower!”THE MONASTERY 93 “Dame Glendinning,” answered the monk, somewhat ab tuptly, when the good woman had finished her narrative, “ | pray you, do you know the miller’s daughter?” ‘Did I know Kate Happer? ” replied the widow ; “as well as the beggar knows his dish—a Canty quean was Kate, and a special cummer of my ain maybe twenty years syne.” “She cannot be the wench I mean,” said Father Eustace. “She after whom I inquire is scarce fifteen, a black-eyed girl —you may have seen her at the kirk.” “Your reverence must be in the right ; and she is my cum- mer’s niece, doubtless, that you are pleased to speak of: But I thank God I have always been too duteous in attention to the mass, to know whether young wenches have black eyes or green ones.” The good father had so much of the world about him that he was unable to avoid smiling when the dame boasted her absolute resistance to a temptation, which was not quite so liable to beset her as those of the other sex. Perhaps, then,”’ he said, ‘‘ you know her usual dress, Dame Glendinning ?”’ . " Ay, ay, father,” answered the dame readily enough, “a white kirtle the wench wears, to hide the dust of the mill no doubt —and a blue hood, that might weel be spared, for pridefulness.”’. ‘Then, may it not be she,” said the father, “‘ who has brought back this book, and stepped out of the way when the children came near her?” The dame paused—was unwilling to combat the solution suggested by the monk—but was at a loss to conceive why the. lass of the mill should come so far from home into so wild a corner, merely to leave an old book with three children, from whose observation she wished to conceal herself. Above all, she could not understand why, since she had acquaintances in the family, and since the Dame Glendinning had always paid her multure and knaveship duly, the said lass of the mill had not come in to rest herself and eat a morsel, and tell her the current news of the water. ; These very objections satisfied the monk that his conjec- tures were right. ‘“ Dame,” he said, “ you must be cautious in what you say. This is an instance—I would it were the sole one—of the power of the Enemy in these days. The matter must be sifted with a curious and careful hand.” __ peiag “Indeed,” said Elspeth, trying to catch and chime in with the ideas of the Sub-Prior, ‘I have often thought the miller’s folk at the Monastery-mill were far over careless in sifting outTHE MONASTERY. 94 melder, and in bolting it too—some folk say they will not stick at whiles to put in a handful of ashes amongst Christian folk’s corn-meal.”’ “ That shall be looked after also, dame,” said the Sub-Prior, not displeased to see that the good old woman went off on a false scent ; “‘and now, by your leave, I will see this lady—do you go before and prepare her to see me.” Dame Glendinning left the lower apartment, accordingly, which the monk paced in anxious reflection, considering how he might best discharge, with humanity as well as with effect, the important duty imposed on him. He resolved to approach the bedside of the sick person with reprimands, mitigated only by a feeling for her weak condition—he determined, in case of her reply, to which late examples of hardened heretics might encourage her, to be prepared with answers to their customary scruples. High fraught, also, with zeal against her unauthor- ized intrusion into the priestly function, by study of the Sacred Scriptures, he imagined tq himself the answers which one of the modern school of heresy might return to him—the victorious refutation which should lay the disputant prostrate at the Con- fessor’s mercy—and the healing, yet awful exhortation, which, under pain of refusing the last consolations of religion, he de- signed to make to the penitent, conjuring her, as she loved her own soul’s welfare, to disclose to him what she knew of the dark mystery of iniquity, by which heresies were introduced into the most secluded spots of the very patrimony of the Church herself—what agents they had who could thus glide, as it were unseen, from place to place, bring back the volume which the Church had interdicted to the spots from which it had been removed under her express auspices ; and who, by encouraging the daring and profane thirst after knowledge for- bidden and useless to the laity, had encouraged the fisher of souls to use with effect his old bait of ambition and vain-glory. Much of this premeditated disputation escaped the good father, when Elspeth returned, her tears flowing faster than her apron could dry them, and made him a signal to follow her. “How,” said the monk, “is she then so near her end ?—nay, the Church must not break or bruise, when comfort is yet possi- ble ;” and forgetting his polemics, the good Sub-Prior hastened to the little apartment, where, on the wretched bed which she had occupied since her misfortunes had driven her tothe Tower of Glendearg, the widow of Walter Avenel had rendered up her spirit to her Creator. “My God!” said the Sub-Prior “and has my unfortunate dallying suffered her to depart with-THE MONASTERV 9¢ out the Church’s consolation ! Look to her, dame,” he ex- claimed with eager impatience ; “is there not yet a sparkle of the life left ’——-may she not be recalled—recailed but for a mo- ment? Oh! would that she could express, but by the most imperfect word—but by the most feeble motion, her acquies- cence in the needful task of penitential prayer !—.Does she not breathe !—Art thou sure she doth not?” “ She will never breathe more,” said the matron. “Oh! the poor fatherless girl—now motherless also—Oh, the kind com- panion I have had these many years, whom I shall never see again! But she is in heaven for certain, if ever woman went there ; for a woman of better life “Woe to me,” said the good monk, “if indeed she went not hence in good assurance—woe to the reckless shepherd, who suffered the wolf to carry a choice one from the flock, while he busied himself with trimming his sling and his staff to give the monster battle! Oh! if in the long Hereafter, aught but weal should that poor spirit share, what has my delay cost ?—the value of an immortal soul!” He then approached the body, full of the deep remorse natural to a good man of his persuasion, who devoutly believed the doctrines of the Catholic Church. “ Ay,” said he, gazing on the pallid corpse, from which the spirit had parted so pla- cid:y as to leave a smile upon the thin blue lips, which had been so long wasted by decay that they had parted with the last breath of animation without the slightest convulsive tremor —“ Ay,” said Father Eustace, “ there lies the faded tree, and, as it fell, so it lies—awful thought for me, should my neglect have left it to descend in an evil direction!” He then again and again conjured Dame Glendinning to tell him what she knew of the demeanor and ordinary walk of the deceased. All tended to the high bonor of the deceased lady ; for her companion, who admired her sufficiently while alive, notwith- standing some trifling points of jealousy, now idolized her after her death, and could think of no attribute of praise with which she did not adorn her memory. Indeed, the Lady of Avenel, however she might privately doubt some of the doctrines announced by the Church of Rome, and although she had probably tacitly appealed from that cor- rupted system of Christianity to the volume on which Chris- tianity itself is founded, had nevertheless been regular in her attendance on the worship of the Church, not, perhaps, extend: ing her scruples so far as to break off communion. Such in- deed was the first sentiment of the earlier reformers, who seemedTHE MONASTERY. to have studied, for a time at least, to avoid a schism until the violence of the Pope rendered it inevitable. | ’ Father Eustace, on the present occasion, listened with eager- ness to everything which could lead to assure him of the lady’s orthodoxy in the main points of belief ; for his conscience re- proached him sorely, that, instead of protracting conversation with the Dame of Glendearg, he had not instantly hastened where his presence was so necessary. “ If,” he said, addressing the dead body, ‘thou art yet free from the utmost penalty due to the followers of false doctrine—if thou dost but suffer for a time, to expiate faults done in the body, but partaking of mortal frailty more than of deadly sin, fear not that thy abode shall be long in the penal regions to which thou mayest be doomed —if vigils—if masses—if penance—if maceration of my body, till it resembles that extenuated form which the soul hath aban- doned, may assure thy deliverance. The Holy Church—the godly foundation—our blessed Patroness herself, shall intercede for one whose errors were counterbalanced by so many virtues. —Leave me, dame—here, and by her bed-side, will I perform those duties which this piteous case demands !” Elspeth left the monk, who entployed himself in fervent and sincere, though erroneous prayers, for the weal of the departed spirit. Foran hour he remained in the apartment of death, and then returned to the hall, where he found the still weeping friend of the deceased. But it would be injustice to, Mrs. Glendinning’s hospitality, if we suppose her to have been weeping during this long interval, or rather if we suppose her so entirely absorbed by the tribute of sorrow which she paid frankly and plentifully to her deceased friend, as to be incapable of attending to the rights of hospi- tality due to the holy visitor—who was confessor at once, and Sub-Prior—mighty in all religious and secular considerations so far as the vassals of the Monastery were interested. Her barley-bread had been toasted—her choicest cask of home-brewed ale had been broached—her best butter had been placed on the hall table, along with her most savory ham, and her choicest cheese, ere she abandoned herself to the extremity of sorrow ; and it was not till she had arranged her little repast neatly on the board, that she sat down in the chimney corner, threw her checked apron over her head, and gave way to the current of tears and sobs. In this there was no grimace or affectation. The good dame held the honors: of her house to be as essential a duty, especially when a monk wes her visitant, as any other pressing call upon her consciénce :LHE MONASTERY. cf nor until these were suitably attended to did she find herself at liberty to indulge her sorrow for her departed friend. When she was conscious of the Sub-Prior’s presence, she rose with the same attention to his reception ; but he declined all the offers of hospitality with which she endeavored to tempt him. Not her butter, as yellow as gold, and the best, she assured him, that was made in the patrimony of Saint Mary— not the barley scones, which “the departed saint, God sain her! used to say were so good ”—not the ale, nor any other cates which poor Elspeth’s stores afforded, could prevail on the Sub-Prior to break his fast. “ This day,” he said, “I must not taste food until the sun go down, happy if, in so doing, I can expiate my own negili- gence—happier still, if my sufferings of thi trifling nature, undertaken in pure faith and singleness of heart, may benefit the soul of the deceased. Yet, dame,” he added, “‘ I may not so far forget the living in my cares for the dead, as to leave behind me that book, which is to the ignorant what, to our first parents, the tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil unhap- pily proved—excellent indeed in itself, but fatal because used by those to whom it is prohibited.” “Oh, blithely, reverend father,” said the widow of Simon Glendinning, “ will I give you the book, if so be I can while it from the bairns ; and indeed, poor things, as the case stands with them even now, you might take the heart out of their bodies, and they never find it out, they are sae begrutten.” * ‘Give them this missal instead, good dame,” said the father, drawing from his pocket one which was curiously illuminated with paintings, “and I will come myself, or send one at a fitting time, and teach them the meaning of these pictures.” “The bonny images!” said Dame Glendinning, forgetting for an instant her grief in her admiration, “‘and weel I wot,” added she, ‘it is another sort of a book than the poor Lady of Avenel’s ; and blessed might we have been this day if your reverence had found the way upthe glen, instead of Father Philip, though the Sacristan is a powerful man too, and speaks as if he would gar the house fly abroad, save that the walls are gey thick. Simon’s forbears (may he and they be blessed !) took care of that.” ‘The monk ordered his mule, and was about to take his leave ; and the good dame was still delaying him with questions about the funeral, when a horseman, armed and accoutred, rode into the little courtyard which surrounded the Keep, * Begrutten—over-wept. 7THE MONASTERY. CHAPTER NINTH. For since they rode among our doors With splent on spauld and rusty spurs, There grows no fruit into our furs ; Thus said John Up-on-land. BANNATYNE MS, Tur Scottish laws, which were as wisely and judiciously made as they were carelessly and ineffectually executed, had in vain endeavored to restrain the damage done to agriculture, by the chiefs and landed proprietors retaining in their service what were called jack-men, from the jacé, or doublet quilted with iron which they wore as defensive armor. These military retainers conducted themselves with great insolence towards the indus- trious part of the community—lived in a great measure by plun- der, and were ready to execute any commands of their master, however unlawful.—In adopting this mode of life, men resigned the quiet hopes and regular labors of industry, for an unset. tled, precarious, and dangerous trade, which yet had such charms for those once accustomed to it, that they became incapable of following any other. Hence the complaint of John Upland, a fictitious character, representing a countryman, into whose mouth the poets of the day put their general satires upon men and manners. They ride about in such a rage, By forest, firth, and field, With buckler, bow, and brand. Lo! where they ride out through the rye! V'he Devil mot sane the company, : Quoth John Up-on-land. Christie of the Clinthill, the horseman who now arrived at the little Tower of Glendearg, was one of the hopeful company of whom the poet complains, as was indicated by his “ splent on spauld ” (iron plates on his shoulder), his rusted spurs, and his long lance. An iron skull-cap, none of the brightest, bore for distinction a sprig of the holly, which was Avenel’s badge. A long two-edged straight sword, having a handle made of polished oak, hung down by his side. The meagre condition of his horse, and the wild and emaciated look of the nder, showed their occupation could not be accounted an easy ora thriving one. He saluted Dame Glendinning with little courtesy, and the monk with less ; for the growing disrespect to the religiousTHE MONASTERY. 99 orders had not failed to extend itself among a class of men of such disorderly habits, although it may be supposed they were tolerably indifferent alike to the new or the ancient doctrines. “So, our lady is dead, Dame Glendinning ?” said the jack. man ; “ my master has sent you even now a fat bullock for her mart—it may serve for her funeral. I have left him in the up: per cleugh, as he is somewhat kenspeckle,* and is marked both with cut and birn—the sooner the skin is off, and he is in saut- fat, the less like you are to have trouble—you understand me? Let me have a peck of corn for my horse, and beef and beer for myself, for I must go on to the Monastery—though I think this monk here might do mine errand.” “Thine errand, rude man! ” said the Sub-Prior, knitting his brows ‘For God’s sake!” cried poor Dame Glendinning, terrified at the idea of a quarrel between them—“ O Christie :—it is the Sub-Prior—O reverend sir, it is Christie of the Clinthill, the laird’s chief jack-man ; ye know that little havings can be ex- pected from the like o’ them.” ; “ Are you a retainer of the Laird of Avenel ? ” said the monk, addressing himself to the horseman, “and do you speak thus rudely to a brother of Saint Mary’s, to whom thy master is so much beholden?” ‘He means to be yet more beholden to your house, Sir Monk,” answered the fellow ; ‘ for hearing his sister in-law, the widow of Walter of Avenel, was on her death-bed, he sent me to say to the Father Abbot and the brethren, that he will hold the funeral-feast at their convent, and invites himself thereto, with a score of horse and some friends, and to abide there for three days and three nights,—having horse-meat and men’s meat at the charge of the community ; of which his intention he sends due notice, that fitting preparation may be timeously made.” “ Friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “ believe not that I will do to the Father Abbot the indignity of delivering such an errand.— Think’st thou the goods of the church were bestowed upon her by holy princes and pious nobles, now dead and gone, to be consumed in revelry by every profligate layman who numbers in his train more follawers than he can support by honest means, or by his own incomings? ‘Tell thy master, from the Sub-Prior of Saint Mary’s, that the Primate hath issued his commands to us that we submit no longer to this compulsory exaction of hospitality on slight or false pretences. Our lands * Kenspechle—that which is easily recognized by the eye. a ——100 THE MONASTERY. and goods were given to relieve pilgrims and picus persons, not to feast bands of rude soldiers.” “ This tome!” said the angry spearman, “this to me and to my master—look to yourself then, Sir Priest, and try if Ave and Credo will keep bullocks from wandering, and hay-stacks from burning.” “Dost thou menace the Holy Cl urcl 1’s patrimony with waste and fire-raising,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘‘and that in the face of the sun? I call on all who hear me to bear witness to the words this ruffian has spoken. Remember how the Lord James drowned such as you by scores in the black pool at Jeddart.— To him and to the Primate will I complain.” ‘The soldier shifted the position of his lance, and brought it down to a level with the monk’s body. Dame Glendinning began to shriek for assistance. “ Tibb Tacket ! Martin ! where be ye all ?—Christie, for the love of God, consider he is a man of Holy Ruirkd? “T care not for his spear,” said the Sub-Prior; “if I am slain in defending the rights and privileges of my community, the Primate will know how to take vengeance. “ Let him look to himself,” said Cl iristie, but at the same time depositing his lance against the wall of the tower ; “if the Fife men spoke true who came hither with the Governor in the last raid, Norman Leslie has him at feud, and is like to set him hard. We know Norman a true bloodhound, who will never quit the slot. But I had no design to offend the holy father,’ he added, thinking perhaps he had gone a little too far; “ I am a rude man, bred to lance and stirrup, and not used to deal with book-learned men and priests; and I am willing to ask his forgiveness—and his blessing, if I have said ought amiss.” ‘For God’s sake! your reverence,” said the widow of Glendearg apart to the Sub-Prior, ‘“ bestow on him your for. giveness—how shall we poor folk sleep in security in the dark nights, if the convent is at feud with such men as he ige7z “You are right, dame,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘your safety should, and must be, in the first anstance consulted. T forgive thee, and may God bless thee and send thee honesty: ” Christie of the Clinthill made an unwilling inclination with his head, and muttered apart, “ That is as much as <0 say, God send thee starvation. But now to my master’s demand, Sir Priest? What answer am I to return?’ “That the body of the widow of Walter of Av enel,” an swered the Father, “shall be interred as becomes her tank, )THE MONASTERY. 101 and in the tomb of her valiant husband. For your master’s proffered visit of three days, with such a company and retinue, I have no authority to reply to it; you must intimate your Chief’s purpose to the Reverend Lord Abbot.” _ “That will cost me a farther ride,” said the man, “but it is all in the day’s work.—How now, my lad,” said he to Hal- bert, who was handling the long lance which he had laid aside; “how do you like such a plaything ?—Will you go with me and be a moss-trooper ?’ “The Saints in their mercy forbid!” said the poor mother ,; and then, afraid of having displeased Christie by the vivacity of her exclamation, she followed it up by explaining, that since Simon’s death she could not look on a spear or a bow, or any implement of destruction, without trembling. ‘“Pshaw!”’ answered Christie, ‘“ thou shouldst take another husband, dame, and drive such follies out of thy thoughts— what sayest thou to such a strapping lad as I? Why, this old tower of thine is fencible enough, and there is no want of cleughs, and crags, and bogs, and thickets, if one was set hard; a man might bide here and keep his _half-score of lads, and as many geldings, and live on what he could lay his hand on, and be kind to thee, old wench.” ‘““ Alas ! Master Christie,” said the matron, “ that you should talk to a lone woman in such a fashion, and death in the house besides ! ” “Lone woman !—why, that is the very reason thou shouldst take a mate. ‘Thy old friend is dead, why, good—choose thou another of somewhat tougher frame, and that will not die of the pip like a young chicken.—Better still—Come, dame, let me have something to eat, and we will talk more of this.” Dame Elspeth, though she well knew the character of the man, whom in fact she both disliked and feared, could not help simpering at the personal address which he thought pro- per to make to her. She whispered to the Sub-Prior, “ ony: thing just to keep him quiet,” and went into the tower to set before the soldier the food he desired, trusting betwixt good cheer, and the power of her own charms, to keep Christie of the Clinthill so well amused, that the altercation betwixt him and the holy father should not be renewed. The Sub-Prior was equally unwilling to hazard any unneces- sary rupture between the community and sucha person as Julian of Avenel. He was sensible that moderation, as well as firmness, was necessary to support the tottering cause of the Church of Rome; and that, contrary to former times, the quar-THE MONASTERY. LO2 rels betwixt the clergy and laity had, in the present, usually terminated to the advantage of the latter. He resolved, there- fore, to avoid farther strife by withdrawing, but failed not, in the first place, to possess himself of the volume which the Sacristan carried off the evening before, and which had been returned to the glen in such a marvellous manner. Edward, the younger of Dame Elspeth’s boys, made great objections to the book’s being removed, in which Mary would probably have joined, but that she was now In her little sleep- ing chamber with Tibb, who was exerting her simple skill to console the young lady for her mother’s death. But the younger Glendinning stood up in defence of her property, and, with a positiveness which had hitherto made no part of his character, declared, that now the kind lady was dead, the book was Mary’s, and no one but Mary should have it. “ But if it is not a fit book for Mary to read, my dear boy,” said the father, gently, “ you would not wish it to remain with her?” “The lady read it,” answered the young champion of prop- erty; ‘‘and so it could not be wrong—it shall not be taken away.—I wonder where Halbert is >—listening to the bravad- ing tales of gay Christie, I reckon,—he is always wishing for fighting, and now he is out of the way.” “Why, Edward, you would not fight with me, who am both a priest and an old man?” “ Tf you were as good a priest as the Pope,” said the boy, “and as old as the hills to boot, you shall not carry away Mary’s book without her leave. I will do battle for it.” “ But see you, my love,” said the monk, amused with the resolute friendship manifested by the boy, “I do not take it, I only borrow it ; and I leave in its place my own gay missal, as a pledge I will bring it again.” Edward opened the missal with eager curiosity, and glanced at the pictures with which it was illustrated. ‘‘ Saint George and the dragon—Halbert will like that ; and Saint Michael brandishing his sword over the head of the Wicked One—and that will do for Halbert too. And see the Saint John leading his lamb in the wilderness, with his little cross made of reeds, and his scrip and staff—that shall be my favorite ; and where shall we find one for poor Mary?—here is a beautiful woman weeping and lamenting herself.” “This is Saint Mary Magdalen repenting of her sins, my dear boy,” said the father. “That will not suit our Mary; for she commits noTHE MONASTERY. 103 faults, and Is never angry with us, but when we do something wrong. : ‘“‘'Then,” said the father, “I will show you a Mary, wha will protect herand you, and all good children. See how fairly she is represented, with her gown covered with golden stars.” The boy was lost in wonder at the portrait of the Virgin, which the Sub-Prior turned up to him. “This,” he said, “is really like our sweet Mary; and I think I will let you take away the black book, that has no such goodly shows in it, and leave this for Mary instead. But you must promise to bring back the book, good father—for now I think upon it, Mary may like that best which was her mother’s.” “T will certainly return,” said the monk, evading his an- swer, “and perhaps I may teach you to write and read such beautiful letters as you see there written, and to paint them blue, green, and yellow, and to blazon them with gold.” ‘‘ Ay, and to make such figures as these blessed Saints, and especially these two Marys?” said the boy. “With their blessing,’ said the Sub-Prior, “I can teach you that art too, so far as I am myself capable of showing, and you of learning it.” “Then,” said Edward, “will I paint Mary’s picture—and remember you are to bring back the black book ; that you must promise me.” The Sub-Prior, anxious to get rid of the boy’s pertinacity, and to set forward on his return to the convent, without having any further interview with Christie the galloper, answered by giving the promise Edward required, mounted his mule, and set forth on his return homeward. The November day was well spent ere the Sub-Prior re- sumed his journey ; for the difficulty of the road, and the vari- ous delays which he had met with at the tower, had detained him longer than he proposed. A chill easterly wind was sigh: ing among the withered leaves, and stripping them from the hold they had yet retained on the parent trees. “ Even so,” said the monk, “our prospects in this vale of time grow more disconsolate as the stream of years passes on. Little have I gained by my journey, saving the certainty that heresy is busy among us with more than his usual activity, and that the spirit of insulting religious orders, and plundering the Church’s property, so general in the eastern districts of Scot- land, has now come nearer home.” | Fists The tread of a horse which came up behind hin, interrupted 5104 THE MONASTERY. his reverie, and he soon saw he was mounted by the same wild rider whom he had left at the tower, : ; “ Good even, my son, and benedicite,” said the Sub-Prior as he passed ; but the rude soldier scarce acknowledged the greet- ing, by bending his head ; and dashing the spurs into his horse went on at a pace which soon left the monk and his mule far behind. “ And there,” thought’ the Sub-Prior, “goes another plague of the times—a fellow whose birth designed him to culti- vate the earth, but who is perverted by the unhallowed and unchristian divisions of the country, into a daring and dissolute robber. The barons of Scotland are now turned masterful thieves and ruffians, oppressing the poor by violence, and wast- ing the church, by extorting free quarters from abbeys and priories, without either shame or reason. I fear me I shall be too late to counsel the abbot to make a stand against these daring sormers*—I must make haste.’’ He struck his mule with his riding wand accordingly ; but, instead of mending her pace the animal suddenly started from the path, and therider’s utmost efforts could not force her forward. ‘Art thou, too, infected with the spirit of the times?” said the Sub-Prior, “thou wert wont to be ready and serviceable, and art now as restive as any wild jack-man or stubborn heretic of them all.” While he was contending with the startled animal, a voice, like that of a female, chanted in his ear, or at least very close to-1t, “Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide; But ride you through valley, or ride you o’er hill, There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. Back, back, The volume black! I have a warrant to carry it back.” The Sub-Prior looked around, but neither bush nor brake was near which could conceal an ambushed songstress. “ May Our Lady have mercy on me!” he said; “I trust my senses have not forsaken me—yet how my thoughts should arrange themselves into rhymes which I despise, and music which I care not for, or why there should be the sound of a female voice in ears, in which its melody has been so long indifferent, baffles * To sorne, in Scotland, is to exact free quarters against the will of the landlord. It is declared equivalent to theft, by a statute passed in the year 1445. The great chieftains op- pereed the monasteries very much by exactions of this nature. The community of Aber- rothwick complained of an Earl of Angus, I think, who was in the regular habit of visiting them once a-year, with a train of a thousand horse, and abiding till the whole winter pro visions of the convent were exhausted.THE MONASTERY. 105 my comprehension, and almost realizes the vision of Philip the Sacristan. Come, good mule, betake thee to the path, and let us hence while our good judgment serves us.” But the mule stood as if it had been rooted to the spot backed from the point to which it was pressed by its rider, and by her ears laid close into her neck, and her eyes almost starting from their sockets, testified that she was under creat terror. While the Sub-Prior, by alternate threats and soothing, endeavored to reclaim the wayward animal to her duty, the wild musical voice was again heard close beside him. “ What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but here To conjure a book from a dead woman’s bier ? Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, Ride back with the book, or you’ll pay for your prize. Back, back, There is death in the track! In the name of my master I bid thee turn back.” “Tn the name of My Master,” said the astonished monk, **that name before which all things created tremble, I conjure thee to say what thou art that hauntest me thus?” The same voice replied, “That which is neither ill nor well, That which belongs not to Heaven nor to hell, A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream, *Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream A form that men spy With the half-shut eye, In the beams of setting sun, am I.” “This is more than simple fantasy,” said the Sub-Prior, rousing himself ; though, notwithstanding the natural hardi- hood of his temper, the sensible presence of a supernatural being so near him failed not to make his blood run cold, and his hair bristle. ‘1 charge thee,” he said aloud, “be thine errand what it will, to depart and trouble me no more! False spirit, thou canst not appal any save those who do the work : Bie negligently. The voice immediately answered— ‘‘ Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my right ! Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night ; I can dance on the torrent and ride on the air, And travel the world with the bonny night-mare. Again, again, At the crook of the glen, noe aS Where bickers the burnie, I’ll meet thee again,106 : THE MONASTERY. The road was now apparently left open ; for the mule col. lected herself, and changed from her posture of terror to one which promised advance, although a profuse perspiration, and general trembling of the joints, indicated the bodily terror she had undergone. ‘“‘T used to doubt the existence of Cabalists and Rosicrucians,” thought the Sub-Prior, ‘‘ but by my Holy Order I know no longe1 what to say !—My pulse beats temperately—my hand is cool —I am fasting from everything but sin, and possessed of my ordinary faculties—Either some fiend is permitted to bewilder me or the tales of Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and others who treat of occult philosophy, are not without foundation.—At the crook of the glen? I could have desired to avoid a second meeting, but I am on the service of the Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against me.” He moved around accordingly, but with precaution, and not without fear; for he neither knew the manner in which, or the place where, his journey might be next interrupted by his invisible attendant. He descended the glen without interrup- tion for about a mile farther, when, just at the spot where the brook approached the steep hill, with a winding so abrupt as to leave scarcely room for a horse to pass, the mule was again visited with the same symptoms of terror which had before interrupted her course. Better acquainted than before with the cause of her restiveness, the Priest employed no effort to make her proceed, but addressed himself to the object, which he doubted not was the same that had formerly interrupted him, in the words of solemn exorcism prescribed by the Church of Rome on such occasions. In reply to his demand, the voice again sung— “Men of good are bold as sackless,* Men of rude are wild and reckless ; Lie thou still, In the nook of the hill, For those be before thee that wish thee ill.” While the Sub-Prior listened, with his head turned in the direction from which the sounds seemed to come, he felt as if something rushed against him ; and ere he could discover the cause, he was pushed from his saddle with gentle but irresistible force. Before he reached the ground his senses were gone, and he lay long in a State of insensibility ; for the sunset had not ceased to gild the top of the distant hill when he fell —and « e e ? when he again became conscious of existence, t he pale moon * Sackless—innocent.THE MONASTERY. 107 was gleaming on the landscape. He awakened in a State of terror, from which, for a few minutes, he found it difficult . ee ee At length he sate upon the grass, and De ensible by repeated exertion, that the only personal ny ee ae fea sustained was the numbness arising from xtreme cold. of somethi Ass it - blood again run ee atk Lae se shies Ss art, < y < effort he started up, and looking around, saw to his relief that the noise was occasioned by the footsteps of his own mule. The peaceable animal liad remained quietly beside her master durine his trance, browsing on the grass which grew plentifully in that sequestered nook. With some exertion he collected himself. remounted the animal, and meditating upon his wild adventur descended the glen till its Junction with the broader valley through which the Tweed winds. The drawbridge was readily dropped at his first summons ; and so much had he won upon the heart of the churlish warden, that Peter appeared himself with a lantern to show the Sub-Prior his way over the perilous pass. ‘ By my sooth, sir,” he said, holding the light up to Father Eustace’s face, “ you look sorely travelled and deadly pale—but a little matter serves to weary out you men of the cell. I now who speak to you—I have ridden—before I was perched up here on this pillar betwixt wind and water—it may be thirty Scots miles before I broke my fast, and have had the red of a bramble rose in my cheek all the while—But will you taste some food, or a cup of distilled waters ? ” “I may not,’ said Father Eustace, “ being under a vow; but I thank you for your kindness, and pray you to give what I may not accept to the next poor pilgrim who comes hither pale and fainting, for so it shall be the better both with him here, and with you hereafter.” “By my faith, and I will do so,” said Peter Bridge-Ward, “even for thy sake—It is strange now, how this Sub-Prior gets round one’s heart more than the rest of these cowled gentry, that think of nothing but quaffing and stuffing !—Wife, I say —wife, we will give a cup of distilled waters and a crust of bread unto the next pilgrim that comes over ; and ye may keep for the purpose the grunds of the last graybeard.* and the ill- baked bannock which the bairns couldna eat.” While Peter issued these charitable, and, at the same time, prudent injunctions, the Sub-Prior, whose mild interference had awakened the Bridge-Ward to such an act of unwonted gener- * An old-fashioned name for an earthern jar for holding spirits.58 THE MONASTERY. osity, was pacing onward to the Monastery. In the way, he had to commune with and subdue his own rebellious heart, an enemy, he was sensible, more formidable than any which the external powers of Satan could place in his way. Father Eustace had indeed strong temptation to suppress the extraordinary incident which had befallen him, which he was the more reluctant to confess, because he had passed so severe a judgment upon Father Philip, who, as he was not un- willing to allow, had, on his return from Glendearg, encountered obstacles somewhat similar to his own, Of this the Sub-Prior was the more convinced, when, feeling in his bosom for the Book which he had brought off from the Tower of Glendearg, he found it was amissing, which he could only accourt for by supposing it had been stolen from him during his trance. “Tf I confess this strange visitation,” thought the Sub- Prior, “I become the ridicule of all my brethren—I, whom the Primate sent hither to be a watch, as it were, and a check upon their follies. I give the Abbot an advantage over me which I shall never again recover, and Heaven only knows how he may abuse it, in his foolish simplicity, to the dishonor and loss of Holy Kirk.—But then, if I make not true confession of my shame, with what face can I again presume to admonish or re- strain others ?—Avow, proud heart,” continued he, addressing himself, “that the weal of Holy Church interests thee less in this matter than thine own humiliation—Yes, Heaven has punished thee even in that point in which thou didst deem thy- self most strong, in thy spiritual pride and thy carnal wisdom. Thou hast laughed at and derided the inexperience of thy brethren—stoop thyself in turn to their derision—tell what they may not believe—affirm that which they will ascribe to idle fear, or perhaps to idle falsehood—sustain the disgrace of a silly visionary, or a wilful deceiver.—Be it so; I will do my duty, and make ample confession to my superior. If the discharge of this duty destroys my usefulness in his house, God and Our Lady will send me where I can better serve them.” There was no little merit in the resolution thus piously and generously formed by Father Eustace. To men of any rank the esteem of their order is naturally most dear ; but in the monas- tic establishment, cut off, as the brethren are, from other objects of ambition, as well as from all exterior friendship and relation- ship, the place which they hold in the opinion of each other is all in all. But the consciousness how much he should rejoice the Abbot and most of the other monks of Saint Mary’s, who wereTHE MONASTERY. 109 impatient of the unauthorized, yet irresistible control, which he was wont to exercise in the affairs of the convent, by a con- fession which would put him in a ludicrous, or perhaps even In a criminal point of view, couid not weigh with Father Eustace in comparison with the task w hich his belief enjoined. As, strong in his feelings of duty, he approached the exterior gate of the Monastery, he was surprised to see torches gleaming, and men assembled around it, some on horseback, some on foot, while several of the Monks, distinguished through the night by their white scapularies, were making themselves busy among the ow The Sub-Prior was received with a unanimous shout of joy, which at once made him sensible that he had himself been i ee of their anxiety. ‘There he is! there he is! God be thanked—there he j 1S, hale and feir!” exclaimed the vassals: while the monks ex. claimed, “ Ze Deum ‘audamus — the blood of thy servants is precious in thy sight ! “What is the matter, children? what is the matter, my eee >” said Father Eustace, dismounting at the gate. Nay, brother, if thou know’st not, we will not tell thee till thou art in the refectory,” answered the monks ; “suffice it that the Lord Abbot had ordered these, our zealous and faith- ful vassals, instantly to set forth to guard thee from imminent peril—Ye may ungirth your horses, children, and dismiss ; and to-morrow each who was at this rendezvous may send to the convent kitchen for a quarter of a yard of roast beef, anda black-jack full of double ale.” * The vassals dispersed with joyful acclamation, and the monks, with equal jubilee, conducted the Sub- Prior into the refectory. CTA PDER. “2 EN’) Ey: Here we stand—— > W oundless and well, may Heaven’s high name be bless’d for’t! As erst, ere treason couch’d a lance against us. DECKER. No sooner was the Sub-Prior hurried into the refectory by his rejoicing companions than the first person on whom he fixed his eye proved to be Christie of the Clinthill. He was * It was one of the few reminiscences of Old Parr, or Henry Jenkins, Te wien that ai some convent in the veteran’s neighborhood, the community, before the dissolution. used to dole out roast beef by the measure of feet iid yards.IIo THE MONASTERY. seated in the chimney-corner, fettered and guarded, his features drawn into that air of sulky and turbid resolution with which those hardened in guilt are accustomed to view the approach of punishment. But as the Sub-Prior drew near to him, his face assumed a more wild and startled expression, while he ex- claimed—“ The devil! the devil himself, brings the dead back upon the living!” “ Nay,” said a monk to him, “say rather that Our Lady foils the attempts of the wicked on her faithful servants—our dear brother lives and moves.” ‘Lives and moves!” said the ruffian, rising and shuffling towards the Sub-Prior as well as his chains would permit ; “ nay, then, I will never trust ashen shaft and steel point more—It is even so,” he added, as he gazed on the Sub-Prior with astonish- ment; “neither wem nor wound—not as much as a rent in his frock !”’ “And whence should my wound have come?” said Father Eustace. “From the good lance that never failed me before,” replied Christie of the Clinthill. “Heaven absolve thee for thy purpose!” said the Sub- Prior ; ‘‘ wouldst thou have slain a servant of the altar?” “To choose!” answered Christie ; “the Fifemen say, an the whole pack of ye were slain, there were more lost at Flodden.” ‘Villian! art thou heretic as well as murderer ? ” “Not I, by Saint Giles,” replied the rider; “‘I listened blithely enough to the Laird of Monance, when he told me ye were all cheats and knaves ; but when he would have had me go hear one Wisheart, a gospeller as they call him, he might as well have persuaded the wild colt that had flung one rider to kneel down and help another into the saddle.” “There is some goodness about him yet,” said the Sacristan to the Abbot, who at that moment entered—‘“ He refused to hear a heretic preacher.” “The better for him in the next world,’’ answered the Abbot. ‘ Prepare for death, my son,—we deliver thee over to the secular arm of our bailie, for execution on the Gallow-hill by peep of light.” “Amen!” said the ruffian; “’tis the end I must have come by sooner or later—and what care I whether I feed the crows at Saint Mary’s or at Carlisle?” ‘‘ Let me implore your reverend patience for an instant,” said the Sub-Prior, “until I shall inquire——”THE MONASTERY. aun “ What!” exclaimed the Abbot, observing him for the first time—‘ Our dear brother restored to us when his life was un. hoped for !—nay, kneel not to a sinner like me—stand up— thou hast my blessing. When this villain came to the gate ac- cused by his own evil conscience, and crying out he had mur- dered thee, I thought that the pillar of our main aisle had fallen —no more shall a life so precious be exposed to such risks as occur in this border country ; no longer shall one beloved and rescued of Heaven hold so low a station in the church as that of a poor Sub-Prior—I will write by express to the Primate for thy speedy removal and advancement.” “Nay, but let me understand,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ did this soldier say he had slain me?” “That he had transfixed you,” answered the Abbot, “in full career with his lance—but it seems he had taken an indif. ferentaim. But no sooner didst thou fall to the ground mor- tally gored, as he deemed, with his weapon, than our blessed Patroness appeared to him, as he averred “JT averred no such thing,” said the prisoner ; “I said a woman in white interrupted me, as I was about to examine the priest’s cassock, for they are usually well lined—she had a bul- rush in her hand, with one touch of which she struck me from my horse, as I might strike down a child of four years old with an iron mace—and then, like a singing fiend as she was, she sung to me, Thank the holly-bush That nods on thy brow ; Or with this slender rush I had strangled thee now.’ gathered myself up with fear and difficulty, threw myself on my horse, and came hither like a fool to get myself hanged for a rogue.” “ Thou seest, honored brother,” said the Abbot to the Sub. Prior, “in what favor thou art with our blessed Patroness, that she herself becomes the guardian of thy paths—Not since the days of our blessed founder hath she shown such grace to any one. All unworthy were we to hold spiritual superiority over thee, and we pray thee to prepare for thy speedy removal to Aberbrothwick.” “Alas! my lord and father,” said the Sub-Prior, “your words pierce my very soul. Under the seal of confession will I presently tell thee why I conceive myself rather the baffled sport of a spirit of another sort, than the protected favorite ofz12 THE MONASTERY. the heavenly powers. But first let me ask this unhappy man ion or two.” : os: as ye list,” replied the Abbot—“ but you shall not convince me that it is fitting you remain in this inferior office in the convent of Saint Mary.” ‘“‘T would ask of this poor man,” said Father Eustace, ‘‘ for what purpose he nourished the thought of putting to death one who never did him evil ?” ‘Ay! but thou didst menace me with evil,’ said the ruf- flan, i and no one buta fool is menaced twice. Dost thou not remember what you said touching the Primate and Lord James, and the black pool of Jedwood? Didst thou think me fool enough to wait till thou hadst betrayed me to the sack and the fork ! There was small wisdom in that, methinks—as little as in coming hither to tell my own misdeeds—I think the devil was in me when! took this road—I might have remembered the proverb, ‘ Never Friar forgot feud.’ ” ‘And it was solely for that—for that only hasty word. of mine, uttered in a moment of impatience, and forgotten ere it was well spoken?” said Father Eustace. ‘Ay! for that, and—for the love of thy gold crucifix,” said Christie of the Clinthill. “Gracious Heaven! and could the yellow metal—the glit- tering earth—so far overcome every sense of what is thereby represented ?—Father Abbot, I pray, as a dear boon, you will deliver this guilty person to my mercy.” ‘“‘Nay, brother,” interposed the Sacristan, ‘‘to your doom, if you will, not to your mercy—Remember, we are not all equally favored by our blessed Lady, nor is it likely that every frock in the Convent will serve as a coat of proof when a lance is couched against it.” “For that very reason,” said the Sub-Prior, “I would not that for my worthless self the community were to fall at feud with Julian of Avenel, this man’s master.” “Our Lady forbid!” said the Sacristan, “he is a second Julian the Apostate.” ‘With our reverend father the Abbot’s permission, then,”’ said Father Eustace, “I desire this man be freed from his chains, and suffered to depart uninjured ;—and here, friend)” he added, giving him the golden crucifix, “jis the image for which thou wert willing to stain thy hands with murder. View it well, and may it inspire thee with other and better thoughts than those which referred to it as a piece of bullion! Part with it, nevertheless, if thy necessities require, and get thee one ofTHE MONASTERY. rr) suck coarse substance that Mammon shall have no share in any of the reflections to which it gives rise. It was the bequest of a dear friend to me ; but dearer service can it never do than that of winning a soul to Heaven.” The Borderer, now freed from his chains, Stood gazing al- ternately on the Sub-Prior, and on the golden crucifix, “ By Saint Giles!” said he. “| understand ye not '—An ye Ae, me gold for couching my lance at thee, what would you sive me to level it at a heretic ?” ee “The Church,” said the Sub-Prior. “ wil] try the effect of her spiritual censures to bring these Stray sheep into the fold, ere she employ the edge of the sword of Saint Peter.” “Ay, but,” said the ruffian, “ they say the Primate recom- mends a little strangling and burning in aid both of censure and of sword. But fare ye weel, I owe you a life, and it may be I will not forget my debt.” The bailie now came bustling in, dressed in his blue coat and bandaliers, and attended by two or three halberdiers, “J have been a thought too late in waiting upon your reverend lordship. I am grown somewhat fatter since the field of Pinkie, and my leathern coat slips not on so soon as it was wont ; but the dungeon is ready, and though, as ] said, I have been some- what late Here his intended prisoner walked gravely up to the officer’s nose, to his great amazement. “You have been indeed somewhat late. bailie,”’ said he, “and I am greatly obligated to your buff-coat, and to the time you took to put it on. If the secular arm had arrived some quarter of an hour sooner, I had been out of reach of splr- itual grace ; but as it is, I wish you good even, and a safe rid- dance out of your garment of durance, in which you have much the air of a hog in armor.” Wrath was the bailie with this comparison, and exclaimed zn ire—“ An it were not for the presence of the venerable Lord Abbot, thou knave q ‘* Nay, an thou wouldst try conclusions,’ said Christie of the Clinthill, “I will meet thee at day-break by Saint Mary’s Well.” “Hardened wretch!” said Father Eustace ; “art thou bué this instant delivered from death, and dost thou so soon nurse thoughts of slaughter?” ‘‘ I will meet with thee ere it be long, thou knave,”’ said the bailie, ‘‘ and teach thee thine Oremus.” “IT will meet thy cattle in a moonlight night before that day,” said he of the Clinthill. 8iA THE MONASTERY. “T will have thee by the neck one misty morning, thou strong thief,” answered the secular officer of the Church. “Thou art thyself as strong a thief as ever rode,” retorted Christie ; “and if the worms were once feasting on that fat carcass of thine, I might well hope to have thine office, by fa- vor of these reverend men.” “A cast of their office and a cast of mine,” answered the bailie ; “a cord and a confessor, that is all thou wilt have from us.” “ Sirs” said the Sub-Prior, observing that his brethren be- gan to take more interest than was exactly decorous in this wrangling betwixt justice and iniquity, “I pray you both to de: part—Master Bailie, retire with your halberdiers, and trouble not the man whom we have dismissed—And thou, Christie, or whatever be thy name, take thy departure, and re member thou owest thy life to the Lord Abbot’s clemency.” “Nay, as to that,” answered Christie, “I judge that I owe it to your own ; but impute it to whom ye list, I owe a life among ye, and there is anend.” And whistling as he went, he left the apartment, seeming as if he held the life which he had forfeited not worth farther thanks. ‘‘ Obstinate even to brutality!” said Father Eustace ; “and yet who knows but some better ore may lie under so rude an exterior? ” “‘ Save a thief from the gallows,” said the Sacristan—‘ you know the rest of the proverb ; and admitting, as may Heaven grant, that our lives and limbs are safe from this outrageous knave, who shall insure our meal and our malt, our herds and our flocks ?”’ “ Marry, that will I, my brethren,” said an aged monk. ‘“ Ah, brethren, you little know what may be made of a repent- ant robber. In Abbot Ingilram’s days—ay, and I remember them as it were yesterday—the free-booters were the best wel- come men that came to Saint Mary’s. Ay, they paid tithe of every drove that they brought over from the South, and because they were something lightly come by, I have known them make the tithe a seventh—that is, if their confessor knew his busi ness—ay, when we saw from the tower a score of fat bullocks or a drove of sheep coming down the valley, with two or three stout men-at-arms behind them with their glittering steel caps and their black-jacks, and their long lances, the good Lord Ab- bot Ingilram was wont to say—he was a merry man—There come the tithes of the spoilers of the Egyptians! Ay and | have seen the famous John the Armstrang—a fair man he wasTHE MONASTERY. Ig and a goodly, the more pity that hemp was ever heckled for him—I have seen him come into the Abbey-church with nine tassels of gold in his bonnet, and every tassel made of nine En- glish nobles, and he would go from chapel to chapel, and from image to image, and from altar to altar, on his knees—and leave here a tassel, and there a noble, till there was as little gold on his bonnet as on my hood—you will find no such Border thieves now!” “ No truly, Brother Nicolas,” answered the Abbot ; “ they are more apt to take any gold the Church has left than to bequeath or bestow any—and for cattle, beshrew me if I think they care whether beeves have fed on the meadows of Lanercost Abbey, or of Saint Mary’s!” “‘Thereis no good thing left in them,” said Father Nicolas; “they are clean naught—Ah, the thieves that I have seen !— such proper men! and as pitiful as proper, and as pious as pitiful ! ” “Itskills not talking of it, Brother Nicolas,” said the Abbot; “and I will now dismiss you, my brethren, holding your meeting upon this our inquisition concerning the danger of our reverend Sub-Prior, instead of the attendance on the lauds this evening—Yet let the bells be duly rung for the edification of the laymen without, and also that the novices may give due reverence.—And now, benedicite, brethren! ‘The cellarer will bestow on each a grace-cup and a morsel as ye pass the buttery, for ye have been turmoiled and anxious, and dangerous it is to fall asleep in such case with empty stomach.” a “ Gratias agimus guam maxwnas, Domine reverendissime,” replied the brethren, departing in their due order. But the Sub-Prior remained behind, and falling on his knees before the Abbot, as he was about to withdraw, craved him to hear under the seal of confession the adventures of the day. The reverend Lord Abbot yawned, and would have alleged fatigue ; but to Father Eustace, of all men, he was ashamed to show indifference in his religious duties. The confession, therefore, proceeded, in which Father Eustace told all the extraordinary circumstances which had befallen him during the journey. And being questioned by the Abbot, whether he was not conscious of any secret sin, through which he might have been subjected for a time to the delusions of evil spirits, the Sub-Prior admitted, with frank avowal, that he thought he might have deserved such penance for having judged with unfraternal rigor of the report of Father Philip the Sacristan. “ Heaven,” said the penitent, “may have been willing to116 THE MONASTERY. convince me, not only that he can at pleasure open a communi cation betwixt us and beings of a different, and, as we word it, supernatural class, but also to punish our pride of superior wis: dom, or superior courage, or superior learning. It is well said that virtue is its own reward ; and I question if duty was ever more completely recompensed, than by the audience which the reverend Abbot so unwillingly yielded to the confession of the Sub-Prior. To find the object of his fear, shall we say, or of his envy, or of both, accusing himself of the very error with which he had so tacitly charged him, was a corroboration of the Abbot’s judgment, a soothing of his pride, and an allaying of his fears. ‘The sense of triumph, however, rather increased than diminished his natural good-humor ; and so far was Abbot Boniface from being disposed to tyrannize over his Sub-Prior, in consequence of this discovery, that in his exhortation he hovered somewhat ludicrously betwixt the natural expression of his own gratified vanity, and his timid reluctance to hurt the feelings of Father Eustace. ‘¢ My brother,” said he, ex cathedra, ‘it cannc’ have escaped your judicious observation, that we have often declined our own judgment in favor of your opinion, even about those matters which most nearly concerned the community. Nevertheless, grieved would we be, could you think that we did this either because we deemed our own opinion less pregnant, or our wit more shallow, than that of ourother brethren. For it was done exclusively to give our younger brethren, such as your much esteemed self, my dearest brother, that courage which is neces- sary to.a free deliverance of your opinion,—we oft-times setting apart our proper judgment, that our inferiors, and especially our dear brother the Sub-Prior, may be comforted and encouraged in proposing valiantly his own thoughts. Which our deference and humility may, in some sort, have produced in your mind, most reverend brother, that self-opinion of parts and knowledge, which hath led unfortunately to your over-estimating your own faculties, and thereby subjecting yourself, as is but too visible, to the japes and mockeries of evil spirits. For it is assured that Heaven always holdeth us in the least esteem when we deem of ourselves most highly ; and also, on the other hand, it may be that we have somewhat departed from what became our high seat in this Abbey, in suffering ourselves to be too much guided, and even, as it were, controlled, by the voice of ourinferior. Wherefore.” continued the Lord Abbot, “in both of us such faults shall and must be amended—you hereafter presuming less upon your gifts and carnal wisdom, and I taking heed not so easily to relinquishTHE MONASTERY. ITY mine own opinion for that of one lower in place and in office, Nevertheless, we would not that we should thereby lose the: high advantage which we have derived, and may yet derive, from your wise counsels, which hath been so often recommended to us by our most Reverend Primate. Wherefore, on affairs of high moment, we will call you to our presence in private, and listen to your opinion, which, if it shall agree with our own, we will deliver to the Chapter, as emanating directly from ourselves : thus sparing you, dearest brother, that seeming victory Which is so apt to engender spiritual pride, and avoiding ourselves the temptation of falling into that modest facility of opinion, where- by our office is lessened and our person (were that of conse- quence) rendered less important in the eyes of the community over which we preside.” Notwithstanding the high notions which, as a rigid Catholic, Father Eustace entertained of the sacrament of confession, as his Church calls it, there was some danger that a sense of the ridiculous might have stolen on him, when he heard his Supe- rior, with such simple cunning, lay out a little plan for availing himself of the Sub-Prior’s wisdom and experience, while he should take the whole credit to himself. Yet his conscience immediately told him that he was right. ‘““ T should have thought more,” he reflected, “ of the spiritual Superior, and less of the individual. I should have spread my mantle over the frailties of my spiritual father, and done what I might to support his character, and, of course, to extend his utility among the brethren, as well as with others. The Abbot cannot be humbled, without the community being humbled in his person. Her boast is, that over all her children, especially over those called to places of distinction, she can diffuse those gifts which are necessary to render them illustrious.” Actuated by these sentiments, Father Eustace frankly as- sented to the charge which his Superior, even in that moment of authority, had rather intimated than made, and signified his humble acquiescence in any mode of communicating his counsel which might be most agreeable to the Lord Abbot, and might best remove from himself all temptation to glory in his own wisdom. He then prayed the Reverend Father to assign him such penance as might best suit his offence, intimating, at the same time, that he had already fasted the whole day. ‘“ Andit is that I complain of,” answered the Abbot, instead of giving him credit for his abstinence; “it is these very penances, fasts, and vigils, of which we complain ; as tending only to generate airs and fumes of vanity, which, ascending118 THE MONASTERY. from the stomach into the head, do but puff us up with vain slory and self-opinion. It is meet and beseeming that novices should undergo fasts and vigils ; for some part of every com- munity must fast, and young stomachs may best endure it. Besides, in them it abates wicked thoughts, and the desire of worldly delights. But, reverend brother, for those to fast who are dead and mortified to the world, as I and thou, is work of supererogation, and is but the matter of spiritual pride. Where- fore, I enjoin thee, most reverend brother, go to the buttery, and drink two cups at least of good wine, eating withal a com- fortable morsel, such as may best suit thy taste and stomach. And in respect that thine opinion of thy own wisdom hath at times made thee less comformable to and companionable with, the weaker and less learned brethren, I enjoin thee, during the said repast, to choose for thy companion our reverend brother Nicolas, and without interruption or impatience, to listen for a stricken hour to his narration concerning those things which befell in the times of our venerable predecessor, Abbot Ingilram, on whose soul may Heaven have mercy! And for such holy exercises as may farther advantage your soul, and expiate the faults whereof you have contritely and humbly avowed yourself guilty, we will ponder upon that matter, and announce our will unto you the next morning.” . It was remarkable, that after this memorable evening, the feelings of the worthy Abbot towards his adviser were much more kindly and friendly than when he deemed the Sub-Prior the impeccable and infallible person, in whose garment of virtue and wisdom no flaw was to be discerned. It seemed as if this avowal of his own imperfection had recommended Father Eustace to the friendship of the Superior, although at the same time this increase of benevolence was attended with some cir- cumstances, which, to a man of the Sub-Prior’s natural elevation of mind and temper, were more grievous than even undergoing the legends of the dull and verbose Father Nicolas. For instance, the Abbot seldom mentioned him to the other monks, without designing him our beloved Brother Eustace, poor man! —and now and then he used to warn the younger brethren against the snares of vain-glory and spiritual pride, which Satan sets for the more rigidly righteous, with such looks and demonstrations as did all but expressly designate the Sub-Prior as one who had fallen at one time under such delusions. Upon these occasions, it required all the votive obedience of a monk, all the philosophical discipline of the schools, and all the patience of a Christian, to enable Father Eustace to endure theTHE MONASTERY. t19 pompous and patronizing parade of his honest, but somewhat thick-headed Superior. He began himself to be desirous of leaving the Monastery, or at least he manifestly declined t interfere with its affairs, in that marked and authoritative m : ner which he had at first practised. ay) CHAPTER ELEVENTH. You call this education, do you not? Why ’tis the forced march of a herd of bullocks Before a shouting drover. The glad van Move on at ease, and pause a while to snatch A passing morsel from the dewy greensward, While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard That cripples in the rear. Op Pray. Two or three years glided on, during which the storm of the approaching alteration in church government became eacl. day louder and more perilous. Owing to the circumstances which we have intimated in the end of the last chapter, the Sub-Prior Eustace appeared to have altered considerably his habits of life. He afforded, on all extraordinary occasions, to the Abbot, whether privately, or in the assembled Chapter, the support of his wisdom and experience ; but in his ordinary habits he seemed now to live more for himself, and less for the community, than had been his former practice. He often absented himself for whole days from the con- vent ; and as the adventure of Glendearg dwelt deeply on his memory, he was repeatedly induced to visit that lonely tower, and to take an interest in the orphans who had their shelter underits roof. Besides, he felt a deep anxiety to know whether the volume which he had lost, when so strangely preserved from the lance of the murderer, had again found its way back to the Tower of Glendearg. “It was strange,’”’ he thought, “that a spirit,” for such he could not help judging the being whose voice he had heard, “ should, on the one side, seek the advancement of heresy, and, on the other, interpose to save the life of a zealous Catholic priest.” But from no inquiry which he made of the various inhabi tants of the Tower of Glendearg could he learn that the cop}120 THE MONASTERY. of the translated Scriptures, for which he made such diligent nquiry, had again been seen. by any of them. — be In the meanwhile the good father’s occasional visits were of no small consequence to Edward Glendinning and to Mary Avenel. The former displayed a power of apprehending and retaining whatever was taught him, which filled Father Eus- tace with admiration. . He was at once acute and industrious, alert and accurate ; one of those rare combinations of talent and industry which are seldom united. It was the earnest desire of Father Eustace that the excel- lent qualities thus early displayed by Edward should be dedi- cated to the service of the Church, to which he thought the youth’s own consent might be easily obtained, as he was of a calm, contemplative, retired habit, and seemed to consider knowledge as the principal object, and its enlargement as the greatest pleasure, in life. As to the mother, the Sub-Prior had little doubt that, trained as she was to view the monks of Saint Mary’s with such profound reverence, she would be but too happy in an opportunity of enrolling one of her sons in its honored community. But the good Father proved to be mis- taken in both these particulars. When he spoke to Elspeth Glendinning of that which a mother best loves to hear—the proficiency and abilities of her son —she listened with a delighted ear. But when Father Eustace hinted at the duty of dedicating to the service of the Church talents which seemed fitted to defend and adorn it, the dame endeavored always to shift the subject ; and when pressed farther, enlarged on her own incapacity, as a lone woman, to manage the feu ; on the advantage which her neigh- bors of the township were often taking of her unprotected state, and on the wish she had that Edward might fill his father’s place, remain in the tower, and close her eyes. On such occasions the Sub-Prior would answer, that even in a worldly point of view the welfare of the family would be best consulted by one of the sons entering into the community of Saint Mary’s, as it was not to be supposed that he would fail to afford his family the important protection which he could then easily extend towards them. What could be a more pleasing prospect than to see him high in honor? or what more sweet than to have the last duties rendered to her by a son revered for his holiness of life, and exemplary manners? Besides, he endeavored to impress upon the dame that her eldest son, Halbert, whose bold temper and headstrong indul- gence of a wandering humor rendered him incapable of learn-THE MONASTERY. 121 ing, wus, for that reason, as well as that he was her eldest born, fittest to bustle through the affairs of the world, and manage the little fief. Elspeth durst not directly dissent from what was proposed, tor fear of giving displeasure, and yet she always had some- thing to say against it. Halbert, she said, was not like any of the neighbor boys—he was taller by the head, and stronger by the half, than any boy of his years within the Halidome. But he was fit for no peaceful work that could be devised. If he liked a book ill, he liked a plough or a pattle worse. He had scoured his father’s old broadsword—suspended it by a belt round his waist, and seldom stirred without it, He was a sweet boy and a gentle if spoken fair, but cross him and he was a born devil. “In a word,” she said, bu sting into tears, “ deprive me of Edward, good father, and ye bereave my house of prop and pillar ; for my heart tells me that Halbert will take to his father’s gates, and die his father’s death.” When the conversation came to this crisis, the good-humored monk was always content to drop the discussion for the time, trusting some opportunity would occur of removing her prej- udices, for such he thought them, against Edward’s proposed destination. When, leaving the mother, the Sub-Prior addressed himself to the son, animating his zeal for knowledge, and pointing out how amply it might be gratified should he agree to take holy orders, he found the same repugnance which Dame Elspeth had exhibited. Edward pleaded a want of sufficient vocation to so serious a profession—his reluctance to leave his mother, and other objections, which the Sub-Prior treated as evasive. “TI plainly perceive,” he said one day, in answer to them, “that the devil has his factors as well as Heaven, and that they are equally, or, alas! the former are perhaps more active, in bespeaking for their master the first of the market. I trust, young man, that neither idleness, nor licentious pleasure, nor the love of worldly gain and worldly grandeur, the chief baits with which the great Fisher of souls conceals his hook, are the causes of your declining the career to which I would incite you. But above all I trust—above all I hope—that the vanity of superior knowledge—a sin with which those who have made proficiency in learning are most frequently beset—has not led you into the awful hazard of listening to the dangerous doc- trines which are now afloat concerning religion. Better for you that you were as grossly ignorant as the beasts which perish, than that the pride of knowledge should induce you ta122 THE MONASTERY. lend an ear to the voice of heretics.” Edward Glendinning listened to the rebuke with a downcast look, and failed not, when it was concluded, earnestly to vindicate himself from the charge of having pushed his studies into any subjects which the Church inhibited ; and so the monk was left to form vain conjectures respecting the cause of his reluctance to embrace the monastic state. It is an old proverb, used by Chaucer, and quoted by Eliza- beth, that “the greatest clerks are not the wisest men ;” and it is as true as if the poet had not rhymed, or the queen rea- soned on it. If Father Eustace had not had his thoughts turned so much to the progress of heresy, and so little to what was passing in the tower, he might have read, in the speaking eyes of Mary Avenel, now a girl of fourteen or fifteen, reasons which might disincline her youthful companion towards the monastic vows. I have said that she also was a promising pupil of the good father, upon whom her innocent and infan- tine beauty had an effect of which he was himself, perhaps, unconscious. Her rank and expectations entitled her to be taught the arts of reading and writing ;—and each lesson which the monk assigned her was conned over in company with Ed- ward, and by him explained and re-explained, and again illus- tated, until she became perfectly mistress of it.” In the beginning of their studies, Halbert had been their school companion. But the boldness and impatience of his disposition soon quarrelled with an occupation in which, without assiduity and unremitted attention, no progress was to be ex- pected. The Sub-Prior’s visits were at irregular intervals, and often weeks would intervene between them, in which case Halbert was sure to forget all that had been prescribed for him to learn, and much which he had partly acquired before. His deficiences on these occasions gave him pain, but it was not of that sort which produces amendment. For a time, like all who are fond of idleness, he endeavored to detach the attention of his brother and Mary Avenel from their task, rather than to learn his own, and such dialogues as the following would ensue :— “Take your bonnet, Edward, and make haste—the Laird of Colmslie is at the head of the glen with his hounds.” “‘T care not, Halbert,’’ answered the younger brother ; “‘ two brace of dogs may kill a deer without my being there to see them, and I must help Mary Avenel with her lesson.” “Ah! you will labor at the monk’s lessons till you turn monk yourself,” answered Halbert‘ Mary, will you go with me, and I will show you the cushat’s nest I told you of ?”THE MONASTERY. 123 ““T cannot go with you, Halbert,” answered Mary, “ because (must study this lesson—it will take me long to learn it—JI am sorry [am so dull; for if I could get my task as fast as Edward, I should like to go with you “ Should you indeed?” said Halbert ; “ then I will wait for you—and, what is more, I will try to get my lesson also.” With a smile and a sigh he took up the primer, and began heavily to con over the task which had been assigned him. As if banished from the society of the two others, he sat sad and solitary in one of the deep window-recesses, and after in vain struggling with the difficulties of his task, and his disinclination to learn it, he found himself involuntarily engaged in watching the movements of the other two students, instead of toiling any longer. The picture which Halbert looked upon was delightful in itself, but somehow or other it afforded very little pieasure to him. The beautiful girl, with looks of simple, yet earnest anxiety, was bent on disentangling those intricacies which obstructed her progress to knowledge, and looking ever and anon to Edward for assistance, while, seated close by her side, and watchful to remove every obstacle from her way, he seemed at once to be proud of the progress which his pupil made, and of the assistance which he was able to render her. There was a bond between them, a strong and interesting tie, the desire of obtaining knowledge, the pride of surmounting difficulties. Feeling most acutely, yet ignorant of the nature and source of his own emotions, Halbert could no longer endure to look upon this quiet scene, but, starting up, dashed his book from him, and exclaimed aloud, ‘“ To the fiend I bequeath all books, and the dreamers that make them !—I would a score of South- rons would come up the glen, and we should learn how little all this muttering and scribbling is worth.” Mary Avenel and his brother started, and looked at Halbert with surprise, while he went on with great animation, his features swelling, and the tears starting into his eyes as he spoke.—“ Yes, Mary—I wish a score of Southrons came up the glen this very day ; and you should see one good hand, and one good sword, do more to protect you, than all the books that were ever opened, and all the pens that ever grew on a goose’s wing.” ; oa Mary looked a little surprised and a little frightened at his vehemence, but instantly replied affectionately, “ You are vexed, Halbert, because you do not get your lesson so fast as EdwardTHE MONASTERY. 124 can ; and so am I, for I am as s.apid as you—But come, and Edward shall sit betwixt us and teach us.” “He shall not teach me,” said Halbert, in the same angry mood ; “I never can teach him to do anything that is honor- able and manly, and he shall not teach me any of his monkish tricks,—I hate the monks, with their drawling nasal tone like so many frogs, and their long black petticoats like so many women, and their reverences, and their lordships, and their lazy vassals that do nothing but peddle in the mire with plough and harrow from Yule to Michaelmas. I will call none lord, but him who wears a sword to make his title good; and I will call none man, but him that can bear himself manlike and mas- terful.” “For Heaven’s sake, peace, brother!” said Edward ; “if such words were taken up and reported out of the house, they would be our mother’s ruin.” “ Report them yourself, then, and they will be your making, and nobody’s marring save mine own. Say that Halbert Glen. dinning will never be vassal to an old man with a cowl and shaven crown, while there are twenty barons who wear casque and plume that lack bold followers. Let them grant you these wretched acres, and much meal may they bear you to make your drochan.” He left the room hastily, but instantly returned, and continued to speak with the same tone of quick and irritated feeling. “And you need not think so much, neither of you, and especially you, Edward, need not think so much of your parchment book there, and your cunning in_ reading it. By my faith, I will soon learn to read as well as you ; and—for I know a better teacher than your grim old monk, and a better book than his printed breviary ; and since you like scholarcraft so well, Mary Avenel, you shall see whether Edward or I have most of it.” He left the apartment, and came not again. ‘What can be the matter with him?” said Mary, following Halbert with her eyes from the window, as with hasty and un- equal steps he ran up the wild glen—‘‘ Where can your brother be going, Edward ?—what book ?>—what teacher does he talk Orn “Tt avails not guessing,” said Edward. ‘“ Halbertis angry, be knows not why, and speaks of he knows not what ; let us go again to our lessons, and he will come home when he has tired himself with scrambling among the crags as usual.” But Mary’s anxiety on account of Halbert seemed more deeply rooted. She declined prosecuting the task in which they had been so pleasingly engaged, under he excuse of aTHE MONASTERY. 128 headache ; nor could Edward prevail upon her to resume it again that morning, Meanwhile Halbert, his head unbonneted, his features swel led with jealous anger, and the tear stil] in his eye, sped up the wild and upper extremity of the little valley of ‘Giende earg with the speed of a roebuck. choosing, as if in des sperate defiance of the difficulties of the way, the wildest and most dangerous paths, and voluntarily exposing himself a hundred times to dangers which he m ight have escaped by turning a little aside from them. It seemed as if he wished his course to be as straight as that of the arrow to its mark, He arrived at length in a narrow and secluded cleugh, or deep ravine, which ran down into the valle ey, and ee scanty rivulet to the supply of the brook with which Glendearg is watered. U p this he sped with the same precipitate haste which had marked his departure from the tower, nor did he pause and look around until he had reached the fountain from which the rivulet had its rise. Here Halbert stopped short, and cast a gloomy, and almost a frightened glance around him. A huge rock rose in frot it, from a cleft of which grew a wild holly-tree, whose dark green branches rustled over the spring which arose beneath. The banks on either hand rose so high, and approached each other so Closely, that it was only when the sun was at its meridian height, and du rinz the summer solstice, that its rays could reach the bottom of the chasm in which he stood. But it was now summer, and the hour was noon, so that the unwonted reflec- tion of the sun was dancing in the pellucid fountain. “It is the season and the hour,” said Halbert to himself ; “and now I——I might soon become wiser than Edward with all his pains! Mary should see whether he alone is fit to be consulted, and to sit by her side, and hang over her as she reads, and point out every word and every letter. And she loves me better than him—I am sure she does—for she comes of noble blood, and scorns sloth and cowardice.—And do I myself not stand here slothful and. cowardly as any priest of them all?—Why should I fear to call upon this form—this shape >— Already have I endured the vision, and why not again? What can it doto me, who am a man of lith and limb, and have by my side my father’s sword? Does my heart beat —do my hairs bristle, at the thought of calling up a painted shadow, and how should I face a band of Southrons in flesh and blood? By the soul of the first Glendinning, I will make proof of the charm !”— en Be ec re it hl be er at eae YT | 126 THE MONASTERY. He cast the leathern brogue or buskin from his right foot, planted himself in a firm posture, unsheathed his sword, and frst looking around to collect his resolution, he bowed three times deliberately towards the holly-tree, and as often to the little fountain, repeating at the same time, with a determined voice, the following rhyme :— Noon gleams on the Lake— Noon glows on the Fell— Wake thee, O wake, White Maid of Avenel !” “Thrice to the holly brake— Thrice to the well: I bid thee awake, White Maid of Avenel! These lines were hardly uttered, when there stood the figure of a female clothed in white, within three steps of Halbert Glendinning. “T guess ’twas frightful there to see A lady richly clad as she— Beautiful exceedingly.” * CHAPTER TWELFTGE, There’s something in that ancient superstition, Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. The spring that, with its thousand crystal bubbles, Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock In secret solitude, may well be deem’d The haunt of something purer, more refined, And mightier than ourselves. Op Pray. Younc Halbert Glendinning had scarcely pronounced the mystical rhymes, than, as we have mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter, an appearance, as of a beautiful female, dressed in white, stood within two yards of him. His terror for the moment overcame his natural courage, as well as the strong resolution which he had formed, that the figure which he had now twice seen should not a third time daunt him, But it would seem there is something thrilling and abhorrent to flesh and blood in the consciousness that we stand in presence of a being in form like to ourselves, but so different in faculties and nature, that we can neither understand its purposes, nor calculate its means of pursuing them. _ Halbert stood silent and gasped for breath, his hairs erect- ing themselves on his head—his mouth open—his eyes fixed, * Coleridge’s Christabel.hays if sek \ WHeasS Ay 4 wy 2 PN { MH }) Wg UW y i, oN { Mil Wit al A ae AEN KKK EAN WN \\\ S \ . Sus > \ Yi Ee . \ Naty oS > NHS ed ¥ hl) iy \ Wh THE WHITE LADY, Hi HIM ASHE Be RU SIT nt Has Hah) Asie Ss [its; - os c PTHE MONASTERY. 127 and, as tlie sole remaining sign of his late determined purpose his sword pointed towards the apparition. At length, with a . . i y . : voice of ineffable sweetness, the White Lady, for by that name we shall distinguish this being, sung, or rather chanted, the following lines :— “Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me? Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee? He that seeks to deal with us must know no fear nor failing ! To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing. The breeze that brought me hither now, must sweep Egyptian ground, The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound: — The fleecy cloud is drifting by; the breeze sighs for my Stay, For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.” ~ The astonishment of Halbert began once more to give way oS to his resolution, and he gained voice enough to say, though with a faltering accent, “In the name of God, what art thou ?” The answer was in melody of a different tone and measure :— “What I am I must not show— What I am thou couldst not know— Something betwixt heaven and hell— Something that neither stood nor fell— Something that through thy wit or will May work thee good—may work thee ill. Neither substance quite nor shadow, Haunting lonely moor and meadow Dancing by the haunted spring, Riding on the whirlwind’s wing ; Aping in fantastic fashion Every change of human passion, While o’er our frozen minds they pass, Like shadows from the mirror’d glass. Wayward, fickle is our mvod, Hovering betwixt bad and good, Happier than brief-dated man, Living twenty times his span; Far less happy, for we have Help nor hope beyond the grave! Man awakes to joy or sorrow: Ours the sleep that knows no morrow This is all that I can show— This is all that thou mayest know.” The White Lady paused, and appeared to await an answer. but, as Halbert hesitated how to frame his speech, the vision seemed gradually to fade, and became more and more incor- poreal. Justly guessing this to be a symptom of her disap: pearance, Halbert compelled himself to say,—‘‘ Lady, when I Saw you in the glen, and when you brought back the blackee THE MONASTERY. 128 book of Lady of Avenel, th to read it.” : The White Lady replied, ou didst say I should one day tearn “ Ay! and I taught thee the word and the spell, To waken me here by the Fairies’ Well: But thou hast loved the heron and hawk, More than to seek my haunted walk ; And thou hast loved the lance and the sword, More than good text and holy word; And thou hast loved the deer to track, More than the lines and the letters black ; And thou art a ranger of moss and of wood, And scornest the nurture of gentle blood.” “JT will do so no longer, fair maiden,” said Halbert ; “I desire to learn ; and thou didst promise me, that when I did so desire, thou wouldst be my helper; | am no longer afraid of thy presence, and I am no longer regardless of instruction.” As he uttered these words, the figure of the White Maiden grew gradually as distinct as it had been at first ; and what had well-nigh faded into an ill-defined and colorless shadow, again assumed an appearance at least of corporeal consistency, although the hues were less vivid, and the outline of the figure less distinct and defined—so at least it seemed to Halbert— than those of an ordinary inhabitant of the earth, ‘“ Wilt thou grant my request,” he said, “ fair Lady, and give to my keep- ing the holy book which Mary of Avenel has so often wept for?” The White Lady replied : “Thy craven fear my truth accused; Thine idlehood my trust abused ; He that draws to harbor late, Must sleep without, or burst the gate. There is a star for thee which burn’d, Its influence wanes, its course is turn’d; Valor and constancy alone Can bring thee back the chance that’s flown.” PEM PATE “Tf I have been a loiterer, Lady,’ answered young Glen- dinning, “thou shalt now find me willing to press forward with double speed. Other thoughts have filled my mind, other thoughts have engaged my heart, within a brief period—and, by Heaven, other occupations shall henceforward fill up my time. I have lived in this day the space of years—I came hither a boy—I will return a man—a man, such as may con- verse not only with his own kind, but with whatever God per: mits to be visible to him. I will learn the contents of thatTHE MONASTERY 129 mysterious volume—I wil] learn why the Lady of Avenel loy ed it—why the priests feared, and woul d have stolen it—why thou didst twice recover it from their hands, What mystery is Wwrapt in it ?—Speak, I ites e thee! The lady assumed an air peculiarly sad and solemn, as droopi ing her head, and fold- ing her arms on her bosom. she replied : “Within that awful volume lies To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, The mystery of mysteries |! To lift ti late i: and force the way; Happi est they of human rac e, And better had they ne’er been born, To whom God has granted grace Who re: id to doubt, or read to scorn.’ ‘Give me the volume. Lady,” said young Glendinning. They call me idle—they call me dull- in this pursuit my industry shall not fail, nor. with God’s_ blessing, shall my understanding, Give me the volume,” The app yarition again replied :— “Many a fathom dark and de ep I have lai d the book to Slee Ethereal fires around it glowing— Ethereal music ever flowing— The sacred pledge of Heav’n All things revere, Each in his sphere, Save man for whom ’twas giv’n: Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy Things ne’er seen by mortal eye.” Halbert Glendinning boldly reached his hand to the White Lady ‘Fearest thou to go with me?” she said, as his hand trembled at the soft and cold touch of her own— ‘“‘fearest thou to go with me? Still it is free to thee A peasant to dwell: Thou mayest drive the dull steer, And chase the king’s Gee Tr, But never more come near This haunted well.” “If what thou sayest be true,” said the undaunted boy, ‘my destinies are higher than thine own. ‘There shall be neither well nor wood which I dare not visit. No fear of aught, natural or supernatural, shall bar my path through my native valley.” He had scarce Petica the words, when they both descended throvgh the earth with rapidity which took away Halbert’s breath and every other swhatigit saving that of being hurried on with the utmost velocity. At length they stopped with a 9130 THE MONASTERY. shock so sudden, that the mortal journeyer though this un known space must have been thrown down with violence, had he not been upheld by his supernatural companion. It was more than a minute, ere, looking around him, he beheld a grotto, or natural cavern, composed of the most splendid spars and crystals, which returned in a thousand pris- matic hues the light of a brilliant flame that glowed on an altar of alabaster. ‘This altar, with its fire, formed the central point of the grotto, which was of round form, and very high in the roof, resembling in some respects the dome of a cathedral. Corresponding to the four points of the compass, there went off four long galleries, or arcades, constructed of the same brilliant materials with the dome itself, and the termination of which was lost in darkness. No human imagination can conceive, or words suffice to describe, the glorious radiance which, shot fiercely forth by the flame, was returned from so many hundred thousand points of reflection, afforded by the sparry pillars and their numerous angular crystals. The fire itself did not remain steady and unmoved, but rose and fell, sometimes ascending in a brilliant pyramid of condensed flame half-way up the lofty expanse, and again fading into a softer and more rosy hue, and hovering, as it were, on the surface of the altar to collect its strength for another powerful exertion. There was no visible fuel by which it was fed, nor did it emit either smoke or vapor of any kind. What was of all the most remarkable, the black volume so often mentioned lay not only unconsumed, but untouched in the slightest degree, amid this intensity of fire, which, while it seemed to be of force sufficient to melt adamant, had no effect whatever on the sacred book thus subject to its utmost influence. The White Lady, having paused long enough to let young Glendinning take a complete survey of what was round him, now said in her usual chant, “ Here lies the volume thou boldly hast sought ; Touch it, and take it,—’twill dearly be bought!” Familiarized in some degree with marvels, and desperately desirous of showing the courage he had boasted, Halbert plunged his hand, without hesitation, into the flame, trusting to the rapidity of the motion, to snatch out the volume before the fire could greatly affect him. But he was much disap- pointed, The flame instantly caught upon his sleeve, and though he withdrew his hand immediately, yet his arm was sO dreadfully scorched, that he had well-nigh screamed with painTHE MONASTERY. 72 P3i He suppressed the natural expression of anguish, however, and only intimated the agony which he felt by a contortion and a ee groan. T’he White Lady passed her cold hand over us arm, and, ere she had finished the followjno ‘J s Owing metric: his pain had entirely ¢ 1 Reece | P y gone, and no mark of the scorching was visible :— “Rash thy deed, Mortal weed To immortal flames applying ; Rasher trust ‘ Has thing of dust, On his own weak worth replying Strip thee of such fences vain, ~ Strip, and prove thy luck again.”’ Obedient to what he understood to be the meaning of his conductress, Halbert bared his arm to the shoulder, throwing down the remains of his sleeve, which no sooner touched the floor on which he stood than it collected itself together, shrivelled itself up, and was without any visible fire reduced to light tinder, which a sudden breath of wind dispersed into empty space. ‘I'he White Lady, observing the surprise of the youth, immediately repeated— ce Mortal warp and mortal woof, Cannot brook this charmed roof ; All that mortal art hath wrought, In our cell returns to naught. The molten gold returns to clay, The polish’d diamond melts away ; All is alter’d, all is flown, Naught stands fast but truth alone. Not for that thy quest give o’er: Courage ! prove thy chance once more.” Imboldened by her words, Halbert Glendinning made a second effort, and, plunging his bare arm into the flame, took out the sacred volume without feeling either heat or incon- venience of any kind. Astonished, and almost terrified at his own success, he beheld the flame collect itself, and shoot up into one long and final stream, which seemed as if it would ascend to the very roof of the cavern, and then, sinking as suddenly, became totally extinguished. The deepest darkness ensued ; but Halbert had no time to consider his situation, for the White Lady had already caught his hand, and they ascended to upper air with the same velocity with which they had sunk into the earth.CAAT TN PEP eA act STS Paya CT OSE TN Shas STS LEE OTe ete Tetucete nt. iad Lit Dae vite tet ty Ta Tea i 7 CERES TLE 132 THE MONASTERY. They stood by the fountain in the Corri-nan-shian when they emerged from the bowels of the earth ; but on casting a bewil. dered glance around him, the youth was surprised to observe that the shadows had fallen far to the east, and that the day was well-nigh spent. He gazed on his conductress for explana tion, but her figure began to fade before his eyes—her cheeks erew paler, her features less distinct, her form became shadowy, and blended itself with the mist which was ascending the hollow ravine. What had late the symmetry of form, and the delicate, yet clear hues of feminine beauty, now resembled the flitting and pale ghost of some maiden who has died for love, as it is seen indistinctly and by moonlight, by her perjured lover. ; “ Stay, spirit |” said the youth, imboldened by his success in the subterranean dome, “ thy kindness must not leave me, as one encumbered with a weapon he knows not how to wield. Thou must teach me the art to read and to understand this volume ; else what avails it me that I possess it?” But the figure of the White Lady still waned before his eye, until it became an outline as pale and indistinct as that of the moon when the winter morning is far advanced, and ere she had ended the following chant, she was entirely invisible :— “ Alas ! alas! Not ours the grace These holy characters to trace : Idle forms of painted air, Not to us is given to share The boon bestow’d on Adam’s race ! With patience bide, Heaven will provide The fitting time, the fitting guide.” The form was already gone, and now the voice itself had melted away in melancholy cadence, softening, as if the Being who spoke had been slowly wafted from the spot where she had commenced her melody. It was at this moment that Halbert felt the extremity of the terror which he had hitherto so manfully suppressed. The very necessity of exertion had given him spirit to make it, and the presence of the mysterious Being, while it was subject of fear in itself, had nevertheless given him the sense of protection being near to him. It was when he could reflect with compo- sure on what had passed, that a cold tremor shot across his limbs, his hair bristled, and he was afraid to look around lest he should find at his elbow something more frightful than theTHE MONASTERY. 133 first vision. A breeze arising sud denly realized the beautiful and wild idea of the most ima: ginative of our modern bards *— It fann’d his cheek, it raised his hair, Like a meadow gale in spring ; It mingled strange ly with his fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. The youth stood silent and astonished for a few minutes. It seemed to him that the extra yrdinary Being he had seen, half his terror, half his protectress, was still hovering on the gale which swept past him, and that She mig ght again “make herself sensible to his organs of sight. > Speak ! 1 he said, wildly toss- ing his arms, ‘ speak yet oe 2a once more present, lovely vision !—thrice have I now seen thee, yet the idea of thy invis- ible presence around or beside me, makes my heart beat faster than if the earth yawned and gave up a demon.” But neither sound nor appearance indicated the presenge of the White Lady, and nothing preternatural beyond what he had already witnessed, was again audible or visible. Halbert in the meanwhile, by the very exertion of again inviting the presence of this mysterious Being, had recovered his natural audacity. He looked around once more, and resumed his solitary path down the valley into whose recesses he had penetrated. Nothing could be more strongly contrasted than the storm of passion with which he had bounded over stock and crag, in order to plunge himself into the Corri-nan-shian, and the sobered mood in which he now returned homeward, industri- ously seeking out the most practicable path, not from a wish to avoid dancer, but that he might not by personal toil distract his attention, dee] oly fixed on the extraordinary scene which he had witnessed. i. the former case, he had sought by hazard and bodily exertion to indulge at once the fiery excitation of passion, and to banish the cause of the excitement from his recollection ; while now he studiously avoided all interruption to his contemplative walk, lest the di fficulty of the way should interfere with, or disturb, his own deep reflections. Thus slowly pacing forth his course, with the air of a pilgrim rather than of a deer-hunter, Halbert about the close of the evening regained his paternal tower. * Coleridge.THE MONASTERY. CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. The Miller was of manly make, To meet him was na mows ; There durst na ten come him to take, Sae noited he their pows. CurisT’s KIRK ON THE GREEN. It was after sunset, as we have already stated, when Hal bert Glendinning returned to the abode of his father. The hour of dinner was at noon, and that of supper about an hour after sunset at this period of the year. ‘The former had passed without Halbert’s appearing ; but this was no uncommon cir- cumstance, for the chase, or any other pastime which occurred, made Halbert a frequent neglecter of hours ; and his mother, though angry and disappointed when she saw him not at table, was so much accustomed to his occasional absence, and knew so little how fo teach him more regularity, that a testy observation was almost all the censure with which such omissions were visited. On the present occasion, however, the wrath of good Dame Elspeth soared higher than usual. It was not merely on ac- count of the special tup’s head and trotters, the haggis and the side of mutton, with which her table was set forth, but also be- cause of the arrival of no less a person than Hob Miller, as he was universally termed, though the man’s name was Happer. The object of the Miller’s visit to the Tower of Glendearg was like the purpose of those embassies which potentates send to each other’s courts, partly ostensible, partly politic. In out- ward show, Hob came to visit his friends of the Halidome, and share the festivity common among country folk, after the barn- yard has been filled, and to renew old intimacies by new con- viviality. But in very truth he also came to have an eye upon the contents of each stack, and to obtain such information re- specting the extent of the crop reaped and gathered in by each feuar, as might prevent the possibility of abstracted multures. All the world knows that the cultivators of each barony o1 regality, temporal or spiritual, in Scotland, are obliged to bring their corn to be grinded at the mill of the territory, for which they pay a heavy charge, called the cntown muitures. I could speak to the thirlage of zzvecta et illata too, but let that pass. I have said enough to intimate that I talk not without book. Those of the Sucken, or enthralled ground, were liable in penal- ties, if, deviating from this thirlage (or thraldom), they carried their grain to another mill. Nowsuch another mill, erected onTHE MONASTERY. 135 the lands of a lay-baron, lay within a tempting and convenient distance of Glendearg ; and the Miller was so obliging and his charges so moderate, that it required Hob Miller’s utmost vigilance to prevent evasions of his right of monopoly. The most effectual means he could devise was this show of good fellowship and neighborly friendship,—under color of which he made his annual cruise through the barony—numbered every corn-stack, and computed its contents by the boll, so that he could give a shrewd hint afterwards whether or not the grist came to the right mill. Dame Elspeth, like her compeers, was obliged to take these domiciliary visits in the sense of politeness ; but in her case they had not occurred since her husband’s death, probably be- cause the Tower of Glendearg was distant, and there was but a trifling quantity of arable or zzjiedd land attached to it. This year there had been, upon some speculation of old Martin’s, several bolls sown in the outfield, which, the season being fine, had ripened remarkably well. Perhaps this circumstance oc- casioned the honest Miller’s including Glendearg, on this occa- sion, in his annual round. Dame Glendinning received with pleasure a visit which she used formerly only to endure with patience; and she had changed her view of the matter chiefly, if not entirely, because Hob had brought with him his daughter Mysie, of whose feat- ures she could give so slight an account, but whose dress she had described so accurately to the Sub-Prior, Hitherto this girl had been an object of very trifling con- sideration in the eyes of the good widow; but the Sub-Prior’s particular and somewhat mysterious inquiries had set her brains to work on the subject of Mysie of the Mill; and she had here asked a broad question, and there she had thrown out an innuendo, and there again she had gradually led on toa con- versation on the subject of poor Mysie. And from all inquiries and investigations she had collected, that Mysie was a dark-eyed laughter-loving wench, with cherry-cheeks, and a skin as white as her father’s finest bolted flour, out of which was made the Abbot’s own wastel-bread. For her temper, she sung and laughed from morning to night ; and for her fortune, a material article, besides that which the Miller might have amassed by means of his proverbial golden thumb, Mysie was to inherit a good handsome lump of land, with a prospect of the mill and mill-acres descending to her husband on an easy lease, if a fair word were spoken in season to the Abbot, and to the Prior, and to the Sub-Prior, and to the Sacristan, and so forth.£36 THE MONASTERY. ain turning these advantages over in her leneth came to be of opinion, that the only way to save her son Halbert from a life of “spur, spear, and snaffle,” as they called that of the border-riders, from the dint of a cloth-yard shaft, or the loop of an inch-cord, was, that he should marry and settle, and that Mysie Happer should be his destined bride. As if to her wish, Hob Miller arrived on his strong-built mare, bearing on a pillion behind him the lovely Mysie, with cheeks like a peony-rose af Dame Glendinning had ever seen one) spirits all afloat with rustic coquetry, and a profusion of hair as black as ebony. ‘The beau-idéal which Dame Glen- dinning had been bodying forth in her imagination, became unexpectedly realized in the buxom form of Mysie Happer, whom, in the course of half-an-hour, she settled upon as the maiden who was to fix the restless and untutored Halbert. True, Mysie, as the dame soon saw, was like to love dancing round a May-pole as well as managing a domestic establish- ment, and Halbert was like to break more heads than he would grind stacks of corn. But then a miller should always be of manly make, and has been described so since the days of Chaucer and James [.* Indeed, to be able to outdo and bully the whole Suckez (once more we use this barbarous phrase), in all athletic exercises, was one way to render easy the collection of dues which men would have disputed with a less formidable champion. Then, as to the deficiencies of the miller’s wife, the dame was of opinion that they might be supplied by the activity of the miller’s mother. ‘I will keep house for the young folk myself, for the tower is grown very lonely,” thought Dame Glendinning, ‘and to live near the kirk will be mair comfortable in my auld age—and then Edward may agree with his brother about the feu, more especially as he is a favorite with the Sub-Prior, and then he may live in the auld tower like his worthy father before him—and wha kens but Mary Avenel, high-blood as she is, may e’en draw in her stool to the chimney-nook, and sit down here for good and By turning and ag own mind, Elspeth at * The verse we have chosen for a motto to this chapter is from a poem imputed to James I. of Scotland. As for the Miller who figures among the Canterbury pilgrims, besides his sword and buckler, he boasted other attributes, all of which, but especial the last, show that he relied more on the strength of the outside than that of the inside of his skull. The miller was a stout carl for the nones, Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones} That proved well, for wheresoe’er he cam, At wrestling he wold bear away the ram; He was short shoulder’d, broad, a thick gnar 3 There n’as no door that he n’old heave of bar, Or break it at a running with his head, ete.THE MONASTERY. 137 a ?’—'t’s true she has no t ocher, but the like of her for beauty and sense ne’er crossed my een; and I have keid every wench in the Halidome of Saint Mary’s—ay, and their mothers that bore them—ay, she is a sweet and a lovely creature as ever tied snood over brown hair—ay, and then. though her uncle keeps her out of her ain for the present time, yet it is to be thought the gtay-goose shaft will find a hole in his coat of proof, as, God help us! it has done in many a better man’s—And, moreover, if they should stand on their pedigree and gentle race, Edward might say to them, that is, to her gentle kith and kin, ‘ Whilk o’ ye was her best friend when she came down the glen to Glendearg in a mj isty evening, on a beast mair like a cuddy than aught else ?’—And jf they tax him with churl’s blood, Edward might say, that, forby the old proverb, how Gentle deed Makes gentle bleid; yet, moreover, there comes no churl’s blood from Glendinning or Brydone ; for, s says Edward——_” The hoarse voice of the M liller at this moment recalled the dame from her reverie, and compelled her to remember ce if she meant to realize her airy castle, she must begin by laying the foundation in civility to her guest and his daughter, whom she was at that moment most str: angely neglecting, though her whole plan turned on conciliating their favor and good opinion, and that, in fact, while arranging matters for so intimate a union with her company, she was suffering them to sit unno- ticed, and in their riding gear, as if about to resume their journey. “And soI say, dame,” concluded the Miller (forshe had not marked the beginning of his speech), “an ye "DE So busied with your housekep, or ought else, why, Mysie and [I will trot our way down the glen again to Johnnie Broxmouth’s, who pressed us right kindly to bide with him.” Starting at once from her dream of marriages and intermar- riages, mills, mill-lands, and baronies, Dame Elspeth felt for a moment like the milk-maid in the fable, when she overset the pitcher, on the contents of which so many golden dreams were founded. But the foundation of Dame Glendinning’s hopes was only tottering, not overthrown, and she hastened to restore its equilibrium. Instead of attempting to account for her absence of mind and want of attention to her guests, which she might have found something difficult, she assumed the offensive, like an able general when he finds it necessary, by a bold attack, to disguise his weakness,ITE MONASTERY. loud exclamation she made, and a passicnate complaint she set up against the unkindness of her old friend, who could for an instant doubt the heartiness of her welcome to him and to his hopeful daughter ; and then to think of his going back to John Broxmouth’s when the auld tower stood where it did, and had room in it for a friend or two in the worst of times—and he too a neighbor that his umquhile gossip Simon, blessed be his cast, used to think the best friend he had in the Halidome! And on she went urging her complaint with so much serious- ness, that she had well-nigh imposed on herself as well as upon Hob Miller, who had no mind to take anything in dudgeon ; and as it suited his plans to pass the night at Glendearg, would have been equally contented to do so, even had his reception been less vehemently hospitable. To all Elspeth’s expostulations on the unkindness of his proposal to leave her dwelling, he answered composedly, “ Nay, dame, what could I tell? ye might have had other grist to grind, for ye looked as if ye scarce saw us—or what know I? ye might bear in mind the words Martin and I had about the last barley ye sawed—for I ken dry multures * will sometimes stick in the throat. A man seeks but his awn, and yet folk shall hold him for both miller and miller’s man, that is miller and knave,f all the country over.” “Alas, that you will say so, neighbor Hob,” said Dame Elspeth, “ or that Martin should have had any words with you about the mill-dues! I will chide him roundly forit, I promise you, on the faith of a true widow. You know full well that a lone woman is sore put upon by her servants.” “ Nay, dame,” said the miller, unbuckling the broad belt which made fast his cloak, and served, at the same time, to suspend by his side a swinging Andrea Ferrara, “ bear no grudge at Martin, for I bear none—I take it on me asa thing of mine office, to maintain my right of multure, lock and goupen.t And reason good, for as the old song says, I live by my mill, God bless her; She’s parent, child, and wife. The poor old slut, I am beholden to her for my living, and _* Dry multures were a fine, or compensation in money, for not grinding at the mill of the ‘hirl. It was and is accounted a vexatious exaction. Pate under miller is, in the language of thirlage, called the knave, which, indeed signified originally his lad (Kmabe—German), but by degrees came to be taken in a worse sense. In the old translations of the Bible, Paul is made to term himself the knave of our Saviour. The allowance of meal taken by the miller’s servant was called knaveship. ¢ The multure was the regular exaction for grinding the meal. The Zoc&, signifying a small quantity, and the gougen, a handful, were additional perquisites demanded by the miller, and submitted to or resisted by the Suckener as circumstances permitted. hese and other petty dues were called in general the Segueds.THE MONASTERY. 13y sound to stand by her, as I say to my mill knaves, in right and in wrong. And so should every honest fellow stand by his bread- winner.—And so, Mysie, ye may doff your cloak since our neigh- bor is so kindly glad to see us—why, I think we are as blithe to see her—not one in the Halidome pays their multures more duly, sequels, arriage, and carriage, and mill-services, used and wont.” With that the Miller hung his ample cloak without farther ceremony upon a huge pair of stag’s antlers, which adorned at once the naked walls of the tower, and served for what we vul- garly call cloak-pins. In the mean time Dame Elspeth assisted to disembarrass the damsel, whom she destined for her future d. ughter-in-law, of her hood, mantle, and the rest of her riding gear, giving her to appear as beseemed the buxom daughter of the wealthy Miller, gay and goodly, in a white kirtle, the seams of which were embroidered with green silken lace or fringe, entwined with some silver thread. An anxious glance did Elspeth cast upon the good-humored face, which was now more fully shown to her, and was only obscured by a quantity of raven black hair, which the maid of the mill had restrained by a snood of green silk, embroidered with silver, corresponding to the trimmings of herkirtle. The countenance itself was exceedingly comely— the eyes black, large, and roguishly good-humored—the mouth was small—the lips well formed, though somewhat full—the teeth were pearly white—and the chin had a very seducing dimple in it. The form belonging to this joyous face was full and round, and firm and fair. It might become coarse and masculine some years hence, which is the common fault of Scottish beauty ; but in Mysie’s sixteenth year she had the shape of a Hebe. The anxious Elspeth, with all her maternal partiality, could not help admitting within herself, that a better man than Halbert might go farther and fare worse. She looked a little giddy, and Halbert was not nineteen ; still it was time he should be settled, for to that point the dame always returned ; and here was an excellent opportunity. The simple cunning of Dame Elspeth now exhausted itself in commendations of her fair guest, from the snood, as they say, to the single-soled shoe. Mysie listened and blushed with pleasure for the first five minutes ; but ere ten had elapsed, she began to view the old lady’s compliments rather as subjects of mirth than of vanity, and was much more disposed to laugh at than to be flattered with them, for Nature had mingled the good-humor with which she had endowed the damsel with nori Pe; CA ath scr! . Fe is your angle? s henchman, that they call Christie of the C linthill ; and he has not his old green jerkin and the rusty black- jack over it, but a scarlet cloak, laid down with silver lace ibe inches broad, and a breast- plate you might see to dress your hair in, as well as in that keeking glass in the ivory frame that you showed me even now. Come, dear lady, come to the shot- window and see him.” “If it be the man you mean, Mysie,” replied the orphan of Avenel, “ I shall see him soon enough, Monaltteatit either the pleasure or comfort the sight will give me.” “ Nay, but if you will not come to see gay Christie,” replied the Maid of the Mill, her face flushed with eager curiosity, ‘come and tell me who the gallant is that is with him, the handsomest, the very lovesomest young man I ever saw with sight. ‘ It is my foster-brother, Halbert Glendinning,” said Mary, with apparent indifference ; for she had been accustomed to call the sons of Elspeth her foster -brethren, and to live with them as if they had been brothers in earnest. “Nay, by Our Lady, that it is not,” said Mysie ; “I know the favor of both the Glendinnings well, and-I think this rider be not of our country. He has a crimson velvet bonnet, and long brown hair falling down under it, and a beard on his upper lip, and his chin “clean and close shaved, save a smiail patch on the point of the chin, and a sky-blue jerkin slashed and lined with white satin, and trunk-hose to suit, and no weapon but a :apier and dagger —Well, if I was a man, | IO ueTHE MONASTERY. would never wear weapon but the rapier ! it is So slender and becoming, instead of having a cartload of iron at my back, like my father’s broadsword with its great rusty basket-hilt. Dc you not delight in the rapier and poniard, lady? “The best sword,” answered Mary, “ :f I must needs answet a question of the sort, ‘s that which is drawn in the best cause, and which is best used when it is out of the scabbard.” “ But can you not guess who this stranger should be?” said Mysie. “Indeed, I cannot even attempt it ; but, to judge by his companion, it is no matter how little he is known,” replied Mary. “ My benison on his bonny face,” said Mysie, ‘if he is not going to alight here! Now, I am as much pleased as if my father had given me the silver earrings he has promised me so often ;— nay, you had as well come to the window, for you must see him by and by whether you will or ROL. I do not know how much sooner Mary Avenel might have sought the point of observation, if she had not been scared from it by the unrestrained curiosity expressed by her buxom friend ; but at length the same feeling prevailed over her sense of dignity, and satisfied with having displayed all the indiffer- ence that was necessary in point of decorum, she no longer thought herself bound to restrain her curiosity. From the out-shot or projecting window, she could perceive that Christie of the Clinthill was attended on the present occa- sion by a very gay and gallant cavalier, who from the noble- ness of his countenance and manner, his rich and handsome dress, and the showy appearance of his horse and furniture, must, she agreed with her new friend, be a person of some conse- quence. Christie also seemed conscious of something, which made him call out with more than his usual insolence of manner, ‘‘What, ho! so ho! the house! Churl peasants, will no one answer when I call?—Ho! Martin,—Tibb,—Dame Glendin- ning !—a murrain on you, must we stand keeping our horses in the cold here, and they steaming with heat, when we have ridden so sharply?” At length he was obeyed, and old Martin made his appear- ance. “Ha!” said Christie, “art thou there, old Truepenny? bere, stable me these steeds and see them well bedded, and stretch thine old limbs by rubbing them down; and see thou a not the stable till there is not a turned hair on either of em.LHE MONASTERY. 147 Martin took the horses to the stable as commanded, but suppressed not his indignation a moment after he could vent tt with safety. “ Would not anyone think,” he said to Jasper, an old ploughman, who, in coming to his assistance, had heard Christie’s imperious injunctions, “ that this loon, this Christie of the Clinthill, was laird or lord at least of him? No such thing, man! I remember him a little dirty turnspit boy in the house of Avenel, that everybody in a frosty morning like this warmed his fingers by kicking or cuffing! and now he is a gentleman, and swears, d—n him and renounce him, as if the gentlemen could not so much as keep their own wickedness to themselves, without the like of him going to hell in their very company, and by the same road. I have as much a mind as ever I had to my dinner, to go back and tell him to sort his horse himself, since he is as able as I am.” “ Hout tout, man!” answered Jasper, “ keep a calm sough ; better to fleech a fool than fight with him.” Martin acknowledged the truth of the proverb, and, much comforted therewith, betook himself to cleaning the stranger’s horse with great assiduity, remarking, it was a pleasure to handle a handsome nag, and turned over the other to the charge of Jasper. Nor was it until Christie’s commands were literally complied with that he deemed it proper, after fitting ablutions, to join the party in the spence ; not for the purpose of waiting upon them, as a mere modern reader might possibly expect, but that he might have his share of dinner in their company. In the meanwhile Christie had presented his companion to Dame Glendinning as Sir Piercie Shafton, a friend of his and of his master, come to spend three or four days with little din in the tower. The good dame could not conceive how she.was entitled to such an honor, and would fain have pleaded her want of every sort of convenience to entertain a guest of that quality. But, indeed, the visitor, when he cast his eyes round the bare walls, eyed the huge black chimney, scrutinized the meagre and broken furniture of the apartment, and beheld the embarrassment of the mistress of the family, intimated great reluctance to intrude upon Dame Glendinning a visit, which could scarce, from all appearances, prove otherwise than an in- convenience to her, and a penance to himself. But the reiuctant hostess and her guest had to do with an inexorable man, who silenced all expostulations with, such was his master’s pleasure. And, moreover,” he continued, “though the Baron of Avenel’s will must and ought to proveTHE MONASTERY. iaw to all within ten miles around him, yet here, dame,” he said, “is a letter from your petticoated baron, the lord-priest yonder, who enjoins you, as you regard his pleasure, that you afford to this good knight such decent accommodation as is in your power, suffering him to live as privately as he shall desire.— And for you, Sir Piercie Shafton,” continued Christie, “ you will judge for yourself, whether secrecy and safety is not more your object even now, than soft beds and high cheer. And do not judge of the dame’s goods by the semblance of her cot- tage ; for you will see by the dinner she is about to spread for us, that the vassal of the kirk is seldom found with her basket bare.” To Mary Avenel Christie presented the stranger, al'er the best fashion he could, as to the niece of his master tne baron. While he thus labored to reconcile Sir Piercie Shafton to his fate, the widow, having consulted her son Edward on the real import of the Lord Abbot’s injunction, and having found that Christie had given a true exposition, saw nothing else left for her but to make that fate as easy as she could to the stranger. He himself also seemed reconciled to his lot by some feeling probably of strong necessity, and accepted with a good grace the hospitality which the dame offered with a very indifferent one. in fact, the dinner, which soon smoked before the assem- bled guests, was of that substantial kind which warrants plenty and comfort. Dame Glendinning had cooked it after her best manner ; and, delighted with the handsome appearance which her good cheer made when placed on the table, forgot botk her plans and the vexations which interrupted them, in the hospitable duty of pressing her assembled visitors to eat and drink, watching every trencher as it waxed empty, and loading it with fresh supplies ere the guests could utter a negative. In the meanwhile, the company attentively regarded each other’s motions, and seemed endeavoring to form a judgment of each other’s character. Sir Piercie Shafton condescended to speak to no one but to Mary Avenel, and on her he conferred exactly the same familiar and compassionate, though somewhat scornful sort of attention, which a pretty fellow of these days will sometimes condescend to bestow on a country miss, when there is no prettier o~ more fashionable woman present. ‘The manner indeed was different, for the etiquette of those times did, met permit sir Prercie Shatton to pick his. teeth, or to yawn, or to gabble like the beggar whose tongue (as he says) was cut out by the Turks, or to affect deafness or blindness,THE MONASTERY. T49 br any other infirmity of the Organs. But though the em- broidery of his conversation was di fferent, the eroundwork was the same, and the high‘flown and ornate complime ents with which the gallant knight of the sixteenth century inter- larded his conversation, were as much the offspring of egotism and self-conceit, as the Jargon of the coxcombs of our own days. The English knight was, however, something daunted at finding that Mary Avenel listened with an air of indifference and answered with wonderful] brevity, to all the fine cine which ought, as he conceived, to have dazzled her with their brilliancy, and puzzled her by their obscurity. But if he was disappointed in making the desired, or rather the expected im- pression, upon her whom he addressed. Sir Piercie Shafton’s discourse was marvellous in the ears of Mvsje the Miller’s daughter, and not the less so that she did not c mprehend the meaning of a single word which he uttered. In ideed, the gal- lant knight’s language was far too courtly to be understood by persons ‘of much greater acuteness than Mysie’ S. It was about this period, that the “only rare poet of his time, the witty, comical facetiously-quick, and quickly-facetious, John Lyly—he that sate at Apollo’s table, and to whom Phoebus gave a wreath of his own bays without sn iatching ” *—he, in short, who wrote that singularly coxcomical work, called Eu- phues and his England, was in the very zenith of his absurdity and reputation. The quaint, forced, and unnatural style which he introduced by his Anatomy of Wit, had a fashion as rapid as it was momentary—all the court ladies were his scholars, and to “parler Euphuisme,” was as necessary a qualification to a courtly gallant, as those of understanding how to use his rapier or to dance a measure.t It was no wonder that the Maid of the Mill was soon as effectually blinded by the intricacies of this erudite and courtly style of conv ersation, as she had ever been by the dust of her father’s own meal-sacks. But there she sate with her mouth and eyes as open as the mill-door and the two windows, show ing teeth as white as her father’s bolted flour, and endeavoring to secure a word or two for her own future use out of the pearls * Such, and yet more extravagant, are the compliments paid to this author by his editor, Blount. Notwiths tanding all exaggeration, Lyly was re: lly a man of wit an ‘id imagination, though both were deformed by the most unnatural affectation that ever disgraced a printed age. t The Author, in a note to Chapter xxix., says the readers of romances are indifferent to accurate reference: otherwise some anachronisms might be noticed here—ELuphues and 4is England, by John Lyly, were not published till 158r.]0 THE MONASTERY. of rhetoric which Sir Piercie Shafton scattered around him with such bounteous profusion. For the male part of the company, Edward felt ashamed of his own manner and slowness of speech, when he observed the handsome young courtier, with an ease and volubility of which he had no conception, run over all the commonplace topics of high-flown gallantry. It is true the good sense and natural taste of young Glendinning soon informed him that the gallant cavalier was speaking nonsense. But, alas! where is the man of modest merit, and real talent, who has not suffered from being outshone in conversation, and outstripped in the race of life, by men of less reserve, and of qualities more showy, though less substantial? and well constituted must the mind be that can yield up the prize without envy to competitors more un- worthy than himself. Edward Glendinning had no such philosophy. While he despised the jargon of the gay cavalier, he envied the faculty with which he could run on, as well as the courtly tone and expression, and the perfect ease and elegance with which he offered all the little acts of politeness to which the duties of the table gave opportunity. And if I am to speak truth, I must own that he envied those qualities the more as they were all exercised in Mary Avenel’s service, and, although only-so far accepted as they could not be refused, intimated a wish on the stranger’s part to place himself in her good graces, as the only person in the room to whom he thought it worth while to recommend himself. His title, rank, and very handsome figure, together with some sparks of wit and spirit which flashed across the cloud of nonsense which he uttered, rendered him, as the words of the old song say, ‘‘a lad for a lady’s viewing ;” so that poor Edward, with all his real worth and acquired knowledge, in his home-spun doublet, blue cap, and deer-skin trousers, looked like a clown beside the courtier, and, feeling the fullinferiority, nourished no good-will to him by whom he was eclipsed. Christie, on the other hand, as soon as he had satisfied to the full a commodious appetite, by means of which persons of his profession could, like the wolf and eagle, gorge themselves with as much food at one meal as might serve them for several days, began also to feel himself more in the background than he liked to be. This worthy had, amongst his other good qualities, an excellent opinion of himself ; and, being of a bold and forward disposition, had no mind to be thrown into the shade by anyone. With an impudent familiarity, which suchFHL MONASTERY. 15: persons mistake for graceful ease, he broke in upon the knight’s finest speeches with as little remorse as he would h have driven the point of his lance through a laced doublet. Sir Piercie Shafton, a man of rank and high birth , by no means encouraged or endured this familiarity, and requited the intruder either with total neglect, or such laconic replies as intimated a sov erelgn eontempt for the rude Spearman, wha affected to converse with him upon terms of equality. The Miller held his peace ; for, as his usual conversation turned chiefly on his clap apper and toll-dish, he had no mind to brag of his wealth in presence of C hristie of the Clinthill, or to intrude his discourse on the En: glish cavalier. A little specimen of the conversation may not be out of place, were it but to show young ladies what fine things they have lost by living when E uphuism is out of fashion. “Credit me, fairest lady,” said the knight, “that such is the cunning of our English courtiers, of the hodiernal strain, that, as they have infinitely refined upon the plain and rusticial discourse of our fathers s, which, as I may say, more beseemed the mouths of country roisterers in a May- -game than that of courtly gallants in a galliard, so I hold it inet fably and un- atterably impossible, that those who may succeed us in that garden of wit and courtesy shall alter or amend it. Venus de slighted but in the language of Mercury, Bucephalus will stoop to no one but Al exander, none can sound Apollo’s pipe but Orpheus.” “Valiant sir,” said Mary, who could scarcely help laughing, ‘we have but to rejoice in the chance which hath honored this cae. with a glimpse of the sun of courtesy, though it rather Minds than enlightens 5.” “ Pretty and quaint, fairest lady,” answered the Euphuist “Ah, that I had with me my Anatomy of Wit—that all-to-be anparalle led volume—that quintessence of human wit—tha; treasury of quaint invention—that exquisitively-pleasant-to. read, and inevitably-necessary-to-be-remembered manual, of al that is worthy to be known—which indoctrines the rude in civility, the dull in intellectuality, the heavy in jocosity, the blunt in gentility, the vulgar in ‘nobility, and all of them in that unutterable perfection. of human utterance, that eloquence which no other eloquence is sufficient to praise, that art which, when we call it by its own name of Euphuism, we bestow on it its richest panegyric.” “ By Saint Mary,” said Christie of the Clinthill, “if your worship had told me that you had left such stores of wealth asSUMTER TD REET eo “# Sats) ae 252 THE MONASTERY. ou talk of at Prudhoe Castle, Long Dickie and I would have had them off with us if man and horse could have carried them ; but you told us of no treasure I wot of, save the silver tongs for turning up your mustaches.” The knight treated this intruder’s mistake—for certainly Christie had no idea that all these epithets, which sounded so rich and splendid, were lavished upon a small quarto volume— with a stare, and then turning again to Mary Avenel, the only person whom he thought worthy to address, he proceeded in his strain of high-flown oratory, “ Even thus,” said he, “do hogs contemn the splendor of Oriental pearls ; even thus are the delicacies of a choice repast in vain offered to the long: eared grazer of the common, who turneth from them to devour a thistle. Surely as idle is it to pour forth the treasures of oratory before the eyes of the ignorant, and to spread the dainties of the intellectual banquet before those who are, mor- ally and metaphysically speaking, no better than asses.” “ Sir Knight, since that is your quality,” said Edward, “we cannot strive with you in loftiness of language ; but I pray you in fair courtesy, while you honor my father’s house with your presence, to spare us such vile comparisons.” “ Peace, good villagio,” said the knight, gracefully waving his hand, “I prithee peace, kind rustic ; and you, my guide, whom I may scarce call honest, let me prevail upon you to imitate the laudible taciturnity of that honest yeoman, who sits as mute as a mill-post, and of that comely damsel, who seems as with her ears she drank in what she did not altogether com- prehend, even as a palfrey listening to a lute, whereof, howso- ever, he knoweth not the gamut.” ‘Marvellous fine words,” at length said Dame Glendinning, who began to be tired of sitting so long silent, “ marvellous fine words, neighbor Happer, are they not?” “Brave words—very brave words—very exceeding .pyet words,”’ answered the Miller; ‘ nevertheless, to speak my mind, a lippy of bran were worth a bushel of them.” “JT think so too, under his worship’s favor,” answered Christie of the Clinthill. ‘I well remember that at the race of Morham, as we call it, near Berwick, I took a young Southern fellow out of saddle with my lance, and cast him, it might be,a gad’s length from his nag ; and so, as he had some gold on his laced doublet, I deemed he might ha’ the like on it in his pocket too, though that is a rule that does not aye hold good—So I was speaking to him of ransom, and out he comes with a handful of such terms as his honor there hath gleaned upTHE MONASTERY. au and craved me for mercy, as I was a true son of Mars, and suchlike. And obtained no mercy at thy hand, I dare be sworn,’ said the knight, who deigned not to speak Euphuism excepting to the fair sex. “ By my troggs,” replied Christie, “I would have thrust my lance down his throat, but just then they { flung open that ac- cursed postern-gate, and forth pricked old Hunsdon and Henrv Carey, and as many fellows at their heels as turned the chase northward again. So I e’en pricked Bayard with the spur, and went off with the rest ; for a man should ride when he may not wrestle, as they say in Tynedale. : Trust me,” said the knight, again turning to Mary Avenel, “if I do not pity you, lady, who, being of noble blood, are thus in a manner compelled to abide in the cottage vs the ignorant, like the precious stone in the head of the toad, or likea precious garland on the brow of an ass.—But soft, what gallant have we here, whose garb savoreth more of the rustic than doth his demeanor, and whose looks seem more loft ty than his habit ; even as “I pray you, Sir Knight,” said Mary, “to spare your courtly similitudes for refined ears, and give me leave to name unto you my foster-brother, Halbert Sendai nning.”’ “The son of the good dame of the cottage, as I ee answered the English knight ; “for by some such name did my guide discriminate the mistress of this mansion, which you, 39 madam, enrich with your presence.—And yet, touching this juvenal, he hath that about him which belongeth to higher birth, for all are not black who dig coals——” “Nor all white who are millers,” said honest Happer, glad to get in a word, as they say, edgeways. Halbert, who had sustained the glance of the Englishman with some impatience, and knew not what to make of his manner and language, replied with some asperity, “ Sir Knight, we have in this land of Scotland an ancient saying, ‘ Scorn not the bush that bields you ’—you are a guest of my father’s house to shelter you from danger, if I am rightly informed by the domestics. Scoff not its homeliness, nor that of its inmates— ye might long have abidden at the court of England ere we had sought your favor, or cumbered you with our society. Since your fate has sent you hither amongst us, be contented with such fare and such converse as we can afiord you, an scorn us not for our kindness ; for the Scots wear short patisnce an¢ long daggers.”ee hse sii et at ak ba era ol ‘A Se A rt Seth 154 THE MONASTERY. All eyes were turned on Halbert while he was thus speaking, and there was a general feeling that his countenance had an expression of intelligence, and his person an alr of dignity, which they had never before observed. Whether it were that the wonderful Being with whom he had so lately held communt- cation, had bestowed on him a grace and dignity of look and bearing which he had not before, or whether the being conver- sant in high matters, and called to a destiny beyond that of other men, had a natural effect in giving becoming confidence to his language and manner, we pretend not to determine. But ‘t was evident to all, that from this day young Halbert was an altered man ; that he acted with a steadiness, promptitude, and determination, which belonged to riper years, and bore himself with a manner which appertained to higher rank. The knight took the rebuke with good humor. * By mine honor,” he said, “thou hast reason on thy side, good juvenal nevertheless, I spoke not as in ridicule of the roof which re- lieves me, but rather in your own praise, to whom, if this roof be native, thou mayest nevertheless rise from its lowliness ; even as tue lark, which maketh its humble nest in the furrow, ascendeth towards the sun, as well as the eagle which buildeth her eyry in the cliff.” This high-flown discourse was interrupted by Dame Glendin- ning, who, with all the busy anxiety of a mother, was loading her son’s trencher with food, and dinning in his ear her re- proaches on account of his prolonged absence. “ And sce she said, “that you do not one day get such a sight, while you are walking about among the haunts of them that are not of our flesh and bone, as befell Mungo Murray when he slept on the greensward ring of the Auld Kirkhill at sunset, and wakened at daybreak in the wild hills of Breadalbane. And see that, when you are looking for deer, the red stag does not gall you as he did Diccon Thorburn, who never overcast the wound that he took from a buck’s horn. And see, when you go swaggering about with a long broadsword by your side, whilk it becomes no peaceful man to do, that ye dinna meet with them that have broadsword and lance both—there are enow of rank riders in this land, that neither fear God nor regard man.” Here her eye, “in a fine frenzy rolling,” fell full upon that of Christie of the Clinthill, and at once her fears for having given offence interrupted the current of maternal rebuke, which, like rebuke matrimonial, may be often better meant than timed. There was something of sly and watchful significance in Christie’s eye, an eye gray, keen, fierce, yet wily, formed to express atTHE MONASTERY. a55 once cunning and malice, which made the dame instantly con- jecture she had said too much, while she saw in imagination ner twelve goodly cows go lowing down the glen in a moonlight night, with half a score of Border spearmen at their heels. Her voice, therefore, sunk from the elevated tone of maternal authority into a whimpering apologetic sort of Strain, and she proceeded to say, “It is no that I have ony ill thoughts of the Border riders, for Tibb Tacket there has often heard me say that I thought spear and bridle as natural to a Borderman as a pen to a priest, or a feather fan to a lady ; and—have you not heard me say it, Tibb? ” Tibb showed something less than her expected alacrity in attesting her mistress’s deep respect for the freebooters of the southland hills ; but thus conjured, did at length reply, “ Hout ay, mistress, I’se warrant I have heard you say something like that.” Mother! ” said Halbert, ina firm and commanding tone of voice, “what or whom is it that you fear under my father’s roof ?—I well hope that it harbors ‘not a guest in whose pres- ence you are afraid to say your pleasure to me or my brother ? I am sorry I have been detained so late. being ignorant of the fair company which I should encounter on my return.—I pray you let this excuse suffice : and what satisfies you will, I trust, be nothing less than acceptable to your guests.”’ An answer calculated so justly betwixt the submission due to his parent and the natural feeling of dignity in one who was by birth master of the mansion, excited universal satisfac- tion. And as Elspeth herself confessed to Tibb on the same evening, “She did not think it had been in the callant. ‘Till that night he took pets and passions if he was spoke to, and lap through the house like a four-year-auld at the least word of advice that was minted at him, but now he spoke as grave and as douce as the Lord Abbot himself. She kendna,” she said, “what might be the upshot of it, but it was like he was a won. derfu’ callant even now.” The party then separated, the young men retiring to their apartments, the elder to their household cares. While Christie went to see his horse properly accommodated, Edward betook himself to his book, and Halbert, who was as ingenious in employing his hands as he had hitherto appeared imperfect in mental exertion, applied himself to constructing a place of concealment in the floor of his apartment by raising a plank, beneath which he resolved to deposit that copy of the Holy Scriptures which had been so strangely regained from the possession of men and spirits.THE MONASTERY. In the meanwhile Sir Piercie Shafton sate still as a stone, in the chair in which he had deposited himself, his hands folded on his breast, his legs stretched straight out before him and resting upon the heels, his eyes cast up to the ceiling as if he had meant to count every mesh of every cobweb with which the arched roof was canopied, wearing at the same time a face of as solemn and imperturbable gravity, as if his existence had depended on the accuracy of his calculation. ; He could scarce be roused from his listless state of contem- plative absorption so as to take some supper, a meal at which the younger females appeared not. Sir Piercie stared around twice or thrice as if he missed something ; but he asked not for them, and only evinced his sense of a proper audience being wanting, by his abstraction and absence of mind, seldom speak- ing until he was twice addressed, and then replying, without h nobody could speak . trope or figure, in that plain English, whic better when he had a mind. Christie, finding himself in undisturbed possession of the conversation, indulged all who chose to listen with details of his own wild and inglorious warfare, while Dame Elspeth’s curch bristled with horror, and Tibb Tacket, rejoiced to find herself once more in the company of a jack-man, listened to his tales, like Desdemona to Othello’s, with undisguised delight. Meantime the two young Glendinnings were each wrapped up in his own reflections, and only interrupted in them by the sig- nal to move bedward. CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. He strikes no coin, ’tis true, but coins new phrases, And vends them forth as knaves vend gilded counters, Which wise men scorn, and fools accept in payment. Op PLAY. In the morning Christie of the Clinthill was nowhere to be seen. As this worthy personage did seldom pique himself on sounding a trumpet before his movements, no one was sut- prised at his moonlight departure, though some alarm was excited lest he had not made it empty-handed. So, in the language of the national ballad, Some ran to cupboard, and some to kist, But naught was away that could be mist.pie tire So oe THE MONASTERY. 157 All was in order, e key of the stable left above the door, and that of the iron- asic in the inside of the lock. In short, the retreat had been made with scrupulous attention to the security of the garrison, and so far Christie left them nothing to com- plain of. The safety of the premises was ascertaine d by Halbert, who, instead of catching up a gun or cross-bow, and s sallying out for the day as had been his frequent custom, now, with 4 gravity beyond his years, took a survey of all around the tower, and then returned to the spence, or public apartment, in which the early hour of seven, the morning meal was prepared. There he found the Kuphuist in the same elegant posture of abstruse calculation which he had exh ibited on the precec ding evening, his arms folded in the same angle, his eyes turned up to the same cobwebs, and his heels resting on the ground as before. Tired of this affectation of indole ent importance, and not much flattered with his guest’s persevering ; in it to the last, Halbert resolved at once to break the ice. bei ing determined to know what circumstance had brot ught to the Tower of Glen- dinning a guest at once so supercilious and so silent. ‘Sir Knight,” he said with some firm: ness, ‘‘I have twice given you sood- morning, to which the absence of your mind h ath, I presume, prev ented you from yielding attention, or from making re eturn. ‘This exchange of courtesy is at your pleasure to give or withhold—But, as what I have farther to say con- cerns your comfort and your motions in an es special manner, I will entreat you to give me some signs of attention, that ] may be sure I am not wasting my words ona monumental image.’ At this unex — daddress, Sir Piercie Shafton opened his eyes, and afforded the speake r abroad stare ; but as Halbert returned the glance without either confusion or dismay, the knight thought proper to change his posture, draw in his le egs, raise his eyes, fix them on young Gle ndinning, and assume the appearance of one who listens to what is said to him. Nay, to make his purpose more evident, he gave voice to his resolution in these words, “ Speak ! we des hear.” “ Sir Knight,” said the youth, “it is the custom of this Halidome, or patrimony of Saint Mary’s to trouble with in- quiries no guests who receive our hospitality, providing they tarry in our siti only fora single revolution of the sun. We know that both criminals and debtors come hither for s sanctuary, and we scorn to extort from the pilgrim, whom chance may make our guest, an avowal of the cause of his pilgrimage and penance. But when one so high above our rank as yourself, 1, atTHE MONASTERY. Sir Knight, and especially one to whom the possession of such pre-eminence 1s not indifferent, shows his determination to be our guest for a longer time, it is our usage to Inquire of him whence he comes, and what is the cause of his journey?” The English knight gaped twice or thrice before he an- swered, and then replied in a bantering tone, “ Truly, good vil- lagio, your question hath in it somewhat of embarrassment, for you ask me of things concerning which I am not as yet alto- gether determined what answer I may find it convenient to make, Let it suffice thee, kind juvenal, that thou hast the Lord Abbot’s authority for treating me to the best of that power of thine, which, indeed, may not always so well suffice for my ac- commodation as either of us would desire.” ‘“T must have a more precise answer than this, Sir Knight,” said the young Glendinning. “Friend,” said the knight, “be not outrageous. It may suit your northern manners thus to press harshly upon the se- crets of thy betters; but believe me, that even as the chute, ’ struck by an unskilful hand, doth produce discords, so , At this moment the door of the apartment opened, and Mary Avenel presented herself—‘ But who can talk of discords,” said the knight, assuming his complimentary vein and humor, “when the soul of harmony descends upon usin the presence of surpassing beauty !|| For even as foxes, wolves, and other animals void of sense and reason, do fly from the presence of the resplendent sun of heaven, when he arises in his glory, so do strife, wrath, and all ireful passions retreat, and, as’it were, scud away, from the face which now beams upon us, with power to compose our angry passions, illuminate our errors and diffi- culties, soothe our wounded minds, and lull to rest our disor- derly apprehensions ; for as the heat and warmth of the eye of day is to the material and physical world, so is the eye which I now bow down before to that of the intellectual microcosm.” He concluded with a profound bow; and Mary Avener, gazing from one to the other, and plainly seeing that some- thing was amiss, could only say, “ For heaven’s sake, what is the meaning of this?” The newly-acquired tact and intelligence of her foster- brother was as yet insufficient to enable him to give an answer. He was quite uncertain how he ought to deal with a guest, who, preserving a singularly high tone of assunied superiority and importance, seemed nevertheless so little serious in what he said, that it was quite impossible to discern with accuracy whether he was in jest or earnest.LHE MONASTERY. ~ mo Forming, however, the internal resolution to bring Sir Piercie Shafton to a reckoning at a more fit place and season, he resolved to prosecute the matter no farther at present ; and the entrance of his mother with the damsel of the Mall, and the return of the honest Miller from the stack-yard, where he had been numbering and calculating the probable amount of the season’s grist, rendered farther discussion impossible for the moment. In the course of the calculation it could not but strike the man of meal and grindstones, that. after the church’s dues were paid, and after all which he himself could by any means deduct from the crop, still the residue which must revert to Dame Glen- dinning could not be less than considerable. I wot not if this led the honest Miller to nourish any plans similar to those adopted by Elspeth; but it is certain that he accepted with grateful alacrity an invitation which the dame gave to his daughter, to remain a week or two as her guest at Glendearg. The principal persons being thus in high good humor with each other, all business gave place to the hilarity of the morn- ing repast ; and so much did Sir Piercie appear gratified by the attention which was paid to every word that he uttered by the nut-brown Mysie, that notwithstanding his high birth and dis- tinguished quality, he bestowed on her some of the mora ordi- nary and second-rate tropes of his elocution. Mary Avenel, when relieved from the awkwardness of feel- ing the full weight of his conversation addressed to herself, en- joyed it much more ; and the good knight, encouraged by those conciliating marks of approbation from the sex, for whose sake he cultivated his oratorical talents, made speedy intimation of his purpose to be more communicative than he had shown him- self in his conversation with Halbert Glendinning, and gave them to understand, that it was in consequence of some press ing danger, that he was at present their involuntary guest. The conclusion of the breakfast was a signal for the separa tion of the company. The Miller went to prepare for his de parture ; his daughter to arranee matters for her unexpected stay ; Edward was summoned to consultation by Martin con: cerning some agricultural matter, in which Halbert could not be brought to interest himself ; the dame left the room upon her household concerns, and Mary was in the act of following her, when she suddenly recollected, that if she did so the strange knight and Halbert must be left alone together, at the nisk of another quarrel. The maiden no sooner observed the circumstance, than she160 THE MONASTERY. instantly returned from the door of the apartment, and, seating herself in a small stone window seat, resolved to maintain that curb which she was sensible her presence imposed on Halbert Glendinning, of whose quick temper she had some apprehen- sions. The stranger marked her motions, and either interpreting them as inviting his society, or obedient to those laws of gal- lantry which permitted him not to leave a lady in silence and solitude, he instantly placed himself near to her side and opened the conversation as follows :— “ Credit me, fair lady,” he said, addressing Mary Avenel, “it much rejoiceth me, being, as I am, a banished man from the delights of mine own country, that I shall find here, in this obscure and silvan cottage of the north, a fair form and a can- did soul, with whom I may explain my mutual sentiments. And let me pray you in particular, lovely lady, that, according to the universal custom now predominant in our court, the gar- den of superior wits, you will exchange with me some epithet whereby you may mark my devotion to your service. Be hence- forward named, for example, my Protection, and let me be your A ffability.” “Our northern and country manners, Sir Knight, do not permit us to exchange epithets with those to whom we are strangers,’ replied Mary Avenel. ‘““Nay, but see now,” said the knight, “‘ how you are star- tled ! even as the unbroken steed, which swerves aside from the shaking of a handkerchief, though he must in time encounter the waving of a pennon. ‘This courtly exchange of epithets of honor is no more than the compliments which pass between valor and beauty, wherever they meet, and under whatever cir- cumstances. Elizabeth of England herself calls Philip Sydney her Courage, and he in return calls that princess his Inspira- tion. Wherefore, my fair Protection, for by such epithet it shall be mine to denominate you——” “Not without the young lady’s consent, sir!” interrupted Halbert ; “‘ most truly do I hope your courtly and quaint breed- ing will not so far prevail over the more ordinary rules of civil behavior.” “ Fair tenant of an indifferent copyhold,” replied the knight with the same coolness and civility of mien, but in a tone some- what more lofty than he used to the young lady, “ we do not, in the southern parts, much intermingle discourse, save with those with whom we may stand on some footing of equality ; and I must in all discretion, remind you, that the necessityTHE MONASTERY. 1, Which makes us inhabit us otherwise On a level * By Saint Mary,’ thought that it does : ants of the Same cabin, with each other,’ ven lied young Glendionine iieds. nay plain men hold, that he who asks the shelter j is tah ea sf him oe gives it: and so far. fore, is our rank equalized while this roof covers us both.’ Thou art it gether deceived,’ answered Sir Piercie- ‘and that thou m: ayest fully adapt thyself to our relative con- dition, know that I account not myself thy guest, a that of thy master, the Lord Abbot of Saint Mary’s. who, for reasons best known to himself and me, chooseth to administer his hospitality to me throu: gh the means of thee, his servant and vassal, who art, therefore , InN good truth, as passive an instru- ment of my aa as this ill-made and rugged joint- stool on which ] sit, or as the er cet trencher from ie [ Cat My Coarse commons. Whe fore,” he added, turning to Mary, “ fairest mistress, or battles as I said before, most lovely Protection ao Mary Avenel was about to reply to him, when the stern, fierce, and resentful expression of voice and countenance with which Halbert exclaim ed, “ Not from the King of Scotland, did he live, would |] brook such terms! ” induced her to throw herself between him and the stranger, exclaiming, ‘“ For God’s Sene Halbert, beware what you do!” “Fear not, fairest Protection,” replied Sir utmost serenity, ‘ that I can be provoked by this rustical and mistaught juvenal to do aught misheuonie your presence or mine own digni ty ; for as soon shall the gunner’s linstock give fire unto the. icicle, as the spark of passion inflame my bl ood, tempered as itis to serenity by the respect due to the presence of ny gracious Protection.’ doth not place there ‘ Piercie, with the * Vou may well call her your Protection, Sir Knight,” said Halbert :- “by Saint Andrew, it is the only sensible seid I have heard you speak! But we may meet w here her protec- tion shall no longer afford you shelter ‘ Fairest Protecti tion,” continued the courtier, not even coptthn with a look, far less with a direct reply, the ae of the incensed Halbert “doubt not that thy faithful Affability will be more commoved by the speech of this rudesby, than the bright and serene moon is perturbed by the baying of the cot- tage-cur, proud of the height of his own dunghill, which, in his conceit, lifteth him nearer unto the majestic luminary. To what length so unsavory a simile might have driven * Note F. Quaint Epithets. If162 THE MONASTERY. is left uncertain ; for at that moment artment with the intelligence that the Convent, the Kitchener and Refectioner, were Just arrived with a sumpter-mule, loaded with provisions, announcing that the Lord Abbot, the Sub-Prior and the Sacristan, were on their way thither. A circumstance so very extraordinary had never been recorded in the annals of Saint Mary’s, or in the traditions of Glendearg, though there was a faint legendary report that a certain Abbot had dined there in old days, after having been bewildered in a hunting expedition amongst the wilds which lie to the northward. But that the present Lord Abbot should have taken a voluntary journey to so wild and dreary a spot, the very Kamtschatka of the Halidome, was a thing never dreamt of ; and the news ex- cited the greatest surprise in all the members of the family saving Halbert alone. This fiery youth was too full of the insult he had received to think of anything as unconnected with it. “I am clad of it,” he exclaimed ; “I am elad the Abbot comes hither. 1 will know of him by what right this stranger is sent hither to domineer over us under our father’s roof, as if we were slaves and not freemen. I will tell the proud priest to his beard , “Alas! alas! my brother,” said Edward, “think what these words may cost thee!” “ And what will, or what can they cost me,” said Halbert, “ that I should sacrifice my human feelings and my justifiable resentment to the fear of what the Abbot can do? : “ Our mother—our mother!” exclaimed Edward ; ‘ think, if she is deprived of her home, expelled from her property, how can you amend what your rashness may ruin ?” “Tt is too true, by Heaven!” said Halbert, striking his forehead. ‘Then, stamping his foot against the floor to express the full energy of the passion to which he dared no longer give vent, he turned round and left the apartment. ss Mary Avenel looked at the stranger knight, while she was endeavoring to frame a request that he would not report the intemperate violence of her foster-brother, to the prejudice of his family in the mind of the Abbot. But Sir Piercie, the very pink of courtesy, conjectured her meaning from her embarrass- ment, and waited not to be entreated. ‘Credit me, fairest Protection,” said he, “your Affability is less than capable of seeing or hearing, far less of reciting 01 reiterating, aught of an unseemly nature which may have chanced while I enjoyed the Elysium of your presence. The Halbert’s indignation, Edward rushed into the ap two most important officers of &THE MONASTERY. 163 winds of idle passion may indeed rudely agitate the bosom of the rude ; but the heart of the courtier is polished to resist them. As the frozen lake receives not the influence of the breeze, even so _ The voice of Dame Glendinning, in shrill summons, here demanded Mary Avenel’s attendance, who instantly obeyed, not a little glad to escape from the compliments and similes of this courtlike gallant. Nor was it apparently less a relief on his part ; for no sooner was she past the threshold of the room, than he exchanged the look of formal and elaborate politeness which had accompanied each word he had uttered hitherto, for an expression of the utmost lassitude and ennui; and after in- dulging in one or two portentous yawns, broke forth into a soliloquy. “What the foul fiend sent this wench hither? As if “It were not sufficient plague to be harbored in a hovel that would hardly serve for a dog’s kennel in England, baited by a rude peasant boy, and dependent on the faith of a mercenary ruffian, but I cannot even have time to muse over my own mishap, but must come aloft, frisk, fidget, and make speeches, to please this pale hectic phantom, because she has gentle blood in her veins! By mine honor, setting prejudice aside, the mill- wench is the more attractive of the two—But patienza, Piercie Shafton ; thou must not lose thy well-earned claim to be accounted a devout servant of the fair sex, a witty-brained, prompt, and accomplished courtier. Rather thank heaven, Piercie Shafton, which hath sent thee a subject, wherein, with- out derogating from thy rank (since the honors of the-Avenel family are beyond dispute), thou mayest find a whetstone for thy witty compliments, a strop whereon to sharpen thine acute ingine, a butt whereat to shoot the arrows of thy .gallantry. For even as a Bilboa blade, the more it is rubbed the brighter and the sharper will it prove, so——But what need I waste my stock of similitudes in holding converse with myself ?—Yonder comes the monkish retinue, like some half-score of crows winging their way slowly up the valley—I hope, a’gad, they have not forgotten my trunk-mails of apparel amid the ample provision they have made for their own belly-timber—Mercy a’gad, I were finely holped up if the vesture has miscarried among the thievish Borderers !”’ Stung by this reflection, he ran hastily down stairs, and caused his horse to be saddled, that he might, as soon as possible, ascertain this important point, by meeting the Lord Abbot and his retinue as they came up the glen. He had not» 164 THE MONASTERY. ridden a mile before he met them advancing with the slowness and decorum which became persons of their dignity and profes- sion. The knight failed not to greet the Lord Abbot with all the formal compliments with which men of rank at that period exchanged courtesies. He had the good fortune to find that his mails were numbered among the train of baggage which attended upon the party; and, satisfied in that particular, he turned his horse’s head, and accompanied the Abbot to the Tower of Glendearg. Great, in the meanwhile, had been the turmoil of the good Dame Elspeth and her coadjutors, to prepare for the fitting reception of the Father Lord Abbot and his retinue. ‘The monks had indeed taken care not to trust too much to the state of her pantry ; but she was not the less anxious to make such additions as might enable her to claim the thanks of her feudal lord and spiritual father. Meeting Halbert, as, with his blood on fire, he returned from his altercation with her guest, she commanded him instantly to go forth to the hill, and not to return without venison ; reminding him that he was apt enough to go thither for his own pleasure, and must now do so for the credit of the house. The Miller, who was now hastening his journey homewards, promised to send up some salmon by his own servant. Dame Elspeth, who by this time thought she had guests enough, had begun to repent of her invitation to poor Mysie, and was just considering by what means, short of giving offence, she could send off the Maid of the Mill behind her father, and adjourn all her own aerial architecture till some future opportunity, when this unexpected generosity on the part of the sire rendered any present attempt to return his daughter on his hands too highly ungracious to be farther thought on. So the Miller departed alone on his homeward journey. Dame Elspeth’s sense of hospitality proved in this instance its own reward ; for Mysie had dwelt too near the Convent ta be altogether ignorant of the noble art of cookery, which her father patronized to the extent of consuming on festival days such dainties as his daughter could prepare in emulation of the luxuries of the Abbot’s kitchen. Laying aside, therefore, her holiday kirtle, and adopting a dress more suitable to the occa- sion, the good-humored maiden bared her snowy arms above the elbows ; and, as Elspeth acknowledged, in the language of the time and country, took “ entireand aefauld part with her” in the labors of the day; showing unparalleled talent, and indefatigable industry, in the preparation of mortreux, blanc:& THE MONASTERY. 16« manger, and heaven knows what delicacies besides, which Dame Glendinning, unassisted by her skill, dared not even have dreamt of presenting. Leaving this able substitute in the kitchen, and regretting that Mary Avenel was so brought up that she could intrust nothing to her care, unless it might be seeing the great chamber strewed with rushes, and ornamented with such flowers and branches as the season afforded, eee KIspeth hastily donned her best attire, and with a beating heart presented herself at the door of her little tower, to Ae her obeisance to the Lord Abbot as he crossed her humble threshold. Edward stood a his mother, and felt the same palpitation, which his philosophy was at a loss to account for. He was yet to learn how l8ng it is ere our reason is enabled to triumph over the force of external circumstances, and how much our feelings are affected by nov- elty, and blunted by use and habit. On the present occasion, he witnessed with wonder and awe the approach of some half-score of riders, sober men upon sober palfreys, muffled in their long black garments, and only relieved by their white scapularies, showing more like a funeral proces- sion than aught else, and not quickening their pace beyond that which permitted easy conversation and easy digestion. The sobriety of the scene was indeed somewhat enlivened by the presence of Sir Piercie Shafton, who, to show that his skill in the manege was not inferior to his other accomplishments, kept alternately pressing and checking his gay courser, forcing him to piaffe, to caracole, to passage, and to do all the other feats of the school, to the great annoyance of the Lord Abbot, the wonted sobriety of whose palfrey became at length discomposed by the vivacity of its companion, while the dignitary kept cry- ing out in bodily alarm, “I do pray you, sir—Sir Knight— good now, Sir Piercie—Be quiet, Benedict, there is a good steed—soh, poor fellow!” and uttering all the other precatory and soothing exclamations by hick a timid horseman usually bespeaks the favor of a frisky companion, or of his own un- quiet nag, and concluding the bead-roll with a sincere Deo gratias SO soon as he alighted i in the courtyard of the Tower of Glende earg. The inhabitants unanimously knelt down to kiss the hand of the Lord Abbot, a ceremony which even the monks were often condemned to. Good Abbot Boniface was too much fluttered by the incidents of the latter part of his journey, to go through this ceremony with much solemnity, or indeed with much patience. He kept wiping his brow with a snow-white hand.s 166 THE MONASTERY. kerchief with one hand, while another was abandoned to the igning the cross with his out homage of his vassals ; and then s1 stretched arm, and exclaiming, “ Bless ye—bless ye, my chil- dren !” he hastened into the house, and murmured not a little at the darkness and steepness of the rugged winding stair, whereby he at leneth scaled the spence destined for his entertainment, and, overcome with fatigue, threw himself, I do not say into an easy chair, but into the easiest the apartment afforded. CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. A courtier extraordinary, who by diet Of meats and drinks, his temperate exercise, Choice music, frequent bath, his horary shifts Of shirts and waistcoats, means to immortalize Mortality itself, and makes the essence Of his whole happiness the trim of court. Macnetic LADY. Wuen the Lord Abbot had suddenly and superciliously vanished from the eyes of his expectant vassals, the Sub-Prior made amends for the negligence of his principal, by the kind and affectionate greeting which he gave to all the members of the family, but expecially to Dame Elspeth, her foster-daughter, and her son Edward. ‘“ Where,” he even condescended to inquire, ‘“‘is that naughty Nimrod, Halbert ?—He hath not yet, I trust, turned, like his great prototype, his hunting-spear against man !” “O no, an it please your reverence,” said Dame Glendinning, ‘Halbert is up at the glen to get some venison, or surely he would not have been absent when such a day of honor dawned upon me and mine.” “Oh, to get savory meat, such as our soul loveth,” muttered the Sub-Prior; ‘it has been at times an acceptable gift.—I bid you good-morrow, my good dame, as I must attend upon his lordship the Father Abbot.” ‘“¢ And oh, reverend sir,” said the good widow, detaining him, ‘if it might be your pleasure to take part with us if there is anything wrong ; and if there is anything wanted, to say that it is just coming, or to make some excuses your learning best knows how. Every bit of vassail and silver work have we been spoiled of since Pinkiecleugh, when I lost poor Simon Glen- dinning, that was the warst of a’.”THE MONASTERY 167 ‘‘ Never mind—never fear,” said the Sub-Prior, gentl cating his garment from the anxious grasp of Dame Elspeth ; “the Refectioner has with him the Abbot’s plate and dtinkine. cups ; and I pray you to believe that whatever is short in your entertainment will be deemed amply made up in your goodwill.” So saying, he escaped from her and went into the spence, where such preparations as haste permitted were making for the noon collation of the Abbot and the English knight. HiGre he found the Lord Abbot, for whom a cushion. composed of all the plaids in the house, had been unable to render Simon’s huge elbow-chair a soft or comfortable place of rest, ‘* Benedicite !”’ said Abbot Boniface, “now marry fie upon these hard benches with all] my heart—they are as uneasy as the scabella of our novices. Saint Jude be with us, Sir Knight, how have you contrived to Pass over the night in this dungeon ? An your bed was no softer than your seat, you might as well have slept on the stone couch of Saint Pacomius. After trot- ting a full ten miles, a man needs a softer seat than has fallen to my hard lot.” With sympathizing faces, the Sacristan and the Refectioner ran to raise the Lord Abbot, and to adjust his seat to his mind, which was at length accomplished in some sort, although he continued alternately to bewail his fatigue, and to exult in the conscious sense of having discharged an arduous duty. “You errant cavaliers,” said he, addressing the knight, ‘“may now perceive that others have their travail and their toils to under- go as well as your honored faculty. And this I will say for myself and the soldiers of Saint Mary, among whom I may be termed captain, that it is not our wont to flinch from the heat of the service, or to withdraw from the good fight. No, by Saint Mary !—no sooner did I learn that you were here, and dared not for certain reasons come to the Monastery, where, with as good will, and with more convenience, we might have given you a better reception, than, striking the table with my hammer, I called a brother—Timothy, said I, let them saddle 3enedict—-let them saddle my black palfrey, and bid the Sub- Prior and some half-score of attendants be in readiness _to- morrow after matins—we would ride to Glendearg.—Brother Timothy stared, thinking, I imagine, that his ears had scarce done him justice—but I repeated my commands, and said, Let the Kitchener and Refectioner go before to aid the poor vassals to whom the place belongs in making a suitable collation. Se that you will consider, good Sir Piercie, our mutual incommod: ities, and forgive whatever you may find amiss, y extri-168 THE MONASTERY. said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ there is novhing to forgive—If you spiritual warriors have to submit to the gre- vious incommodities which your lordship narrates, 1t would ill become me, a sinful and secular man, to complain of a bed as hard as a board, of broth which relished as if made of burnt wood, of flesh, which, in its sable and singed shape, seemed to put me on a level with Richard Ceeur- de-Lion, when he ate up the head of a Moor carbonadoed, and of other viands savoring rather of the rusticity of this northern region.” “By the good Saints, sir,” said the Abbot, somewhat touched in point of his character for hospitality, of which he was in truth a most faithful and zealous professor, “it grieves me to the heart that you have found our vassals no better pro- vided for your reception—Yet I crave leave to observe, that if Gir Piercie Shafton’s affairs had permitted him to honor with his company our poor house of Saint Mary’s, he might have had less to complain of in respect to easements.” “To give your lordship the reasons,” said Sir Piercie Shaf- ton, “why I could not at this present time approach your dwelling, or avail myself of its well-known and undoubted hos- pitality, craves either some delay, or,’ looking around him, “a limited audience.” The Lord Abbot immediately issued his mandate to the Refectioner : “ Hie thee to the kitchen, Brother Hilarius, and there make inquiry of our brother the Kitchener, within what time he opines that our collation may be prepared, since sin and sorrow it were, considering the hardships of this noble and gallant knight, no whit mentioning or weighing those we our- selves have endured, if we were now either to advance or retard the hour of refection beyond the time when the viands are fit to be set before us.” Brother Hilarius parted with an eager alertness to execute the will of his Superior, and returned with the assurance, that punctually at one afternoon would the collation be ready.” “ Before that time,” said the accurate Refectioner, “ the wafers, flamms, and pastry-meat, will scarce have had the just degree of fire which learned pottingers prescribe as fittest for the body: and if it should be past one o’clock, were it but ten minutes, our brother the Kitchener opines, that the haunch of venison would suffer in spite of the skill of the little turn-broche whom he has recommended to your holiness by his praises.” ‘“ How!” said the Abbot, ‘‘a haunch of venison !—from whence comes that dainty? I remember not thou didst inti mate its presence in thy hamper of vivers.” “¢ By my faith,”THE MONASTERY. 169 -¢ So please your holiness and lordship,” said the Refec- tioner, ‘ ‘he is a son of the woman of the house who hath snot it and sent it in—killed but now ; yet, as the animal heat hath not left the body, the Kitchener undertakes it shall eat as ten- der as a young ¢ shicken—and this youth hath a special gift in shooting deer, and never misses the heart or the brain ; so that the blood is not driven through the flesh, as happens too often with us. It is a hart of grease—your holiness has seldom seen such a haunch.,”’ : Silence, Brother Hilarius,” said the Ab bot, wiping his mouth ; “it is not beseeming our order to talk of food SO e€ar- nestly, « especially as we must oft have our animal powers ex- hausted by fasting, and be accessible (as being ever mere mortals ) to those signs of longing” (he again wiped his mouth) “ which arise on the mention of victuals to an hungry man.— Minute down, however, the name of that youth—it is fittine he should be rewarded, and he shall h ereafter be a frater ad succur- rendum in the kitchen and buttery.” Alas! reverend Father, and my good lord,” replied the Refectioner, “I did inquire after the youth, and I learn he is one who prefers the casque to the cowl, and the sword of the flesh to the weapons of the spirit.” And if it be so,” said the Abbot, “see that thou retain him as a deputy-keeper and man-at-arms, and not as a lay brother of the Monastery—for old Tallboy our forester, waxes dim-eyed, and hath twice spoiled a noble buck, by hitting him unwarily on the haunch. Ah! ’tis a foul fault, the abusing by evil-killing, evil-dressing, evil-appetite, or otherwise, the good creatures indulged to us for our use. Wherefore, secure us the service of this youth, Brother Hilarius, in the way that may best suit him.—And now, Sir Piercie Shafton, since the fates have assigned us a space of well-nigh an hour, ere we dare hope to enjoy more than the vapor or savor of our repast, may I pray you, of your courtesy, to tell me the cause of this visit ; and, above all, to inform us, why you will not approach our more pleasant and better furnished osfpitium. “Reverend lather, and my very good lord,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “it is well known to your wisdom, that there are stone walls which have ears, and that secrecy is to be looked to in matters which concern a man’s head.” The Abbot signed t s attendants, excepting the Sub-Prior, to leave the room, id then. said,..‘' Your. valor. Sin, Biercre: may freely unburden yourself before our fait thful friend and counsellor Father Eustace, the benefits of whose advice we may1470 | THE MONASTERY. too soon lose, inasmuch as his merits will speedily recommend him to a higher station, in which, we trust, he may find the blessing of a friend and adviser as valuable as himself, since I may say of him, as our claustral rhyme goeth, * ‘ Dixit Abbas ad prioris, Tu es homo boni moris, Quia semper sanioris, Mihi das coneilia.’ Indeed,” he added, ‘the office of Sub-Prior is altogether beneath our dear brother ; nor can we elevate him unto that of Prior, which, for certain reasons, is at present kept vacant amongst us. Howbeit, Father Eustace is fully possessed of my confidence, and worthy of yours, and well may it be said of him, /ztravit in secretis nostris.” Sir Piercie Shafton bowed to the reverend brethren, and, heaving a sigh, as if he would have burst his steel cuirass, he thus commenced his speech :— ‘“‘Certes, reverend sirs, I may well heave such a suspiration, who have, as it were, exchanged heaven for purgatory, leaving the lightsome sphere of the royal court of Engiand, for a remote nook in this inaccessible desert—quitting the tilt-yard, where I was ever ready among my compeers to splinter a lance, either for the love of honor, or for the honor o: love, in order to couch my knightly spear against base and pilfering besog- nios and marauders—exchanging the lighted hal's, wherein I used nimbly to pace the swift coranto, or to move with a loftier grace in the stately galliard, for this rugged and decayed dun- geon of rusty-colored stone—quitting the gay theatre, for the solitary chimney-nook of a Scottish dog-house—bartering the sounds of the soul-ravishing lute, and the love-awakening viol- de-gamba, for the discordant squeak of a northern bagpipe— above all, exchanging the smiles of those beauties, who form a galaxy around the throne of England, for the cold courtesy of an untaught damsel, and the bewildered stare of a miller’s maiden. More might I say, of the exchange of the conversa- tion of gallant knights and gay courtiers of mine own order and capacity, whose conceits are bright and vivid as the lightning, for that of monks and churchmen—but it were discourteous to urge that topic.” The Abbot listened to this list of complaints with great round eyes, which evinced no exact intelligence of the orator’s mean- ing ; and when the knight paused to take breath, he looked * The rest of this doggerel rhyme may be found in Fosbrooke’s learned work on British Monachism.THE MONASTERY. 17 with a doubtful and inquiring eye at the Sub-Prior, not well knowing in what tone he should reply to an exordium so extra. ordinary. The Sub-Prior accordingly stepped in to the relief of his principal. ‘““We deeply sympathize with you, Sir Knight, in the several] mortifications and hardships to which fate has subjected you, particularly in that which has thrown you into the society of those, who, as they were conscious they deserved not such an honor, so neither did they at all desire it. But all this goes little way to expound the cause of this train of disasters, or in plainer words, the reason which has compelled you into a situ- ation having so few charms for you.” “Gentle and reverend sir,” replied the knight, “forgive an unhappy person, who, in giving a history of his miseries, dilateth upon them extremely, even as he who, having fallen from a precipice, looketh upward to measure the height from which he hath been precipitated.” “Yea, but,” said Father Eustace, ‘ methinks it were wiser in him to tell those who come ¢e lift him up, which of his bones have been broken.” “You, reverend sir,” said the knight, ‘‘ have in the encounter or our wits, made a fair attaint: whereas I may be in some sort said to have broken my staff across.* Pardon me, grave sir, that I speak the language of the tilt-yard, which is doubt- less strange to your reverend ears.—Ah! brave resort of the noble, the fair, and the gay !—Ah! throne of love, and citadel of honor !—Ah! celestial beauties, by whose bright eyes it is graced! Never more shall Piercie Shafton advance, as the centre of your radiant glances, couch his lance, and spur his horse at the sound of the spirit-stirring trumpets, nobly called the voice of war—never more shall he baffle his adversary’s encounter boldly, break his spear dexterously, and ambling around the lovely circle, receive the rewards with which beauty honors chivalry !”’ Here he paused, wrung his hands, looked upwards, and seemed lost in contemplation of his own fallen fortunes. “ Mad, very mad,” whispered the Abbot to the Sub-Prior ; “I would we were fairly rid of him ; for, of a truth, I expect he will proceed from raving to mischief—Were it not better to call up the rest of the brethren ?”’ But the Sub-Prior knew better than his Superior how to dis- * “A ttaint was a term of tilting used to express the cha mpion’s having attained his mark, or in other words, struck his lance straight and fair against the helmet or breast of his adversary. Whereas to break the lance across, intimated a total failure in directing the point of the weapon on the object of his aim.OOS TEM TIN IRE 1472 THE MONASTERY. ffectation from the ravings of insanity, and although the extremity of the knight's passion seemed altogether fantastic, yet he was not ignorant to what extrava- eancies the fashion of the day can conduct its votaries. Allowing, therefore, two minutes’ space to permit the knight’s enthusiastic feelings to exhaust themselves, he again gravely reminded him that the Lord Abbot had taken a journey unwonted to his age and habits, solely to learn in what he could serve Sir Piercie Shafton—that it was altogether impos- sible he could do so without his receiving distinct information of the situation in which he had now sought refuge in Scotland, — The day wore on,” he observed, looking at the window ; “and ifthe Abbot should be obliged to return to the Monastery without obtaining the necessary intelligence, the regret might be mutual, but the inconvenience was like to be all on Sir Piercie’s own side.” The hint was not thrown away. “O goddess of courtesy!” said the knight, “can I have so far forgotten thy behests as to make this good prelate’s ease and time a sacrifice to my vain complaints! Know, then, most worthy, and not less worshipful, that I, your poor visitor and guest, am by birth nearly bound to the Piercie of Northumber- Jand, whose fame is so widely blown through all parts of the world, where English worth hath been known. Now, this present Earl of Northumberland, of whom I propose to give you the brief history x “Tt is altogether unnecessary,” said the Abbot ; “we know him to be a good and true nobleman, and a sworn upholder of our Catholic faith, in the spite of the heretical woman who now sits upon the throne of England. And it is specially as his kinsman, and as knowing that ye partake with him in such de- vout and faithful belief and adherence to our holy Mother Church, that we say to you, Sir Piercie Shafton, that ye be heartily welcome to us, and that,an we wist how, we woula labor to do you good service in your extremity.” “For such kind offer I rest your most humble debtor,” said Sir Piercie ; “nor need I at this moment say more than that my Right Honorable Cousin of Northumberland, having devised with me and some others, the choice and picked spirits of the age, how and by what means the worship of God, according to the Catholic Church, might be again introduced into this dis- tracted kingdom of England (even as one deviseth, by the assistance of his friend, to catch and to bridle arunaway steed), it pleased him so deeply to intrust me in those communications, tinguish the jargon of aLHE MONASTERY. ae that my personal safety becomes, as it were, entwined or com- plicated therewith. Natheless, as we have had sudden reason to believe, this Princess Eliz: ibeth, who maintaineth around her a sort of eeineellers skilful in tacking whatever schemes may be pursued for bringing her title in Challenge, or for erecting again the discipline of the Catholic C aber has o btained | certain knowledge of the trains which we h: id laid before we cou} ld give fire unto them. Wherefore eé, my Right Honorable Cousin of Northumberland, thinking it best belike that one man should take both blame and shame for the whole , did lay the burden of ail this trafficking upon my back ; which load I am the rather content to bear, in that he hath alw. ays shown himself my kind and honorable kinsman, as well as that my estate, I wot not how, hath of late been somewhat insuff ficient to maintain the expense of those braveries, wherewith it is incumbent on US, who are chosen and selected spirits, to distinguish ourselves from the vulgar.” “So that. possibly,” said the Sub-Prior, “ your private affairs rendered a foreign journey less incommodious to you than it might have been to the noble earl, your right worthy cousin ?” “You are right, reverend sir,” answered the courtier - ‘rem acu—you have touched the point with a neec dle—My cost and expenses had been indeed somewhat lavish at the late triumphs and tourneys, and the flat-capp’d citizens had shown themselves unwilling to furnish my pockets for new gallantries for the honor of the nation, as well as for mine own peculiar glory— and, to speak truth, it was in some part the hope of seeing these matters amended that led me to desire a new wo! Jd in Eng gland. ik “So that the miscarriage of your public enterprise, with the derangements of your own sen affairs,’ said the Sub-Prior, “have induced you to seek Scotland as a place of refuge? ” “ Rem acu, once again,” said Sir Piercie ; “ and not without good cause, since my neck, if I remained, might have been brought within the circumstances of a halter—and so speedy was my journey northward, that I had but time to exch lange my peach-colored doublet of Genoa velvet, thickly laid over with goldsmith’s work, for this cuirass, which was made by Bonamico of Milan, and travelled northward with all speed, judging that I might do well to visit my Right Honorable Cousin of Northumberland, at one of his numerous castles. But as I posted towards Alnwick, even with the speed of a star, which, darting from its native sphere, shoots wildly downwards, I was met at Northallerton by one Henry Vaughan, a servant re174 THE MONASTERY. of my right honorable kinsman, w I might not with safety come to his obedience to orders from his court, he w letters for my incarceration.” “This,” said the Abbot, “seems but hard measure on the part of your honorable kinsman.”’ | af i, “Tt might be so judged, my lord,” replied Sir Piercie ; ‘nevertheless, I will stand to the death for the honor of my Right Honorable Cousin of Northumberland. Also Henry Vaughan gave me, from my said cousin, a good horse, and a purse of gold, with two Border-prickers, as they are called, for my guides, who conducted me, by such roads and by-paths as have never been seen since the days of Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristrem, into this kingdom of Scotland, and to the house of a certain baron, or one who holds the style of such, called Julian Avenel, with whom I found such reception as the place and party could afiord.” ‘And that,” said the Abbot, “ must have been right wretched ; for, to judge from the appetite which Julian sheweth when abroad, he hath not, I judge, over-abundant provision at home.” “You are right, sir—your reverence is in the right,” con- tinued Sir Piercie ; “we had but lenten fare, and, what was worse, a score to clear at the departure ; for though this Julian Avenel called us to no reckoning, yet he did so extravagantly admire the fashion of my poniard—the pozgnet being of silver exquisitely hatched, and indeed the weapon being altogether a piece of exceeding rare device and beauty—that in faith I could not for very shame’s sake but pray his acceptance of at 3 words which he gave me not the trouble of repeating twice, before he had stuck it into his greasy buff-belt, where, credit me, reverend sir, it showed more like a butcher’s knife than a gentleman’s dagger.” “So goodly a gift might at least have purchased you a few days’ hospitality,” said Father Eustace. “Reverend sir,” said Sir Piercie, “had I abidden with him, I should have been complimented out of every remnant of my wardrobe—actually flayed, by the hospitable gods I swear it! Sir, he secured my spare doublet, and had a pluck at my galligaskins—I was enforced to beat a retreat before I was altogether unrigged. That Border knave, his serving-man had a pluck at me too, and usurped a scarlet cassock and steel cuirass belonging to the page of my body, whom I was fain to leave behind me. In good time I received a letter from ho showed me, that as then presence, seeing that, in as obliged to issue out7s Phy ry Dy THE MONASTERY. 175 my Right Honorable Cousin, showing me that he had written to you in my behalf, and sent to your charge two mails filled with wearing apparel—namely, my rich crimson silk doublet, slashed out and lined with cloth of gold, which I wore at the last revels, with baldric and trimmings to correspond—also two pair black silk slops, with hanging garters of carnation silk —also the flesh-colored silken doublet, with the trimmings of fur, in which I danced the salvage man at the Gray’s Inn mum- mery—also 5 ‘Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, “I pray you to spare the farther inventory of your wardrobe. ‘The monks of Saint Mary’s are no freebooting barons, and whatever part of your vestments arrived at our house, have been this day faithfully brought hither, with the mails which contained them. I may presume from what has been said, as we have indeed been given to understand by the Earl of Northumberland, that your desire is to remain for the present as unknown and as un- noticed, as may be consistent with your high worth and dis- tinction.” “Alas, reverend father!’ replied the courtier, ‘‘a blade when it is in the scabbard cannot give lustre, a diamond when it is in the casket cannot give light, and worth, when it is com- pelled by circumstances to obscure itself, cannot draw obser- vation—my retreat can only attract the admiration of those few to whom circumstances permit its displaying itself.” “I conceive now, my venerable father and lord,” said the Sub-Prior, “that your wisdom will assign such a course of conduct to this noble knight, as may be alike consistent with his safety, and with the weal of the community. For you wot well, that perilous strides have been made in these audacious days, to the destruction of all ecclesiastical foundations, and that our holy community has been repeatedly menaced. Hith- erto they have found no flaw in our raiment; but a party, friendly as well to the Queen of England, as to the heretical doctrines of the schismatical church, or even to worse and wilder forms of heresy, prevails now at the court of our sover- eign, who dare not yield to her suffering clergy the protection she would gladly extend to them. “My lord, and reverend sir,” said the knight, “I will gladly relieve you of my presence, while ye canvass this matter at your freedom ; and to speak truly, I am desirous to see in what case the chamberlain of my noble kinsman hath found my wardrobe, and how he hath packed the same, and whether it has suffered from the journey—there are four suits of as pure and elegantTHE MONASTERY. device as ever the fancy of a fair lady doated upon, every one having a treble, and appropriate change of ribbons, trimmings, and fringes, which, in case of need, may as it were renew each of them, and multiply the tour into twelve.—There is also my sad-colored riding-suit, and three cut-work shirts with falling bands—I pray you, pardon me—I must needs see how matters stand with them without farther dallying.”’ Thus speaking, he left the room ; and the Sub-Prior, look- ing after him significantly, added, ‘‘ Where the treasure is will the heart be also.” “ Saint Mary preserve our wits!” said the Abbot, stunned with the knight’s abundance of words ; “were man’s brains ever so stuffed with silk and broadcloth, cut-work, and I wot not what besides? And what could move the Earl of North- umberland to assume for his bosom counsellor, in matters of death and danger, such a feather-brained coxcomb as this ? ” “Had he been other than what he is, venerable father,” said the Sub-Prior, ““he had been less fitted for the part of scape-goat to which his Right Honorable Cousin had probably destined him from the commencement, in case of their plot failing. I know something of this Piercie Shafton. The legit- imacy of his mother’s descent from the Piercie family, the point on which he is most jealous, hath been called in question. If harebrained courage, and an outrageous spirit of gallantry, can make good his pretensions to the high lineage he claims, these qualities have never been denied him. For the-rest, he is one of the ruffling gallants of the time, like Rowland Yorke, Stukely,* and others, who wear out their fortunes, and endanger their lives, in idle braveries, in order that they may be esteemed the only choice gallants of the time; and afterwards endeavor to repair their estate, by engaging in the desperate plots and conspiracies which wiser heads have devised. ‘I’o use one of his own conceited similitudes, such courageous fools resemble hawks, which the wiser conspirator keeps hooded and blinded on his wrist until the quarry is on the wing, and who are then flown at them.” “Saint Mary,” said the Abbot, “he were an evil guest to introdsce into our quiet household. Our young monks make bustle enough, and more than is beseeming God’s servants, about their outward attire already—this knight were enough to turn their brains, from the Vestiarius down to the very scul- lion boy.” : “A worse evil might follow,” said the Sub-Prior: “in these * Note G. Rowland Yorke and Stukely. )THE MONASTERY. 177 bad days, the patrimony of the church is bought and sold, fore feited and distrained, as if it nee the unhallowed soil apper- taining to a secular baron. ‘Think what penalty awaits us, were we convicted of harboring a one to her whom they call the Queen of England! There w ould neither be w anting Scottish parasites to beg the lands of the foundation, nor an army from England to ‘burn and harry the Halidome. The men of Scotland were once Scotsmen, firm and united in their love of their country, and throwing every other consideration aside when i frontier was menaced—now they are—what shall I call them—the one part French, the other part English, considering eo dear native country merely as a prize fighting stage, upon which foreigners are welcome to decide their quarrels.” ‘ Benedicite!” replied the Abbot, “they are indeed slippery and evil times.” “And therefore,” said Father Eustace, “ we must walk warily —we must not, for example, bring this man—this Sir Piercie Shafton, to our house of Saint Mary’s.” ef But. how then shall we dispose of him?” replied the Abbot ; “ bethink thee that he is a sufferer for holy Church’s sake—that his patron, the Earl of Northumberland, hath been our friend, and that, lying so near us, he may work us weal or BPS according as we deal with his kinsman.” ** And accordingly, ’ said the Sub-Prior, “for these reasons, as well as for discharge of the great duty of Christian charity, I would protect and relieve this man. Let him not go back to Julian Avenel—that unconscientious baron would not stick to plunder the exiled stranger—Let him remain here—the spot is secluded, and if the accommodation be beneath his quality, discovery will become the less likely. We will make such means for his convenience as we can devise.” “Will he be persuaded, thinkest thou?” said the Abbot ; “I will leave my own travelling bed for his repose, and send up a suitable easy-chair,”’ ‘With such easements,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘he must not complain ; and then, if threatened by any sudden danger, he can soon come down to the sanctuary, where we will harbor him in secret until means can be devised of dismissing him in safety.” “Were we not better,” said the Abbot, ‘“‘send him on to court, and get rid of him at once?” ‘Ay but at the expense of our friends—this butterfly may fold his wings and lie under cover in the cold air of Glendearg, 12THE MONASTERY. but were he at Holyrood, he would, did his life depend on it, expand his spangled drapery in the eyes of the queen and court—Rather than fail of distinction, he would sue for love to our gracious sovereign—the eyes of all men would be upon him in the course of three short days, and the international peace of the two ends of the island endangered for a creature, who, like a silly moth, cannot abstain from fluttering round a light.” “Thou hast prevailed with me, Father Eustace,” said the Abbot, “and it will go hard but I improve on thy plan—lI will send up in secret, not only household stuff, but wine and wassel-bread. There is a young swankie here who shoots venison well. I will give him directions to see that the knight lacks none.” ‘Whatever accommodation he can have, which infers not a risk of discovery,” said the Sub-Prior, “it is our duty to afford him.” “Nay,” said the Abbot, “ we will do more, and will instantly despatch a servant express to the keeper of our revestiary to send us such things as he may want, even this night. See it. done, good father.” “T will,” answered Father Eustace ; “but I hear the gull clamorous for some one totruss his points.* He will be fortu- nate if he lights on anyone here who can do him the office of groom of the chamber.” “T would he would appear,” said the Abbot, “‘for here comes the Refectioner with the collation—By my faith, the ride hath given me a sharp appetite!” ) CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. I’ll seek for other aid—Spirits, they say, Flit round invisible, as thick as motes’ Dance in the sunbeam. If that spell Or necromancer’s sigil can compel them, They shall hold council with me. James Durr. _ THE reader's attention must be recalled to Halbert Glendin- ning, who had left the tower of Glendearg immediately after his quarrel with its new guest, Sir Piercie Shafton. As he The points were the strings of cord or ribbon (so called, because Jointed with metal like the laces of women’s stays), which attached the doublet to the hose. They were very numerous, and required assistance {o tie them properly, which was called trussing.THE MONAS LEERY. 179 walked with a rapid pace up the glen, Old Martin followed him beseeching him to be less hasty. ‘* Halbert,” said the old man, “you will never live to have white hair, if you take fire thus at every spark of provocation.” “ And why should I wish it, old man,” said Halbert, “if 7 am to be the butt that every fool may aim a shaft of scorn against—What avails it, old man, that you yourself move, sleep, and wake, eat thy niggard meal, and Tepose on thy hard pallet ? —Why art thou so well pleased that the morning should call thee up to daily toil, and the evening again lay thee down a wearied-out wretch? Were it not better sleep and wake no more, than to undergo this dull exchange of labor for insensj- bility, and of insensibility for labor?” “God help me,” answered Martin, “there may be truth in what thou Sayest—but walk slower, for my old limbs cannot keep pace with your young legs—walk slower and I will tell you why age, though unlovely, is yet endurable. ‘Speak on then,” said Halbert, slackening his pace, “ but remember we must seek venison to refresh the fatigues of these holy men who will this morning have achieved a journey of ten miles ; and if we reach not the Brocksburn head we are scarce like to see an antler.” “Then know, my good Halbert,” said Martin, ‘whom I love as my own son, that I am Satisfied to live till death calls me, because my Maker wills it. Ay, and although I spend what men called a hard life. pinched with cold in winter, and burnt with heat in summer, though I feed hard and sleep hard, and am held mean and despised, yet I bethink me, that were I of no use on the face of this fair creation, God would withdraw me from it.” “Thou poor old man,” said Halbert, “and can such a vain conceit as this of thy fancied use, reconcile thee to a world where thou playest so poor a part ?” ‘My part was nearly as poor,” said Martin, “my person nearly as much despised, the day that I saved my mistress and her child from perishing in the wilderness.” “Right, Martin,” answered Halbert ; ‘‘ there, indeed, thou didst what might be a sufficient apology for a whole life of in- significance,” ‘And do you account it for nothing, Halbert, that I should have the power of giving you a lesson of patience, and submis- sion to the distinies of Providence ? Methinks there is use for the gray hairs on the old scalp, were it but to instruct the green head by precept and by example.”180 THE MONASTERY. Halbert held down his face, and remained silent for a minute or two, and then resumed his discourse: “ Martin, seesf thou aught changed in me of late?” _ “ Surely,” said Martin. “I have always known you hasty, wild, and inconsiderate, rude, and prompt to speak at the volley and without reflection ; but now, methinks, your bearing, without losing its natural fire, has something 1n it of force and dignity which it had not before. It seems as if you had fallen asleep a carle, and awakened a gentleman.” gen “Thou canst judge, then, of noble bearing >? said ta Dert. “Surely,” answered Martin, “in some sort I can ; for a have travelled through court, and camp, and city, with my master Walter Avenel, although he could do nothing for me in the long run, but give me room for two score of sheep on the hill—and surely even now, while I speak with you, I feel sensible that my language is more refined than it is my wont to use, and that—though I know not the reason—the rude northern dialect, so familiar to my tongue, has given place to a more town- bread speech.” “ And this change in thyself and me, thou canst by no means account for?” said young Glendinning. “Change!” replied Martin, “by our Lady it is not so much a change which I feel, as a recalling and renewing sentiments and expressions which I had some thirty years since, ere Tibb and I set up our humble household. It is singular, that your society should have this sort of influence over me, Halbert, and that I should never have experienced it ere now.”’ “Thinkest thou,” said Halbert, ‘thou seest in me aught that can raise me from this base, low, despised state, into one where I may rank with those proud men, who now despise my clownish poverty?” Martin paused an instant, and then answered, ‘‘ Doubtless you may, Halbert ; as broken aship has come toland. Heard ye never of Hughie Dun, who left this Halidome some thirty- five years gone by? A deliverly fellow was Hughie—could read and write like a priest, and could wield brand and buckler with the best of the riders. I mind him—the like of him was never seen in the Halidome of Saint Mary’s, and so was seen of the preferment that God sent him,” “And what was that?” said Halbert, his eyes sparkling with eagerness. “ Nothing less,” answered Martin, “‘ than body-servant to the Archbishop of Saint Andrews!” Halbert’s countenance fell.—‘‘A servant—and to aTHE MONASTERY. 181 jriest ? Was this all that knowledge and activity could raise him to?” : Martin, in his turn, looked with wistful Surprise in the face ot his young friend. “And to what could fortune lead him farther?” answered he. ‘The son of a kirk-feuar is not the stuff that lords and knights are made of, Courage and school- craft cannot change churl’s blood into gentle blood, I trow. I have heard, forby, that Hughie Dun left a good five hundred punds of Scots money to his only daughter, and that she mar. ried the Bailie of Pittenweem.” ‘ At this moment and while Halbert was embarrassed with devising a suitable answer, a deer bounded across their path, In an instant the cross-bow was at the youth’s shoulder, the bolt whistled, and the deer, after giving one bound upright, dropt dead on the greensward. “There les the venison our dame wanted,” said Martin ; “who would have thought of an out-lying stag being so low down the glen at this season ?>—And it is a hart of grease too, in full season, and three inches of fat on the brisket. Now this is all your luck, Halbert, that follows you, go where you like. Were you to put in for it, I would warrant you were made one of the Abbot’s yeoman-prickers, and ride about in a purple doublet as bold as the best.” “Tush, man,” answered Halbert, “I will serve the Queen or no one. ‘Take thou care to have down the vension to the Tower, since they expect it. I will on to the moss. I have two or three bird-bolts at my girdle, and it may be I shall find wild-fowl.’ He hastened his pace and was soon out of sight. Martin paused for a moment, and looked after him. ‘“ There goes the making of aright gallant stripling, an ambition have not the spoiling of him—Serve the Queen! said he. By my faith, and she hath worse servants, from all that I ere heard of him. And wherefore should he not keep a high head? They that ettle to the top of the ladder will at least get up some rounds. They that mint * at a gown of gold will always get a sleeve of it. But come, sir (addressing the stag), you shall go to Glendearg on my two legs somewhat more slowly than you were frisking it even now on your own four nimble shanks. Nay, by my faith, if you be so heavy, I will content me with the best of you, and that’s the haunch and thenombles, and e’en heave up the rest on the old oak-tree yonder, and come back for it with one of the yauds,” f * Mint—aim at. + Vauds—horses ; more particularly horses of labor.182 THE MONASTERY. While Martin returned to Glendearg with the venison, Hal- bert prosecuted his walk, breathing more easily since he was free of his companion. ‘The domestic of a proud and lazy priest—body-squire to the Archbishop of Saint Andrews,” he repeated to himself ; “and this with the privilege of allying his blood with the Bailie of Pittenweem, is thought a prefer- ment worth a brave man struggling for ;—nay more, a prefer- ment which, if allowed, should crown the hopes past, present, and to come, of the son of a kirk-vassal ! . By Heaven, but that I find in me a-reluctance to practise their acts of nocturnal rapine, I would rather take the jack and lance, and join with the Border-riders—Something I will do. Here, degraded and dishonored, I will not live the scorn of each whiffling stranger from the South, because, forsooth, he wears tinkling spurs ona tawney boot. ‘This thing—this phantom, be it what it will, I will see it once more. Since I spoke with her, and touched her hand, thoughts and feelings have dawned on me, of which my former life had not even dreamed ; but shall I, who feel my father’s glen too narrow for my expanding spirit, brook to be bearded in it by this vain gewgaw of a courtier, and in the sight too of Mary Avenel? I will not stoop to it, by Heaven! ” As he spoke thus, he arrived in the sequestered glen of Corri- nan-shian, as it verged upon the hourof noon. A few moments he remained looking upon the fountain, and doubting in his own mind with what countenance the White Lady might receive him. She had not indeed expressly forbidden his again evoking her ; but yet there was something like such a prohibi- tion implied inthe farewell, which recommended him to wait for another guide. Halbert Glendinning did not long, however, allow himself to pause. Hardihood was the natural characteristic of his mind ; and under the expansion and modification which his feelings had lately undergone, it had been augmented rather than diminished. He drew his sword, undid the buskin from his foot, bowed three times with deliberation towards the fountain, and as often towards the tree, and repeated the same rhyme as formerly,— “Thrice to the holly brake Noon gleams on the Lake— Thrice to the well :— Noon glows on the Fell— I bid thee awake, Wake thee, O wake, White Maid of Avenel! White Maid of Avenel!” _ His eye was on the holly bush as he spoke the last line ; and It was not without an involuntary shuddering that he saw theTHE MONASTERY. 183 air betwixt his eye and that object become more dim, and con- dense, as it were, into the faint appearance of a form, through which, however, so thin and transparent was the first appear- ance of the phantom, he could discern the outline of the bush as through a veil of fine crape. But, gradually, it darkened into a more substantial appearance, and the White Lady stood before him with displeasure on her brow. She spoke, and her speech was still song, or rather measured chant ; but, as if now more familiar, it flowed occasionally in modulated blank-verse, and at other times in the lyrical measure which she had used at their former meeting. “This is the day when the fairy kind Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot, And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing wind, And the mermaiden weeps in her crystal grot: For this is the day that a deed was wrought, In which we have neither part nor shar For the children of clay was salvation bought, F ' But not for the forms of sea or air! And ever the mortal is most forlorn, Who meeteth our race on the Friday morn.” “ Spirit,” said Halbert Glendinning boldly, “it is bootless to threaten one who holds his life at norate. Thine anger can but slay ; nor do I think thy power extendeth or thy will stretcheth, so far. The terrors which your race produce upon others are vain against me. My heart is hardened against fear, as by a sense of despair. If I am, as thy words infer, ofa race more peculiarly the care of heaven than thine, it is mine to call, it must be thine to answer. I am the nobler being.” As he spoke, the figure looked upon him with a fierce and ireful countenance, which, without losing the similitude of that which it usually exhibited, had a wilder and more exageerated cast of features. The eyes seemed to contract and become more fiery and slight convulsions passed over the face, as if it was about to be transformed into something hideous. The whole appearance resembled those faces which the imagination sum- mons up when it is disturbed by laudanum, but which do not re- main under the visionary’s command, and, beautiful in their first appearance, become wild and grotesque ere we can arrest them But when Halbert had concluded his bold speech, the White Lady stood before him with the same pale, fixed, and melan- choly aspect which she usually bore. He had expected the agitation which she exhibited would conclude in some frightful metamorphosis. Folding her arms on her bosom, the phantom replied,—THE MONASTERY. “ Daring youth ! for thee it is well Here calling me in haunted dei, That thy heart has not quail’d, Nor thy courage fail’d, And that thou couldst brook The angry look Of Her of Avenel. Did one limb shiver, Or an eyelid quiver, Thou wert lost forever. Though I am form’d from the ether blue, And my blood is of the unfallen dew, And thou art framed of mud and dust, ’Tis thine to speak, reply I must.” «T demand of thee, then,” said the youth, “ by what ch... it is that I am thus altered in mind and in wishes—that I think no longer of deer or dog, or bow or bolt—that my soul spurns the bounds of this obscure glen—that my blood boils at an insult from one by whose stirrup I would some days since have run for a whole summer’s morn, contented and honored by the notice of a single word? Why do I now seek to mate me with princes, and knights, and nobles?—Am I the same, who but yesterday, as it were, slumbered in contented obscurity, but who am to-day awakened to glory and ambition >—Speak —tell me, if thou canst, the meaning of this change ?—Am I spell-bound?—or have [ till now been under the influence of a spell, that I feel as another being, yet am conscious of re- maining the same? Speak and tell me, is itto thy influence that the change is owing?” The White Lady replied,— “ A mightier wizard far than I Wields o’er the universe his power Him owns the eagle in the sky, The turtle in the bower. ~ Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still, He wields the heart of man at will, From ill to good, from good to ill, In cot and castle-tower.” “ Speak not thus darkly,” said the youth, coloring so deeply, chat face, neck, and hands were in a sanguine glow; “‘ make me sensible of thy purpose.” The spirit answered,— Ask thy heart, whose secret cell Ts fill’d with Mary Avenel! Ask thy pride, why scornful look In Mary’s view it will not brook r“Tell me, then,” said Halbert. his cheeks still d THE MONASTERY. Ask it, w hy thou seek’st to rise Among the mi ighty and the wise == Why thou Spurn’st thy lowly lot? Why thy pastimes are forgot? Why thou wouldst in bloody Strife, Mend thy luck or lose thy life ? Ask thy heart, and it shall tell, Sighing from its secret cell, ’Tis for Mary Avenel.” deeply erim-. soned, “thou who hast said to me that which I dared not oy to myself, by what means shall I urge my passion—by wl at means make it known ? The White Lady replied,— “Do not ask me: On doubts like these thou canst not task me. We only see the passing show Of human passion’s ebb and flow ; And view the pageant’s idle gl ance As mortals eye the uaa dance, When thousand stre: ners, flashing bright, Career it o’er the brow of night, And gazers mark their chang seful gleams, But feel no influence from theit - beams.” “ Yet thine own fate,” replied Halbert, “unless men greatly err, is linked with that of mortals?” 1€ phantom answered,— “By ties mysterious link’d, our fated race Holds strange connection with the sons of men. The star that rose upon the House of Avenel, When Norman Ulric first assumed the name, That star, when culminating in its orbit, Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond dew, And this bright font received it—and a Spirit Rose from the fountain, and her date of life Hath co-existence with the House of Avenel, And with the star that rules it.” “Speak yet more plainly,” answered young Glendinning ; “of this I can understand nothing. Say, what hath forged thy weirded * link of destiny with the House of Avenel? Say especially, what fate now overhangs that house ?” The White Lady replied,— “ Look on my girdle—on this thread of gold— ’Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, And, but there is a spell on’t, would not bind, Light as they are, the folds of my thin robe. * Wetrded—fated.Paha vat creat a be bar a THE MONASTERY. But when ’twas donn’d, it was a massive chain, Such as might bind the champion of the Jews, Even when his locks were longest—it hath dwindled, Hath minish’d in its substance and its strength, As sunk the greatness of the House of Avenel. When this frail thread gives way, I to the elements Resign the principles of life they lent me. Ask me no more of this !—the stars forbid it.” “Then canst thou read the stars,” answered the youth ; ‘and mayst tell me the fate of my passion if thou canst not aideit 2” The White Lady again replied,— “Dim burns the one bright star of Avenel, Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh, And the o’er-wearied warder leaves the light-house ; There is an influence sorrowful and fearful, That dogs its downward course. Disastrous passion Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect That lowers upon its fortunes.” “ And rivalry?” repeated Glendinning ; “it is, then, as I feared !—But shall that English silkworm presume to beard me in my father’s house, and in the presence of Mary Avenel ?—— Give me to meet him, spirit—give me to do away the vain distinction of rank on which he refuses me the combat. Place us on equal terms, and gleam the stars with what aspect they will, the sword of my father shall control their influences.” She answered as promptly as before,— “ Complain not of me, child of clay, If to thy harm I yield the way. We, who soar thy sphere above, Know not aught of hate or love; As will or wisdom rules thy mood, My gifts to evil turn, or good.” ‘Give me to redeem my honor,” said Halbert Glendinning —‘‘sive me to retort on my proud rival the insults he has thrown on me, and let the rest fare as it will. If I cannot revenge my wrong, I shall sleep quiet, and know naught of my disgrace.” The phantom failed not to reply,— “ When Piercie Shafton boasteth high, Let this token meet his eye. The sun is westering from the dell, Thy wish is granted—fare thee well ! ”THE MONASTERY. 184 As the White Lady spoke or chanted these last words, she undid from her locks 4 silver bodkin, around which they were twisted, and gave itto Halbert Glendinning ; then shaking her dishevelled hair till it fell like a veil around her, the outlines of her form gradually became as diffuse as her flowing tresses, her countenance grew pale as the moon in her first quarter, her features became indistinguishable, and she melted into the air. Habit inures us to wonders ; but the youth did not find him- self alone by the fountain without experiencing, though in a much less degree, the revulsion of Spirits which he had felt upon the phantom’s former disappearance. A doubt strong] pressed upon his mind, whether it were safe to avail himself of the gifts of a spirit which did not even pretend to belong to the class of angels, and might, for aught he knew, have a much worse lineage than that which she was pleased to avow. “Iwill speak of it,” he said, “to Edward, who is clerkly learned and will tell me what I should do. And yet, no—Edward js scrupulous and wary.—I will prove the effect of her gift on Sir Piercie Shafton if he again braves me, and by the issue, I will be myself a sufficient judge whether there is danger in resort- ing to her counsel, Home, then, home—and we shall soon learn whether that home shall longer hold me; for not again will I brook insult, with my father’s sword by my side, and Mary for the spectator of my disgrace.” tee ogg CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. I give thee eighteenpence a-day, And my bow shalt thou bear, And over ali the north country, I make thee the chief rydere. And I thirteenpence a-day, quoth the queen, By God and by my faye, Come fetch thy payment when thou wilt, No man shall say thee nay. WILLIAM oF CLoUDESLEY. THE manners of the age did not permit the inhabitants of Glendearg to partake of the collation which was placed in the spence of that ancient tower, before the Lord Abbot and his attendants, and Sir Piercie Shafton. Dame Glendinning was excluded both by inferiority of rank and by sex, for (though it was a rule often neglected) the Superior of Saint Mary’s was debarred from taking his meals in female society. To Mary188 THE MONASTERY. Avenel the latter, and to Edward Glendinning the former, incapacity attached, but it pleased his lordship to require their presence in the apartment, and to say sundry kind words to them upon the ready and hospitable reception which they had afforded him. The smoking haunch now stood upon the table ; a napkin, white as snow, was, with due reverence, tucked under the chin of the Abbot by the Refectioner ; and naught was wanting to commence the repast, save the presence of Sir Piercie Shafton, who at length appeared, glittering like the sun, in a carnation- velvet doublet, slashed and puffed out with cloth of silver, his hat of the newest block, surrounded by a hatband of goldsmith’s work, while around his neck he wore a collar of gold, set with rubies and topazes so rich, that it vindicated his anxiety for the safety of his baggage from being founded upon his love of mere finery. This gorgeous collar or chain, resembling those worn by the knights of the highest orders of chivalry, fell down on his breast, and terminated in a medallion. “We waited for Sir Piercie Shafton,” said the Abbot, hastil assuming his place in the great chair which the Kitchener me vanced to the table with ready hand. “T pray your pardon, reverend father, and my good lord,” replied that pink of courtesy; “I did but wait to cast my riding slough, and to transmew myself into some civil form meeter for this worshipful company.” “T cannot but praise your gallantry, Sir Knight,” said the Abbot, “(and your prudence, also, for choosing the fitting time to appear thus adorned. Certes, had that goodly chain been visible in some part of your late progress, there was risk that the lawful owner might have parted company therewith.” ‘This chain, said your reverence ?’’ answered Sir Piercie ; “surely it is but a toy, a trifle, a slight thing which shows but poorly with this doublet—marry, when I wear that of the murrey-colored double-piled Genoa velvet, puffed out with ciprus, the gems, being relieved and set off by the darker and more grave ground of the stuff, show like stars giving a lustre through dark clouds.” “IT nothing doubt it,” said the Abbot, “but I pray you to sit down at the board.” But Sir Piercie had now got into his element, and was not easily interrupted—‘“ I own,” he continued, “ that slight as the toy is, it might perchance have had some captivation for Julian —Santa Maria!” said he interrupting himself ; “what was I about to say, and my fair and beauteous Protection, or shall ITHE MONASTERY. 189 rather term her my Discretion, here in presence '—Indiscreet hath it been in your Affability, O most lovely Discretion, to suffer a stray word to have broke out of the penfold of his mouth that might overleap the fence of civility, and trespass on the manor of decorum.” “Marry!” said the Abbot, somewhat impatiently, “the greatest discretion that I can see in the matter is, to eat our victuals, being hot-—Father Eustace, say the Benedicite, andcut up the haunch.” The Sub-Prior readily obeyed the first part of the Abbot's injunction, but paused upon the second—* [t js Friday, most reverend,” he said in Latin, desirous that the hint should escape, if possible, the ears of the stranger. ‘ We are travellers,” said the Abbot in reply, “and wéatoribus licitum est—You know the canon—a traveller must eat what food his hard fate sets before him. | grant you all a dispensa- tion to eat flesh this day, conditionally that you, brethren, say the Confiteor at Curfew time, that the knight give alms to his ability, and that all and each of you fast from flesh on such day within the next month that shall seem most convenient ; wherefore fall to and eat your food with cheerful countenances, and you, father Refectioner, dz mixtus.” While the Abbot was thus stating the conditions on which his indulgence was granted, he had already half finished a slice of the noble haunch, and now washed it down, with a flagon of Rhenish, modestly tempered with water. “Well is it said,” he observed, as he required from the Re- fectioner another slice, “that virtue is its own reward ; for though this is but humble fare, and hastily prepared, and eaten in a poor chamber, I do not remember me of having had such an appetite since I was a simple brother in the Abbey of Dun- drennan, and was wont to labor in the garden from morning until nones, when our Abbot struck the Cymbalum. Then would Tenter keen with hunger, parched with thirst (da mihi vinum queso, et merum sit), and partake with appetite of whatever was set before us, according to our rule ; feast or fast-day, caritas or penitentia, was the same tome. I had no stomach complaints then, which now crave both the aid of wine and choice cookery, to render my food acceptable to my palate, and easy of diges- tion,” ‘It may be, holy father,” said the Sub-Prior, “an occasional ride to the extremity of Saint Mary’s patrimony, may have the same happy effect on your health as the air of the garden at Dundrennan.”190 THE MONASTERY. ‘““Perchance, with our patroness’s blessing, such progresses many advantage us,” said the Abbot ; ‘“‘ having an especial eye that our venison is carefully killed by some woodsman that is master of his craft.” “Tf the Lord Abbot will permit me,” said the Kitchener, “T think the best way to assure his lordship on that important point, would be to retain as a yeoman-pricker, or deputy-ranger, the eldest son of this good woman, Dame Glendinning, who is here to wait upon us. I should know by mine office what belongs to killing of game, and I can safely pronounce, that never saw I, or any other coguznarius, a bolt so justly shot. It has cloven the very heart of the buck.” ‘‘What speak you to us of one good shot, father?” said Sir Piercie ; ‘I would advise you that such no more maketh a shooter, than doth one swallow make a summer—lI have seen this springald of whom you speak, and if his hand can send forth his shafts as boldly as his tongue doth utter presumptous speeches, I will own him as good an archer as Robin Hood.” “Marry,” said the Abbot, “and it is fitting we know the truth of this matter from the dame herself ; for ill advised were we to give way to any rashness in this matter, whereby the bounties which heaven and our patroness provide might be unskilfully mangled, and rendered unfit for worthy men’s use. —Stand forth, therefore, Dame Glendinning, and tell to us as thy liege lord and spiritual Superior, using plainness and truth, without either fear or favor, as being a matter wherein we are deeply interested, Doth this son of thine use his bow as well as the Father Kitchener avers to us?” “So please your noble fatherhood,” answered Dame Glen- dinning, with a deep curtsey, “I should know somewhat of archery to my cost, seeing my husband—God assoilzie him !— was slain in the field of Pinkie with an arrow-shot, while he was fighting under the Kirk’s banner, as became a liege vassal of the Halidome. He wasavaliant man, please your reverence, and an honest ; and saving that he loved a bit of venison, and shifted for his living at a time as Border-men will sometimes do, I wot not of sin that he did. And yet, though I have paid for mass after mass to the matter of a forty shilling, besides a quarter of wheat and four firlots of rye, I can have no assurance yet that he has been delivered from purgatory.” “ Dame,” said the Lord Abbot, “this shall be looked into heedfully ; and since thy husband fell, as thou sayest, in the Kirk’s quarrel, and under her banner, rely upon it, that we will have him out of purgatory forthwith—that is, always providedTHE MONASTERY. 191 he be there.—But it js not of thy husband whom we now devise to speak, but of thy son ; not of a Shot Scotsman but of a shot deer—Wherefore, | Say, answer me to the point, is thy son a practised archer, ay or no?” “ Alack! my reverend lord,” replied tl croft would be better tilled, if I could that he is not.—Practised archer would practise something else—cross-bow and long-bow, hand- gun and hackbut, falconet and saker, he can shoot with them all. And if it would please this right honorable gentleman, Our guest, to hold out his hat at the distance of a hundred yards, our Halbert shall send shaft, bolt, or bullet through it (so that right honorable gentleman swerve not, but hold out steady), and I will forfeit a quarter of barley if he touch but a knot of his ribbons. [ have seen our old Martin do as much. and so has our right reverend the Sub-Prior, if he be pleased to remember it.”’ “Tam not like to forget it, dame,” said Father Eustace ; “for I knew not which most to admire, the composure of the young marksman, or the steadiness of the old mark. Yeo? presume not to advise Sir Piercie Shafton to subject his valuable beaver, and yet more valuable person, to such a risk, unless it should be his own special pleasure,” “ Be assured it is not,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, something hastily ; “be well assured, holy father, thatit isnot. I dispute not the lad’s qualities, for which your reverence vouches. But bows are but wood, strings are but flax, or the silk-worm excre. ment at best ; archers are but men, fingers may slip, eyes may dazzle, the blindest may hit the butt. the best marker may shoot a bow’s length beside. Therefore will we try no perilous ex: eriments.” ‘ ‘ Be that as you will, Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot ; “ mean time we will name this youth bow-bearer in the forest granted to us by good King David, that the chase might recreate our wearied spirits, the flesh of the deer Improve Our poor commons, and the hides cover the books of our library ; thus tending at once to the sustenance of body and soul.” “Kneel down, woman. kneel down,” said the Retectioner and the Kitchener, with one voice, to Dame Glendinning, “and kiss his lordship’s hand, for the grace which he has granted to thy son.” : They then, as if they had been chanting the service and the responses, set off in asort of duetto, enumerating the advan. tages of the situation. 1e widow, “and my answer your reverence ‘—marry, holy sir, I would he192 THE MONASTERY. “A green gown and a pair of leathern galligaskins every Pentecost,” said the Kitchener. “Four marks by the year at Candlemas,” answered the Refectioner. “ An hogshead of ale at Martlemas, of the doubie strike, and single ale at pleasure, as he shall agree with the cellarer- y ‘Who is a reasonable man,” said the Abbot, “ and will en- courage an active servant of the convents, ‘© A mess of broth anda dole of mutton or beef, at the Kitchener’s, on each high holiday,” resumed the Kitchener. “The gang of two cows and a palfrey on our Lady’s meadow,” answered his brother officer. “An ox-hide to make buskins of yearly, because of the brambles,” echoed the Kitchener. “And various other perquisites, gue nunc prescribere lon- gum,” said the Abbot, summing, with his own lordly voice, the advantages attached to the office of conventual bow-bearer. Dame Glendinning was all this while on her knees, her head mechanically turning from the one church officer to the other, which, as they stood one on each side of her, had much the apearance of a figure moved by clock-work, and so soon as they were silent, most devotedly did she kiss the munificent hand of the Abbot. Conscious, however, of Halbert’s intracta- bility in some points, she could not help qualifying her grateful and reiterated thanks for the Abbot’s bountiful proffer, with a hope that Halbert would see his wisdom, and accept of it. ‘“ How,” said the Abbot, bending his brows, “ accept of it! —Womarn, is thy son in his right wits ?” Elspeth, stunned by the tone in which this question was asked, was altogether unable to reply to it. Indeed, any an- swer she might have made could hardly have been heard, as it pleased the two office-bearers of the Abbot’s table again to recommence their alternate dialogue. “ Refuse!” said the Kitchener. “Refuse !”? answered the Refectioner, echoing the other’s word in a tone of louder astonishment. ‘“ Refuse four marks by the year!” said the one. “Ale and deer—broth and mutton—cows’ grass and pal- frey’s!”’ shouted the Kitchener. ‘Gown and galligaskins!”” responded the Refectioner. ‘““A moment’s patience, my brethren,’ answered the Sub- Prior, ““and let us not be thus astonished before cause is afforded of our amazement. ‘This good dame best knoweth the temper and spirit of her son—this much I can say, that itTHE MON. a THE MONASTERY. 193 lieth not towards letters or learning, of which I have in vain endeavored to instil into him some tincture, Nevertheless, he is a youth of no common spirit, but much like those (in my weak judgment) whom God raises up among a people when he meaneth that their deliverance shall be wrought out with strength of hand and valor of heart. Such men we have seen marked by a waywardness, and even an obstinacy of character. which hath appeared intractability and stupidity to those among whom they walked and were conversant, until the very oppor- tunity hath arrived in which it was the will of Providence that they should be the fitting instrument of great things.” ‘‘ Now, in good time hast thou spoken, Father Eustace,” said the Abbot; “and we will see this swankie before we de- cide upon the means of employing him.—How Say you, Sir Piercie Shafton, is it not the court fashion to suit the man to the office, and not the office to the man?” “So please your reverence and lordsh p,’ answered the Northumbrian knight, “I do partly, that is, in some sort, sub- scribe to what your wisdom hath delivered—Nevertheless, under reverence of the Sub-Prior, we do not look for gallant leaders and national deliverers in the hovels of the mé€an common peo- ple. Credit me, that if there be some flashes of martial spirit about this young person, which I am not called upon to dispute (though I have seldom seen that presumption and arrogance were made good upon the upshot by deed and action), yet still these will prove insufficient to distinguish him, save in his own limited and lowly sphere—even as the glow-worm, which makes a goodly show among the grass of the field, would be of little avail if deposited in a beacon-grate.” “ Now in good time,” said the Sup-Prior, “and here comes the young huntsman to speak for himself ;” for, being placed Opposite to the windcw, he could observe Halbert as he as- cended the little mound on which the tower was situated. “ Summon lum to our presence,” said the Lord Abbot ; and with an obedient start the two attendant monks went off with emulous alertness. Dame Glendinning sprung away at the same inoment, partly to gain an instant to recommend obedience to her son, partly to prevail with him to change his apparel be- fore coming in presence of the Abbot. But the Kitchener and Refectioner, both speaking at once, had already seized each an arm, and were leading Halbert in triumph into the apart ment, so that she could only ejaculate, “ His will be done ; but an he had but had on him his Sunday’s hose ! ” Limited and humble as this desire was, the fates did not T3— — PTA EE Te 194 THE MONASTERY. grant it, for Halbert Glendinning was hurried into the presence of the Lord Abbot and his party without a word of explana- tion, and without a moment’s time being allowed to assume his holiday hose, which, in the language of the time, implied both breeches and stockings. ; Yet, though thus suddenly presented amid the centre of all eyes, there was something in Halbert’s appearance which com- manded a certain degree of respect from the company into which he was so unceremoniously intruded, and the greater part of whom were disposed to consider him with hauteur if not with absolute contempt. But his appearance and reception we must devote to another chapter. CHAPTER NINETEENTH. Sow choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth and honor. There lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee through | The dance of youth, and the turmoil of manhood, Yet leave enough for age’s chimney-corner ; But an thou grasp to it, farewell ambition, Farewell each hope of bettering thy conditzon, And raising thy low rank above the churls That till the earth for bread. OLD Pray. ‘ IT is necessary to dwell for some brief space on the appear- ance and demeanor of young Glendinning, ere we proceed to describe his interview with the Abbot of Saint Mary’s at this momentous crisis of his life. Halbert was now about nineteen years old, tall and active rather than strong, yet of that hardy conformation of limb and sinew, which promises great strength when the growth shall be complete, and the system confirmed. He was perfectly well made, and, like most men who have that advantage, possessed a grace and natural ease of manner and carriage, which pre- vented his height from being the distinguished part of his ex- ternal appearance. It was not until you had compared his stature with that of those amongst or near to whom he stood, that you became sensible that the young Glendinning was upwards of six feet high. In the combination of unusual height with perfect symmetry, ease, and grace of carriage, the young heir of Glendearg, notwithstanding his rustic birth and education, had greatly the advantage even of Sir Piercie Shaf-THE MONASTERY. 195 ton himself, whose stature was lower, and his limbs, though there was no particular point to. object to, were on the whole less exactly proportioned. On the other hand, Sir Piercie’s very handsome countenance afforded him as decided an advantage over the Scotsman, as regularity of features and brilliance of complexion could Sive over traits which were rather strongly marked than beautiful, and upon whose complexion the skyey influences,” to which he was constantly exposed, had blended the red and white into the purely nut-brown hue, which colored alike cheeks, neck, and forehead, and blushed only in a darker glow upon the former. Halbert’s eyes supplied a marked and distinguished part of his physiognomy. They were large and of a hazel color, and sparkled in moments of animation with such uncommon brilliancy, that it seemed as if they actually emitted light. Nature had closely curled the locks of dark- brown hair, which relieved and set off the features, such as we have described them, displaying a bold and animated disposi- tion, much more than might have been expected from his situa- tion, or from his previous manners, which hitherto had seemed bashful, homely, and awkward. Halbert’s dress was certainly not of that description which sets off to the best advantage a presence of itself prepossess- ing. His jerkin and hose were of coarse rustic cloth, and his cap of thesame. A belt round his waist served at once to sus- tain the broadsword which we have already mentioned, and to hold five or six arrows and bird-bolts, which were stuck into it on the right side, along witha large knife hilted with buck-horn, or, as it was then called, a dudgeon-dagger. To complete his dress, we must notice his loose buskins of deer’s-hide, formed So as to draw up on the leg as high as the knee, or at pleasure to be thrust down lower than the calves. These were generally used at the period by such as either had their principal occupa- tion, or their chief pleasure, in silvan sports, as they served to protect the legs against the rough and tangled thickets into which the pursuit of game frequently led them.—And these trifling particulars complete his external appearance. It is not so easy to do justice to the manner in which young Glendinning’s soul spoke through his eyes when ushered so suddenly into the company of those whom his earliest educa- tion had taught him to treat with awe and reverence. The de- gree of embarrassment, which his demeanor evinced, had noth- ing in it either meanly servile, or utterly disconcerted. It was no more than became a generous and ingenious youth of a bold Spirit, but totally inexperienced, who should for the first time196 THE MONASTERY. be called upon to think and act for himself in such society and under such disadvantageous circumstances. ‘There was not in his carriage a grain either of forwardness or of timidity, which a friend could have wished away. He knelt and kissed the Abbot’s hand, then rose, and re- tiring two paces, bowed respectfully to the circle around, smil ing gently as he received an encouraging nod from the Sub-Prior, to whom alone he was personally known, and blushing as he encountered the anxious look of Mary Avenel, who beheld with painful interest the sort of ordeal to which her foster-brother was about to be subjected. Recovering from the transient flurry of spirits into which the encounter of her glance had thrown him, he stood composedly awaiting till the Abbot should express his pleasure. The ingenuous expression of countenance, noble form, and graceful attitude of the young man, failed not to prepossess in his favor the churchmen in whose presence he stood. The Abbot looked round, and exchanged a gracious and approving glance with his counsellor Father Eustace, although probably the appointment of a ranger, or bow-bearer, was one in which he might have been disposed to proceed without the Sub-Prior’s advice, were it but to showhis own free agency. But the good mien of the young man now in nominatien was such that he rather hastened to exchange congratulation on meeting with so proper a subject of promotion than to indulge any other feeling. Father Eustace enjoyed the pleasure which a well-constituted mind derives from seeing a benefit light on a deserving object ; for,as he had not seen Halbert since circumstances had made so material a change in his manner and feelings, he scarce doubted that the proffered appointment would, notwithstanding his mother’s uncertainty, suit the disposition of a youth who had appeared devoted to woodland sports, and a foe alike to sedentary or settled occupation of any kind. The Refectioner and Kitchener were so well pleased with Halbert’s prepossess- ing appearance that they seemed to think that the salary, emolu- ments, and perquisites, the dole, the grazing, the gown, and the galligaskins, could scarce be better bestowed than on the active and graceful figure before them. Sir Piercie Shafton, whether from being more deeply en- gaged in his own cogitations, or that the subject was unworthy of his notice, did not seem to partake of the general feeling of approbation excited by the young man’s presence. He sate with his eyes half shut, and his arms folded, appearing to be wrapped in contemplations of a nature deeper than those arisTHE MONASTERY. 194 ing out of the scene before him, But, notwithstanding his seeming abstraction and absence of mind, there was a flutter of vanity in Sir Piercie’s very handsome countenance, an occa- sional change of posture from one striking attitude (or what he conceived to be such) to another, and an occasional stolen glance at the female part of the Company, to spy how far he succeeded in rivetting their attention, which give a marked ad- vantage, in comparison, to the less regular and more harsh features of Halbert Glendinning, with their composed, manly and deliberate expression of mental fortitude. ; _Of the females belonging to the family of Glende Miller’s daughter alone had her mind sufficiently at | admire, from time to time. the graceful attitudes | Shafton ; for both Mary Avenel and arg, the eisure to es of Sir Piercie afton Dame Glendinning were wailing in anxiety and apprehension the answer which Halbert was to return to the Abbot’s proposal, and fearfully anticipat- ing the consequences of his probable refusal. The conduct of his brother Edward, for a lad constitutionally shy, respectful, and even timid, was at once affectionate and noble. This younger son of Dame Elspeth had stood unnoticed in a corner, after the Abbot, at the request of the Sub-Prior, had honored him with some passing notice, and asked him a few common- place questions about his progress in Donatus, and in the Lromptuarium Parvulorum, without Waiting for the answers. From his corner he now glided round to his brother’s side, and keeping a little behind him, slid his right hand into the hunts- man’s left, and by a gentle pressure, which Halbert instantly and ardently returned, expressed at once his interest in his situa- tion, and his resolution to share his fate. The group was thus arranged, when, after the pause of two or three minutes, which he employed in slowly sipping his cup of wine, in order that he might enter on his proposal with due and deliberate dignity, the Abbot at length expressed himself thus :— “ My son—we your lawful Superior, and the Abbot, under God’s favor, of the community of Saint Mary’s, have heard of your manifold good gifts—a-hem—especially touching wood- craft—and the huntsman-like fashion in which you strike your game, truly and as a yeoman should, not abusing Heaven’s good benefits by spoiling the flesh, as is too often seen in care- less rangers—a-hem.” He made here a pause, but observing that Glendinning only replied to his compliment by a bow, he proceeded,—‘“‘ My son, we commend your modesty ; neverthe- less, we will that thou shouldst speak freely to us touchingTHE MONASTERY. that which we have premeditated for thine advancement, mean ing to confer on thee the office of bow-bearer and ranger, as well over the chases and forests wherein our house hath privi- lege by the gifts of pious kings and nobles, whose souls now enjoy the fruits of their bounties to the Church, as to those which belong to us in exclusive right of property and perpe- tuity. Thy knee, my son—that we may, with our own hand, and without loss of time, induct thee into office.” j “ Kneel down,” said the Kitchener on the one side ; and “Kneel down,” said the Refectioner on the other. But Halbert Glendinning remained standing. “ Were it to show gratitude and good-will for your reverend lordship’s noble offer, I could not,” he said, “ kneel low enough, or remain long enough kneeling. But I may not kneel to take investure of your noble gift, my Lord Abbot, being a man determined to seek my fortune otherwise.” “ How is that, sir?”’ said the Abbot, knitting his brows ; “do I hear you speak aright ? and do you, a born vassal of the Halidome, at the moment when I am destining to you such a noble expression of my good-will, propose exchanging my ser- vice for that of any other?” “My lord,” said Halbert Glendinning, “it grieves me to think you hold me capable of undervaluing your gracious offer, or of exchanging your service for another. But your noble proffer doth but hasten the execution of a determination which I have long since formed.” “Ay, my son,” said the Abbot, “is it indeed so?—nght early have you learned to form resolutions without consulting those on whom you naturally depend. But what may it be, this sagacious resolution, if I may so far pray you?” “To yield up to my brother and mother,” answered Hal- bert, “ mine interest in the fief of Glendearg, lately possessed by my father, Simon Glendinning: and having prayed your lordship to be the same kind and generous master to them, that your predecessors, the venerable Abbots of Saint Mary’s, have been to my fathers in time past ; for myself, I am deter: mined to seek my fortune where I may best find it.” Dame Glendinning here ventured, emboidened by maternal anxiety, to break silence with an exclamation of ‘‘O my son!” Edward, clinging to his brother’s side, half spoke, half whisp- ered, a similar ejaculation, of “ Brother! brother!” The Sub-Prior took up the matter in a tone of grave repre- hension, which, as he conceived, the interest he had always taken in the family of Glendearg required at his hand.THE MONASTERY. 199 ‘“Wilful young man,” he said, “ what folly can urge thee co push back the hand that is stretched out to aid thee ? What visionary aim hast thou before thee, that can compensate for the decent and sufficient independence which thou art now re- jecting with scorn ?” “ Four marks by the year, duly and truly,” said the Kitch- ener. ‘Cows’ grass, doublet, and galligaskins,” responded the Refectioner. ‘“ Peace, my brethren,” said the Sub-Prior; “and may it please your lordship, venerable father, upon my petition, to allow this headstrong youth a day for consideration, and it shall be my part so to indoctrinate him, as to convince him what is due on this occasion to your lordship, and to his family and to himself.”’ “Your kindness, reverend father,” said the youth, “craves my dearest thanks—it is the continuance of along train of benevolence toward me, for which I give you my gratitude, for [ have nothing else to offer. It is my mishap, not your fault, that your intentions have been frustrated. But my present res- ° olution is fixed and unalterable. I cannot accept the gener- ous offer of the Lord Abbot ; my fate calls me elsewhere, to scenes where [| shall end it or mend it.” ‘* By our Lady,” said the Abbot, “I think the youth be mad indeed—or that you, Sir Piercie, judged of him most truly, when you prophesied that he would prove unfit for the promo- tion we designed him—it may be you knew something of this wayward humor before ?”’ “ By the mass, not I,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton, with his usual indifference. “I but judged of him by his birth and breeding ; for seldom doth a good hawk come out of a kite’s egg 9) ? “Thou art thyself a kite, and kestril to boot,” replied Hal- bert Glendinning, without a moment’s hesitation. oO?) “This in our presence, and to aman of worship?” said the Abbot, the blood rushing to his face. “Yes, my Lord,” answered the youth ; “ even in your pres- ence I return to this gay man’s face, the causeless, dishonor which he has flung on my name. My brave father, who fell in the cause of his country, demands that justice at the hands of his son!” ‘“Unmannered boy!” said the Abbot. “Nay, my good lord,” said the knight, “ praying pardon for the coarse interruption, let me entreat you not to be wroth200 THE MONASTERY. with this rustical—Credit me, the north wind shall as soon puft one of your rocks from its basis, as aught which I hold so slight and inconsiderate as the churlish speech of an untaught churl, shall move the spleen of Piercie Shafton.” “Proud as you are, Sir Knight,” said Halbert, “in your imagined superiority, be not too confident that you cannot be moved.” “ Faith, by nothing that thou canst urge,” said Sir Piercie. “Knowest thou, then, this token?” said young Glendin- ning, offering to him the silver bodkin which he had received from the White Lady. Never was such an instant change, from the most contempt- yous serenity, to the most furious state of passion, as that which Sir Piercie Shafton exhibited. It was the difference be- tween a cannon lying quiet in its embrasure, and the same gun when touched by the linstock. He started up, every limb quiv- ering with rage, and his features so inflamed and agitated by passion, that he more resembled a demoniac than a man under the regulation of reason. He clenched both his fists, and thrusting them forward, offered them furiously at the face of Glendinning, who was even himself startled at the frantic state of excitation which his action had occasioned. The next mo- ment he withdrew them, struck his open palm against his own forehead, and rushed out of the room ina state of indescribable agitation. ‘The whole matter had been so sudden, that no per- son present had time to interfere. When Sir Piercie Shafton had left the apartment, there was amoment’s pause of astonishment ; and then a general de- mand that Halbert Glendinning should instantly explain by what means he had produced such a violent change in the de- portment of the English cavalier. “I did naught to him,” answered Halbert Glendinning, “but what you all saw—am I to answer for his fantastic freaks of humor?” ‘* Boy,” said the Abbot, in his most authoritative manner, “these subterfuges shall not avail thee. This is not a man to be driven from his temperament without some sufficient cause. That cause was given by thee, and must have been known to thee. I command thee, as thou wilt save thyself from worse measure, to explain to me by what means thou hast moved our friend thus—We choose not that our vassals shall drive our guests mad in our very presence, and we remain ignorant of the means whereby that purpose is effected.” “So may it please your reverence, I did but show him thisTHE MONASTERY. 201 token,” said Halbert Glendinning, delivering it at the same time to the Abbot, who looked at it with much attention, and then, shaking his head, gravely delivered it to the Sub- Prior, without speaking a word. Father Eustace looked at the mysterious token with some attention ; and then, addressing Halbert in a stern and severe voice, said, “* Young man, if thou wouldst not have us suspect thee of some strange double-dealing in this matter, let us instantly know whence thou hadst this token, and how it possesses an influence on Sir Piercie Shafton ?””—It would have been extremely difficult for Halbert, thus hard pressed, to have either evaded or answered so puzzling a question. To have avowed the truth might, in those times, have occasioned his being burnt ata stake, although, in ours, his confession would have only gained for him the credit of a liar beyond all rational credibility. He was fortunately relieved by the return of Sir Piercie Shafton himself, whose ear caught, as he entered, the sound of the Sub-Prior’s question. Without waiting until Halbert Glendinning replied, he came forward, whispering to him as he passed, ‘‘ Be secret—thou shalt have the satisfaction thou hast dared to seek for.” Wher he returned to his place, there were still marks of dis- composure on his brow; but, becoming apparently collected and caim, he looked around him, and apologized for the inde- corum of which he had been guilty, which he ascribed te sudden and severe indisposition. AJl were silent, and looked on each other with some surprise The Lord Abbot gave orders for all to retire from the apart- ment, save himselt, Sir Piercie Shafton, and the Sub-Prior. “ And have an eye,’ he added, “on that bold youth, that he escape not ; for if he kath practised by charm or otherwise, on the health of our worshipful guest, I swear by the alb and mitre which I wear, that his punishment shali be most exem- plary.” “My lord and venerable father,” said Halbert, bowing re- spectfully, “fear not but that I will abide my doom. I think you will best learn from the worshipful knight himself what is the cause of his distemperature, and how slight my share in it has been.” Be assured,” said the knight, without looking up, however, while he spoke, “I will satisfy ‘the Lord Abbot.” With these words the company retired, and with ther young Glendinning. When the Abbot. the Sub-Prior, and the English knightSOE re ee THE MONASTERY. were left alone, Father Eustace, contrary to his custom, could not help speaking the first. ‘“ Expound unto us, noble sir,” he said, “ by what mysterious means the production of this simple toy could so far move your spirit, and overcome your patience, after you had shown yourself proof to all the provocation offered by this self-sufficient and singular youth ? The knight took the silver bodkin from the good father’s hand, looked at it with great composure, and, having examined it all over, returned it to the Sub-Prior, saying at the same time, “In truth, venerable father, I cannot but marvel, that the wisdom implied alike in your silver hairs, and in your eminent rank, should, like a babbling hound (excuse the simili- tude), open thus loudly on a false scent. I were, indeed, more slight to be moved than the leaves of the aspen-tree, which wag at the least breath of heaven, could I be touched by such a trifle as this, which in no way concerns me more than if the same quantity of silver were stricken into so many groats. Truth is, that from my youth upward, I have been subjected to such a malady as you saw me visited with even now—a cruel and searching pain, which goeth through nerve and bone, even as a good brand in the hands of a brave soldier sheers through limb and sinew—but it passes away speedily, as you yourselves may judge.” “Still,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘‘this will not account for the youth offering to you this piece of silver, as a token by which you were to understand something, and, as we must needs cen- jecture, something disagreeable.” “ Your reverence is to conjecture what you will,” said Sir Piercie ; “but I cannot pretend to lay your judgment on the right scent when I see it at fault. Ihope Iam not liable to be called upon to account for the foolish actions of a malapert boy??? “ Assuredly,” said the Sub-Prior, “we shall prosecute no inquiry which is disagreeable to our guest. Nevertheless,” said he, looking to his Superior, “this chance may, in some sort, alter the plan your lordship had formed for your worshipful guest’s residence for a brief term in this tower, as a place alike of secrecy and of security ; both of which, in the terms which we now stand on with England, are circumstances to be desired.” * In truth,” said the Abbot, “and the doubt is well thought on, were it as well removed ; for I scarce know in the Halidome so fitting a place of refuge, yet see I not how to recommend it to your worshipful guest, considering the unrestrained petulance of this headstrong youth.”THE MONASTERY. 203 “6 Tush ! reverend sirs—what would you make of me?” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “I protest, by mine honor, I would abide in this house were I to choose. What! I take no exceptions at the youth for showing a flash of spirit, though the spark may light om mine own head. I honor the lad for it. I protest T will abide here, and he shall aid me in striking down a deer. I must needs be friends with him and he be such a shot: and we will speedily send down to my lord Abbot a buck of the first head, killed so artificially as shall Satisfy even the reverend Kitchener.’ This was said with such apparent ease and good-humor, that the Abbot made no farther observation on what had passed, but proceeded to acquaint his guest with the details of furniture, hangings, provisions, and so forth, which he proposed to send up to the Tower of Glendearg for his accommodation. This discourse, seasoned with a cup or two of wine, served to prolong the time until the reverend Abbot ord: red his cavalcade to prepare for their return to the Monastery, ~ As we have,” he said, “in the course of this our toilsome journey, lost our meridian,* indulgence shall be given to those of our attendants who shall, from very weariness, be unable to attend the duty at prime,f and this by way of misericord or indulgentia.”’ t Having benevolently intimated a boon to his faithful fol- lowers which he probably judged would be far-from unacceptable, the good Abbot, seeing all ready for his journey, bestowed his blessing on the assembled household—gave his hand to be kissed by Dame Glendinning—himself kissed the cheek of Mary Avenel and even of the Miller’s maiden, when they ap- proached to render him the same homage—commanded Halbert to rule his temper, and to be aiding and obedient in all things to the English Knight—admonished Edward to be aiscipulus wmpiger atgue strenuus—then took a courteous farewell of Sir Piercie Shafton, advising him to lie close, for fear of the Eng- lish Borderers, who might be employed to kidnap him ; and hav- ing discharged these various offices of courtesy, moved forth to the courtyard, followed by the whole establishment. Here, with a heavy sigh approaching to a groan, the venerable father heaved himself upon his palfrey, whose dark purple housings * The hour of repose at noon, which, in the middle ages, was employed in slumber, and which the monastic rules of nocturnal vigils rendered necessary. t Prime was the midnight service of the monks, me ; t Misericord, according to the learned work of Fosbrooke on British Monachism, meant not only an indulgence or exoneration from particular duties, but also a particular apart- ment in a convent, where the monks assembled to enjoy sich indulgences or allowances as were granted beyond the rule.204 THE MONASTERY. swept the ground ; and, greatly comforted that the discretion of the animal’s pace would be no longer disturbed by the gam, badoes of Sir Piercie and his prancing war-horse, he set forth at a sober and steady trot upon his return to the Monastery. When the Sub-Prior had mounted to accompany his prin- cipal, his eye sought out Halbert, who, partly hidden by a pro- jection of the outward wall of the court, stood apart from and gazing upon the departing cavalcade, and the group which assembled around them. Unsatisfied with the explanation he had received concerning the mysterious transaction of the silver bodkin, yet interesting himself in the youth, of whose character he had formed a favorable idea, the worthy monk resolved to take an early opportunity of investigating that matter. In the meanwhile, he looked upon Halbert with a serious and warning aspect, and held up his finger to him as he signed farewell. He then joined the rest of the churchmen, and followed his Superior down the valley. CHAPTER TWENTIETH. I hope you’ll give me cause to think you noble, And do me right with your sword, sir, as becomes One gentleman of honor to another ; All this is fair, sir—let us make no days on’t, I'll lead your way. Love’s PILRIGMAGE. Tue look and sign of warning which the Sub-Prior gave to Halbert Glendinning as they parted, went to his heart; for although he had profited much less than Edward by the good man’s intructions, he had a sincere reverence for his person ; and even the short time he had for deliberation tended to show him he was embarked in a perilous adventure. The nature of the provocation which he had given to Sir Piercie Shafton he could not even conjecture; but he saw that it was of a mortal quality, and he was now to abide the conse- quences. That he might not force these consequences forward by any premature renewal of their quarrel, he resolved to walk apart for an hour, and consider on what terms he was to meet this haughty foreigner. The time seemed propitious for his doing so without having the appearance of wilfully shunning the Stranger, as all the members of the little household were dis-THE MONASTERY. 205 persing either to perform such tasks as had been interrupted by the arrival of the dignitaries, or to put in order what had been deranged by their visit. Leaving the Tower, therefore, and descending, unobserved as he thought, the knoll on which it stood, Halbert gained the little piece of level ground which extended betwixt the descent of the hill, and the first sweep made by the brook after washing the foot of the eminence on which the Tower was situated, where 1 few straggling birch and oak trees served to secure him from observation. But scarcely had he reached the spot, when he was surprised to feel a smart tap upon the shoulder, and turning around, he perceived he had been Closely followed by Sir Piercie Shafton. When, whether from our state of animal spirits, want of confidence in the justice of our cause, orany other motive, our own courage happens to be ina wavering condition, nothing tends so much altogether to disconcert us, as a great appear- ance of promptitude on the part of our antagonist. Halbert Glendinning, both morally and constitutionally intrepid, was nevertheless somewhat troubled at seeing the stranger, whose resentment he had provoked, appear at once before him, and with an aspect which boded hostility. But though his heart might beat somewhat thicker, he was too high-spirited to ex- hibit any external signs of emotion—‘ What is your pleasure, Sir Piercie ?” he said to the English knight, enduring, without apparent discomposure, all the terrors which his antagonist had summoned into his aspect. ‘What is my pleasure ?”’ answered Sir Piercie ; “a goodly question after the part you have acted towards me !— Young man, I know not what infatuation has led thee to place thyself in direct and insolent opposition to one who is a guest of thy liege-lord the Abbot, and who, even from the courtesy due to thy mother’s roof, had a right to remain there without meeting insult. Neither do I ask, or care, by what means thou hast become possessed of the fatal secret by which thou hast dared to offer me open shame. But I must now tell thee, that the possession of it hath cost thee thy life.” . ‘‘ Not, I trust, if my hand and sword can defend it,” replied Halbert, boldly. “True,” said the Englishman, “I mean not to deprive thee of thy fair chance of self-defence. JI am only sorry to think, that, young and country-bred as thou art, it can but little avail thee. But thou must be well aware, that in this quarrel I shall use no terms of quarter.”206 THE MONASTERY. ‘Rely on it, proud man,” answered the youth, “that I shall ask none; and although thou speakest as if I lay a lready at thy feet, trust me, that as I am determined never toask thy mercy, so Jam not fearful of needing it.’ “Thou wilt, then,” said the knight, “do nothing to avert the certain fate which thou hast provoked with such wanton: ness ?”’ ‘ And how were that to be purchased?” replied Halbert Glendinning, more with the wish of obtaining some farther insight into the terms on which he stood with this stranger, than to make him the submission which he might require. ‘“‘ Explain to me instantly,” said Sir Piercie, “ without equiv- ocation or delay, by what means thou wert enabled to wound my honor so deeply—and shouldst thou point out to me by so doing an enemy more worthy of my resentment, I will permit thine own obscure insignificance to draw a veil over thine insolence.” } This is too high a flight,” said Glendinning, fiercely, “ for thine own presumption to soar without being checked. Thou hast come to my father’s house, as well as I can guess, a fugitive and an exile, and thy first greeting to its inhabitants has been that of contempt and injury. By what means I have been able to retort that contempt, let thine own conscience tell thee. Enough for me that I stand on the privilege of a free Scotchman, and will brook no insult unreturned, and no injury unrequited. 9 “Tt is well, then,” said Sir Piercie Shafton; ‘‘ we will dis- pute this matter to-morrow morning with our swords. Let the time be day-break, and do thou assign the place. We will go forth as if to strike a deer.” “Content,” replied Halbert Glendinning : “I will guide thee to a spot where an hundred men might fight and fall without any chance of interruption.” “Tt is well,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton. ‘“ Here then we part—Many will say that in thus indulging the right of a grentleman to the son of a clod- breaking peasant I derogate from my sphere, even as the blessed sun would derogate should he condescend to compare and match his golden beams with the twinkle of a pale, blinking, expiring, gross-fed taper. But no consideration of rank shall prevent my avenging the insult thou hast offered me. We bear a smooth face, observe me, Sir Villagio, before the worshipful inmates of yonder cabin, and to-morrow we try conclusions with our swords.” So saying, he turned away towards the tower.THE MONASTERY. 204 ft may not be unworthy of notice, that in the last speech only had Sir Piercie used some of those flowers of rhetoric which characterized the usual style of his conversation, Ap- parently, a sense of wounded honor, and the deep desire cf vindicating his injured feelings, had proved too strong for the fantastic affectation of his acquired habits. Indeed, such is usually the influence of energy of mind, when called forth and exerted, that Sir Piercie Shafton had never appeared in the eyes of his youthful antagonist half so much deserving of esteem and respect as in this brief dialogue, by which they exhanged mutual defiance. As he followed him slowly to the tower, he could not help thinking to himself, that, had the English knight always displayed this superior tone of bearing and feeling, he would not probably have felt so earnestly disposed to take offence at his hand. Mortal offence, however, had been ex- changed, and the matter was to be put to mortal arbitrament. The family met at the evening meal, when Sir Piercie Shafton extended the benignity of his countenance and the graces of his conversation far more generally over the party than he had hitherto condescended to do. The greater part of his attention was, of course, still engrossed by his divine and inimitable Discretion, as he chose to term Mary Avenel ; but, nevertheless, there were interjectional flourishes to the Maid of the Mill, under the title of Comely Damsel, and to the Dame, under that of Worthy Matron. Nay, lest he should fail to excite their admiration by the graces of his rhetoric, he gener- ously, and without solicitation, added those of his voice ; and after regretting bitterly the absence of his viol-de-gamba, he regaled them with a song, “ which,” said he, “ the inimitable Astrophel, whom mortals call Philip Sidney,* composed in the nonage of his muse, to show the world what they are to expect from his riper years, and which will one day see the light in that not-to-be-paralleled perfection of human wit, which he has addressed to his sister, the matchless Parthenope, whom men call Countess of Pembroke ; a work,’ he continued, ‘‘ whereof his friendship hath permitted me, though unworthy, to be an occasional partaker, and whereof I may well say, that the deep afflictive tale which awakeneth our sorrows isso relieved with brilliant similitudes, dulcet descriptions, pleasant poems, and engaging interludes, that they seem as the stars of the firma- ment, beautifying the dusky robe of night. And though I wot well how much the lovely and quaint language will suffer by * (His “ Astrophel and Stella,’’ originally published at London in 159t, was annexed to the numerous editions of the Countess of Pembroke’s ‘‘ Arcadia,” by Sir Philip. It would be in vain to attempt to \erity the words put into the mouth of Sir Piercie Shafton.}208 THE MONASTERY. my widowed voice, widowed in that it is no longer matched by my beloved viol-de-gamba, I will essay to give you a taste of the ravishing sweetness of the poesy of the un-to-be-imitated Astrophel.”’ a" saying, he sung without mercy or remorse about five hundred verses, of which the two first and the four last may suffice for a specimen— “‘ What tongue can her perfections tell, On whose each part all pens may dwell. Of whose high praise and praiseful bliss, Goodness the pen, Heaven paper 1s; The ink immortal fame doth send, As I began so I must end.” As Sir Piercie Shafton always sung with his eyes half shut, it was not until, agreeable to the promise of poetry, he had fairly made an end, that looking round, he discovered that the greater part of his audience had, in the meanwhile, yielded to the charms of repose. Mary Avenel, indeed, from a natural sense of politeness, had contrived to keep awake through all the prolixities of the divine Astrophel ; but Mysie was trans- ported in dreams back to the dusty atmosphere of her father’s mill. Edward himself, who had given his attention for some time, had at length fallen fast asleep ; and the good dame’s nose, could its tones have been put under regulation, might have supplied the bass of the lamented viol-de-gamba. Halbert, however, who had no temptation to give way to the charms of slumber, remained awake with his eyes fixed on the songster ; not that he was better entertained with the words, or more ravished with the execution, than the rest of the company, but rather because he admired, or perhaps envied, the composure, which could thus spend the evening in interminable madrigals. When the next morning was to be devoted to deadly combat. Yet it struck his natural acuteness of observation, that the eye of the gallant cavalier did now and then, furtively as it were, seek a glance of his countenance, as to discover how he was taking the exhibition of his antagonist’s composure and serenity of mind. He shall read nothing in my countenance, thought Halbert, proudly, that can make him think my indifference less than his own. And taking from the shelf a bag full of miscellaneous mat- ters collected for the purpose, he began with great industry to, AT THE MONASTERY. 209 dress hooks, and had finished half-a-dozen of flies (we are en abled, for the benefit of those who admire the antiquities of the gentle art of angling, to state that they were brown hackles) by the time that Sir Piercie had arrived at the conclusion of his long-winded strophes of the divine Astrophel. So that he also tstified a magnanimous contempt of that which to-morrow should bring forth. As it now waxed late, the family of Glendearg separated for the evening; Sir Piercie first saying to the dame, that “ her son Albert——”’ ‘ Halbert,” said Elspeth, with emphasis, ‘‘ Halbert, after his goodsire, Halbert Brydone.” ei Well, then, I have prayed your son Halbert, that we may strive to-morrow, with the sun’s earliness, to wake a stag from his lair, that I may see whether he be as prompt at that sport as fame bespeaks him.”’ “ Alas! sir,” answered Dame Elspeth, “he is but too prompt, an you talk of promptitude, at anything that has steel at one end of it, and mischief at the other. But he is at vour honor- able disposal, and I trust you will teach him how obedience is due to our venerable father and lord, the Abbot, and prevail with him to take the bow-bearer’s place in fee; for, as the two worthy monks said, it will be a great help to a widow woman.” ‘Trust me, good dame,”’ replied Sir Piercie, “ it is my pur- pose so to indoctrinate him, touching his conduct and bearing towards his betters, that he shall not lightly depart from the reverence due to them.—We meet, then, beneath the birch-trees in the plain,” he said, looking to Halbert, “so soon as the eye of day hath opened its lids.” Halbert answered with a sign of acquiescence, and the knight proceeded, “ And now, having wished to my fairest Discretion those pleasant dreams which wave their pinions around the couch of sleeping beauty, and to this comely damsel the bounties of Morpheus, and to all others the common good-night, I will crave you leave to depart to my place of rest, though I may say with the poet, ‘ Ah rest!—no rest but change of place and posture: Ah sleep !—no sleep but worn-out Nature’s swooning}; Ah bed !—no bed but cushion filled with stones: Rest, sleep, nor bed, await not on an exile.’” With a delicate obeisance he left the room, evading Dame Glendinning, who hastened to assure him he would find his ac: commodations for repose much more agreeable than they had been the night before, there having been store of warm cover-210 THE MONASTERY. lets, and a soft feather-bed, sent up from the Abbey. But the good knight probably thought that the grace and effect of his exit would be diminished, if he were recalled from his heroics to discuss such sublunary and domestic topics, and therefore hastened away without waiting to hear her out. “A pleasant gentleman,” said Dame Glendinning ; “ but I will warrant him an humorous *—And sings a sweet song, though it is somewhat of the longest.—Well, I make mine avow he is goodly company—I wonder when he will go away.” __ Having thus expressed her respect for her guest, not with- out intimation that she was heartily tired of his company, the good dame gave the signal for the family to disperse, and laid her injunctions on Halbert to attend Sir Piercie Shafton at day- break, as he required. When stretched on his pallet by his brother’s side, Halbert had no small cause to envy the sound sleep which instantly settled on the eyes of Edward, but refused him any share of its influence. Hesaw now too well what the spirit had darkly indicated, that, in granting the boon which he had asked so unadvisedly, she had contributed more to his harm than his good. He was now sensible, too late, of the various dangers and inconveniences with which his dearest friends were threat- ened, alike by his discomfiture or his success in the approaching duel. If he fell, he might say personally, ‘“good-night all.” But it was not the less certain that he should leave a dreadful legacy of distress and embarrassment to his mother and family, —an anticipation which by no means tended to render the front of death, in itself a grisly object, more agreeable to his imagination. ‘The vengeance of the Abbot, his conscience told him, was sure to descend on his mother and brother, or could only be averted by the generosity of the victor—And Mary Avenel—he should have shown himself, if he succumbed in the present combat, as inefficient in protecting her, as he had been unnecessarily active in bringing disaster on her, and on the house in which she had been protected from infancy. And to this view of the case were to be added all those embittered and anxious feelings with which the bravest men, even in a better or less doubtful quarrel, regard the issue of a dubious conflict, the first time when it has been their fate to engage in an affair of that nature. But however disconsolate the prospect seemed in the event of his being conquered, Halbert could expect from victory little * Humorous—full of whims—thus Shakespeare, ** Humorous as winter.””—The vulgar werd humorsome cemes nearest to the meaningTHE MONASTERY. is, more than the safety of his own life, and the gratification of his wounded pride. To his friends, to his mother and brother —especially to Mary Avenel—the consequences of his triumph would be more certain destruction than the contingency of his defeat and death. If the English knight survived. he might in courtesy extend his protection to them ; but if he fel] rothitie was likely to screen them from the vindictive measures which the Abbot and convent would surely adopt against the violation of the peace of the Halidome, and the slaughter of a protected guest by one of their own vassals, within whose house they had lodged him for shelter. These thoughts, in which neither view of the case augured aught short of ruin to his family, and that ruin entirely brought on by his own rashness, were thorns in Halbert Glendinning’s pillow, and deprived his soul of peace and his eyes of slumber. There appeared no middle cour ©. saying one which was marked by degradation, and which, even if he stooped to it, was by no means free of danger. He might indeed confess to the English knight the strange circumstances which led to his pre- senting him with that token which the White Lady (in her dis- pleasure as it now seemed) had given him, that he might offer it to Sir Piercie Shafton. But to this avowal his pride could not stoop, and reason, who is wonderfully ready to be of coun- sel with pride on such occasions, offered many arguments to show it would be useless as well as mean so far to degrade himself. “If I tell a tale so wonderful,” thought he, “shall I not either be stigmatized as a liar, or punished as a wizard ?— Were Sir Piercie Shafton generous, noble, and benevolent, as the champions of whom we hear in romance, I might indeed gain his ear, and, without demeaning myself, escape from the situation in which I am placed. But as he is, or at least seems to be, self-conceited, arrogant, vain, and presumptuous—I should but humble myself in vain—and I will not humble my- self!” he said, starting out of bed, grasping his broadsword, and brandishing it in the light of the moon, which streamed through the deep niche that served them as a window ; when to his ex- treme surprise and terror, an airy form stood in the moonlight, but intercepted not the reflection on the floor. Dimly as it was expressed, the sound of the voice soon made him sensible he saw the White Lady. At no time had her presence seemed so terrific to him ; fo1 when he had invoked her, it was with the expectation of the apparition, and the determination to abide the issue. But now she had come uncalled, and her presence impressed him with212 THE: MONASTERY. a sense of approaching misfortune, and with the hideous appre hension that he had associated himself with a demun, over whose motions he had no control, and of whose powers and quality he had no certain knowledge. He remained, therefore, in mere terror, gazing on the apparition, which chanted or recited in cadence the following lines :— “He whose heart for vengeance sued, Must not shrink from shedding blood; The knot that thou hast tied with word, Thou must loose by edge of sword.” “¢ Avaunt thee, false spirit!”’ said Halbert Glendinning ; “ T have bought thy advice too dearly already—Begone, in the name of God !” The Spirit laughed : and the cold unnatural sound of her laughter had something in it more fearful than the usually melancholy tones of her voice. She then replied :— “You have summon’d me once—you have summon’d me twice, And without e’er a summons I come to you thrice; Unask’d for, unsued for, you came to my glen; Unsued and unask’d I am with you again.” Halbert Glendinning gave way for a moment to terror, and called on his brother, ‘‘ Edward ! waken, waken, for Our Lady’s sake !” Edward awaked accordingly, and asked what he wanted. “Look out,” said Halbert, ‘‘ look up! seest thou no one in she room! ”’ ‘“No, upon my good word,” said Edward, looking out. “What! seest thou nothing in the moonshine upon the floor there,” “No, nothing,” answered Edward, “save thyself resting on thy naked sword. I tell thee, Halbert, thou shouldst trust more to thy spiritual arms, and less to those of steel and iron. For this many a night hast thou started and moaned, and cried out of fighting, and of spectres, and of goblins—thy sleep hath not refreshed thee—thy waking hath been a dream.— Credit me, dear Halbert, say the Pater and Credo, resign thyself to the protection of God, and thou wilt sleep sound and wake in comfort.” ‘‘It may be,” said Halbert slowly, and having his eye stil) bent on the female form which to him seemed distinctly visible, ——““it may be—But tell me, dear Edward, seest thou no one on the chamber floor but me?” 3 )THE MONASTERY. 213 “No one,” answered Edward, raising himself on his elbow ; “ dear brother, lay aside thy weapon, say thy prayers, and lay thee down to rest.” : While he thus spoke, the Spirit smiled at Halbert as if in scorn! her wan cheek faded in the wan mconlight even before the smile had passed away, and Halbert himself no longer be- held the vision to which he had so anxiously solicited his brother’s attention. <“ May God preserve my wits!” he said, as, laying aside his weapon, he again threw himself on his bed. ‘Amen ! my dearest hrother,” answered Edward ; “but we must not provoke that Heaven in our wantonness which we invoke in our misery.—Be not angry with me, my dear brother —I know not why you have totally of late estranged yourself from me—lIt is true, I am neither so athletic in body, nor so alert in courage, as you have been from your infancy ; yet, till lately, you have not absolutely cast off my society—Believe me, I have wept in secret, though I forebore to intrude myself on your privacy. The time has been when you held me not so cheap ; and when, if I could not follow the game so closely, or mark it so truly as you, I could fill up our intervals of pastime with pleasant tales of the olden times, which I had tread or heard, and which excited even your attention as we sate and ate our provision by some pleasant spring—But now I have, though I know not why, lost thy regard and affection.—Nay, toss not thy arms about thee thus wildly,” said the younger brother ; “from thy strange dreams, I fear some touch of fever hath affected thy blood—let me draw closer around thee thy mantle.” ‘“‘Forbear,” said Halbert—“ your care is needless—your complaints are without reason—your fears on my account are in vain.” “ Nay, but hear me, brother,” said Edward. ‘“ Your speech in sleep, and now even your waking dreams, are of beings which belong not to this world, or to our race—Our good Father Eustace says, that howbeit we may not do well to receive all idle tales of goblins and spectres, yet there is warrant from holy Scripture to believe, that the fiends haunt waste and solitary places ; and that those who frequent such wildernesses alone, are the prey, or the sport, of these wandering demons. And therefore, I pray thee, brother, let me go with you when you go next up the glen, where, as you well know, there be places of evil reputation—Thou carest not for my escort ; but, Halbert, such dangers are more safely encountered by the wise in judg- ment, than by the bold in bosom; and though I have smal]214 THE MONASTERY. cause to boast of my own wisdom, yet I have that which ariseth from the written knowledge of elder times.” : There was a moment during this discourse, when Halbert had well-nigh come to the resolution of disburd niug his own breast, by intrusting Edward with all that weigued upon it. But when his brother reminded him that this was the morning of a high holiday, and that, setting aside all other business or pleasure, he ought to go to the Monastery and shrive himself before Father Eustace, who would that day occupy the confes- sional, pride stepped in and confirmed his wavering resolution. ‘¢ T will not avow,” he thought, ‘‘a tale so extraordinary, that I may be considered as an impostor or something worse—I will not fly from this Englishman, whose arm and sword may be no better than my own. My fathers have faced his betters, were he as much distinguished in battle as he is by his quaint dis- course.”’ Pride, which has been said to save man, and woman too, from falling, has yet-a stronger influence on the mind when it embraces the cause of passion, and seldom fails to render it victorious over conscience and reason. Halbert, once deter- mined, though not to the better course, at length slept soundly, and was only awakened by the dawn of day. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST, Indifferent, but indifferent—pshaw, he doth it not Like one who is his craft’s master—ne’er the less I have seen a clown confer a bloody coxcomb On one who was a master of defence. OLpD Pray. WitH the first gray peep of dawn, Halbert Glendinning arose and hastened to dress himself, girded on his weapon, and took a cross-bow in his hand, as if his usual sport had been his sole object. He groped his way down the dark and winding staircase, and undid, with as little noise as possible, the fasten- ings of the inner door, and of the exterior iron grate. At length he stood free in the courtyard, and looking up to the tower, saw a signal made with a handkerchief from the window. Nothing doubting that it was his antagonist, he paused, expect- ing him. But it was Mary Avenel, who glided like a spirit from under the low and rugged portal.THE MONASTERY. 216 Halbert was much surprised, and felt, he knew not why, like | one caught inthe act of a meditated trespass. The presence of Mary Avenel had till that moment never given him pain. She spoke, too, in a tone where sorrow seemed to mingle with re- proach, while she asked him with emphasis, “What he was about to do?” He showed his cross-bow, and was about to express the pre- text he had meditated, when Mary interrupted him. ‘Not so, Halbert—that evasion were unworthy of one whose word has hitherto been truth. You meditate not the destruc- tion of the deer—your hand and your heart are aimed at other game—you seek to do battle with this stranger,” “And wherefore should I quarrel with our guest 2?” answered Halbert, blushing deeply. “There are, indeed, many reasons why you should not,” replied the maiden “nor is there one of avail wherefore you should—yet, nevertheless, such a quarrel you are now search- ing after.” ‘ Why should you suppose so, Mary ?” said Halbert, endeav. oring to hide his conscious purpose—“ he is my mother’s guest—he is protected by the Abbot and the community, who are our masters—he is of high degree also,—and wherefore should you think that I can, or dare. resent a hasty word, which he has perchance thrown out against me more from the wantonness of his wit, than the purpose of his heart? ” “Alas!” answered the maiden, “ the very asking that ques- tion puts your resolution beyond a doubt. Since your childhood you were ever daring, seeking danger rather than avoiding it— delighting in whatever had the air of adventure and of courage : and it is not from fear that you will now blench from your pur- pose—Oh, let it then be from pity !—from pity, Halbert, to your aged mother, whom your death or victory will alike deprive of the comfort and stay of her age.” “She has my brother Edward,” said Halbert, turning sud- denly from her. “ She has indeed,” said Mary Avenel, “ the calm, the noble- mir ded, the considerate Edward, who has thy courage, Halbert, without thy fiery rashness,—thy generous spirit, with more of reason to guide it. He would not have heard his mother, would not have heard his adopted sister, beseech him in vain n* t to ruin himself, and tear up their future hopes of happiness a d protection.” Halbert’s heart swelled as he replied to this reproach. Vell—what avails it speaking ?—you have him that is better216 THE MONASTERY. ® than me—wiser, more considerate—braver, for aught I know— you are provided with a protector,and need care no more for me. Again he turned to depart, but Mary Avenel laid her hand on his arm so gently that he scarce felt her hold, yet felt that it was impossible for him to strike it off. There he stood, one foot advanced to leave the courtyard, but so little determined on departure, that he resembled a traveller arrested by the spell of a magician, and unable either to quit the attitude of motion, or to proceed on his course. Mary Avenel availed herself of his state of suspense. “ Hear me,” she said, “ hear me, Halbert !—I am an orphan, and even Heaven hears the orphan—I have been the compan- ion of your infancy, and if you will not hear me for an instant, from whom may Mary Avenel claim so poor a boon?” “JT hear you,” said Halbert Glendinning ; “but be brief, dear Mary—you mistake the nature of my business—it is buta morning of summer sport which we propose.” “Say not thus,” said the maiden, interrupting him, “ say not thus to me—others thou mayest deceive, but me thou canst not —There has been that in me from the earliest youth, which fraud flies from, and which imposture cannot deceive. For what fate has given me such a power I know not; but bred an lenorant maiden, in this sequestered valley, mine eyes can too often see what man would most willingly hide—I can judge of the dark purpose, though it is hid under the smiling brow, and a glance of the eye says more to me than oaths and protesta- tions do to others.” “Then,” said Halbert, “if thou canst so read the human heart,—say, dear Mary—what dost thou see in mine ?—tell me that—say that what thou seest—what thou readest in this bosom, dost not offend thee—say but ¢saz, and thou shalt be the guide of my actions, and mould me now and henceforward to honor or to dishonor at thy own free will ! ” Mary Avenel became first red, and then deadly pale, as Halbert Glendinning spoke. But when, turning round at the close of his address, he took her hand, she gently withdrew it, and replied, “I cannot read the heart, Halbert, and I would not of my will know aught of yours, save what beseems us both —I can only judge of signs, words, and actions of little outward import, more truly than those around me, as my eyes, thou knowest, have seen objects not presented to those of others.” “Let them gaze then on one whom they shall never seé more,” said Halbert, once more turning from her, and rushing out of the courtyard without again looking back.THE MONASTERY. 217 Mary Avenel gave a faint scream, and clasped both her hands firmly on her forehead and eyes. She had beena minute in this attitude, when she was thus greeted by a voice from be- hind: “Generously done, my most clement Discretion, to hide those brilliant eyes from the far inferior beams which even now begin to gild the eastern horizon—Certes, peril there were that Phoebus, outshone in splendor, might in very shamefacedness turn back his car, and rather leave the world in darkness, than incur the disgrace of such an encounter—Credit me, lovely Discretion——”’ But as Sir Piercie Shafton (the reader will readily set down these flowers of eloquence to the proper owner) attempted to take Mary Avenel’s hand, in order to proceed in his speech, she shook him abruptly off, and regarding him with an eye which evinced terror and agitation, rushed past him into the tower. The knight stood looking after her with a countenance in which contempt was strongly mingled with mortification. “ By my knighthood!” he ejaculated, “I have thrown away upon this rude rustic Phidelé a speech, which the proudest beauty at the court of Felicia (so let me call the Elysium from which I am banished !) might have termed the very matins of Cupid. Hard and inexorable was the fate that sent thee hither, Piercie Shafton, to waste thy wit upon country wenches, and thy valor upon hob-nailed clowns! But that insult—that affront—had it been offered to me by the lowest plebeian, he must have died for it by my hand, in respect the enormity of the offence doth countervail the inequality of him by whom it is given. I trust I shall find this clownish roisterer not less willing to deal in blows than in taunts.” While he held this conversation with himself, Sir Piercie Shafton was hastening to the little tuft of birch-trees which had been assigned as the place of meeting. He greeted his antagonist with a courtly salutation, followed by this com- mentary: ‘‘I pray you to observe that I doft my hat to you, though so much my inferior in rank, without derogation on my part, inasmuch as my having so far honored you in receiving and admitting your defence, doth, in the judgment of the best martialists, in some sort and for the time, raise you to a level with me—an honor which you may and ought to account cheaply purchased, even with the loss of your life, if such should chance to be the issue of this duello.” “ For which condescension,” said Halbert, “ Ihave to thank the token which I presented to you.”THE MONASTER¥. 218 The knight changed color, and grinded his teeth with raga “Draw your weapon !” said he to Glendinning. ‘“Not in this spot,’ answered the youth ; “‘ we should be liable to interruption—Follow me, and I will bring you to a place where we shall encounter no such risk.” He proceeded to walk up the glen, resolving that their place of combat should be in the entrance of the Corri-nan-shian ; both because the spot, lying under the reputation of being haunted, was very little frequented, and also because he regarded itas a place which to him might be termed fated, and which he therefore resolved should witness his death or victory. They walked up the glen for some time in silence, like honorable enemies who did not wish to contend with words, and who had nothing friendly to exchange with each other. Silence, however, was always an irksome state with Sir Piercie, and, moreover, his anger was usually a hasty and short-lived passion. As, therefore, he went forth, in his own idea, in all love and honor towards his antagonist, he saw not any cause for submitting longer to the painful restraint of positive silence. He began by complimenting Halbert on the alert activity with which he surmounted the obstacles and impediments of the way. “Trust me,” said he, ‘worthy rustic, we have not a lighter or a firmer step in our courtlike revels, and if duly set forth by a silk hose, and trained unto that stately exercise, your leg would make an indifferent good show in a pavin or a galliard. And I doubt nothing,” he added, “that you have availed yourself of some opportunity to improve yourself in the art of fence, which is more akin than dancing to our. present pur- poses’? “I know nothing more of fencing,” said Halbert, “than hath been taught me by an old shepherd of ours, called Martin, and at whiles a lesson from Christie of the Clinthill—for the rests 1 must trust to good sword, strong arm, and sound heart.” “ Marry and I am glad of it, young Audacity (I will call you my Audacity, and you will callme your Condescension while we are on these terms of unnatural equality), I am glad of your ignorance with all my heart. For we martialists pro- portion the punishments which we inflict upon our opposites, to the length and hazard of the efforts wherewith they opposee themselves tous. And I see not why you, being but a tyro, may not be held sufficiently punished for your outrecuidance, and orgillous presumption, by the loss of an Gar, anveye, or even a finger, accompanied by some flesh-wound of depth and severity suited to your error—whereas, had you been able toTHE MONASTERY. 219 stand more effectually on your defence, I see not how less than your life could have atoned sufficiently for your presumption.” “Now, by God and Our Lady,” said Halbert, unable any longer to restrain himself, “ thou art thyself over presumptuous, who speakest thus daringly of the issue of a combat whicn is not yet even begun—Are you a god, that you already dispose of my life and limbs? or are you a judge in the justice-air, telling at your ease and without risk, how the head and quar- ters of a condemned criminal are to be disposed of ?” ‘““Not so, O thou, whom I have well permitted to call thy- self my Audacity! I, thy Condescension, am neither a god to judge the issue of the combat before it is fought, nor a judge to dispose at my ease and in safety of the limbs and head of a condemned criminal ; but I am an indifferent good master of fence, being the first pupil of the first master of the first schoo} of fence that our royal England affords, the said master being no other than the truly noble, and all-unutterably skilful Vincentio Saviola, from whom I learned the firm step, quick eye, and nimble hand—of which qualities thou, O my most rustical Au- dacity, art full like to reap the fruits so soon as we shall find a piece of ground fitting for such experiments.” They had now reached the gorge of the ravine, where Hal- bert had at first intended to stop ; but when he observed the narrowness of the level ground, he began to consider that it was only by superior agility that he could expect to make up his deficiency in the science, as it was called, of defence. He found no spot which afforded sufficient room to traverse for this purpose, until he gained the well-known fountain, by whose margin, and in front of the huge rock from which it sprung, was an amphitheatre of level turf, of small space indeed, com- pared with the great height of the cliffs with which it was sur- rounded on every point save that from which the rivulet issued forth, yet large enough for their present purpose. When they had reached this spot of ground, fitted well by its gloom and sequestered situation to be a scene of mortal strife, both were surprised to observe that a grave was dug close by the foot of the rock with great neatness and regularity, the green turf being laid down upon the one side, and the earth thrown out in a heap upon the other. A mattock and shovel lay by the verge of the grave. Sir Piercie Shafton bent his eye with unusual seriousness upon Halbert Glendinning, as he asked him sternly, “‘ Does this bode treason, young man? And have you purpose to set upon me here as in an emboscata or place of vantage?220 THE MONASTERY. “Not on my part, by Heaven !”’ answered the youth: "i cold no one of our purpose, nor would I for the throne of Scot: land take odds against asingle arm.” : “T believe thou wouldst not, mine Audacity,” said the knight, resuming the affected manner which was become a second nature to him ; “nevertheless this fosse is curiously well shaped, and might be the masterpiece of Nature’s last bed- maker, I would say the sexton—Wherefore, let us be thankful to chance or some unknown friend, who hath thus provided for one of us the decencies of sepulture, and let us proceed to determine which shall have the advantage of enjoying this place of undisturbed slumber.”’ . So saying, he stripped off his doublet and cloak, which he folded up with great care, and deposited upon a large stone, while Halbert Glendinning, not without some emotion, followed his example. Their vicinity to the favorite haunt of the White Lady led him to form conjectures concerning the incident of the grave—“ It must have been her work!” he thought : “‘ the Spirit foresaw and has provided for the fatal event of the com- bat—I must return from this place a homicide, or I must remain here forever ! ” The bridge seemed now broken down behind him, and the chance of coming off honorably without killing or being killed (the hope of which issue has cheered the sinking heart of many a duellist), seemed now altogether to be removed. Yet the very desperation of his situation gave him, on an instant’s re- flection, both firmness and courage, and presented to him one sole alternative—conquest, namely, or death. “Ag we are here,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, ‘‘ unaccompanied by any patrons or seconds, it were well you should pass your hands over my sides, as I shall over yours ; not that I suspect you to use any quaint device of privy armor, but in order to comply with the ancient and laudable custom practised on all such occasions.” While, complying with his antagonist’s humor, Halbert Glendinning went through this ceremony, Sir Piercie Shafton did not fail to solicit his attention to the quality and fineness of his wrought and embroidered shirt—‘ In this very shirt,” said he, “O mine Audacity !—I say in this very garment, in which I am now to combat a Scottish rustic like thyself, it was my envied lot to lead the winning party at that wondrous match at ballon, made betwixt the divine Astrophel (our match- iess Sidney) and the right honorable my very good lorc of Oxford. All the beauties of Felicia (by which name I distin-THE MONASTERY. oe guish our beloved England) Stood in the gallery, waving their xerchiefs at each turn of the game, and cheering the winners by their plaudits. After which noble sport we were refreshed by a suitable banquet, whereat it pleased the noble Urania (being the unmatched Countess of Pembroke) to accommodate me with her fan for the cooling my somewhat too much inflamed visage, to requite which courtesy, I said, Casting my features into a smiling, yet melancholy fashion, O divinest Urania ! re. celve again that too fata] gift, which not like the Zephyr cooleth, but like the hot breath of the Sirocco, heateth yet more that which is already inflamed. Whereupon, looking upon me some- what scornfully, yet not so but what the experienced courtier ative affection 2 might perceive a certain cast of approb by Halbert, who had waited ittle time, till he found, that Here the knight was interrupted with courteous patience for some |] far from drawing to a close, Sir Piercie seemed rather inclined to wax prolix in his reminiscences. “Sir Knight,” said the youth, “if this matter be not very much to the purpose, we will. if you object not, proceed to that which we have in hand. Yoy should have abidden in England had you desired to waste time in words, for here we spend it in blows.” “ I crave your pardon, most rusticated Audacity,” answered Sir Piercie ; “ truly I become oblivious of everything beside, when the recollections of the divine court of Felicia press upon my wakened memory, even as a saint is dazzled when he be. thinks him of the beatific vision. Ah felicitous Feliciana ! delicate nurse of the fair. chosen abode of the wise, the birth. place and cradle of nobility, the temple of courtesy, the fame of sprightly chivalry—Ah, heavenly court, or rather courtly heaven! cheered with dances, lulled asleep with harmony, wakened with sprightly sports and tourneys, decored with silks and tissues, glittering with diamonds and jewels, standing on end with double piled velvets, satins, and satinettas |” “The token, Sir Knight, the token!” exclaimed Halbert Glendinning, who, impatient of Sir Piercie’s interminable ora- tory, reminded him of the ground of their quarrel, as the best way to compel him to the purpose of their meeting. And he judged right ; for Sir Piercie Shafton no sooner heard him speak, than he exclaimed, “Thy death-hour has Struck—betake thee to thy sword—Via!”’ Both swords were unsheathed, and the combatants com- menced their engagement. Halbert became immediately aware, that, as he had expected, he was far inferior to his adversary222 THE MONASTERY. in the use of his weapon. Sir Piercie Shafton had taken no more than his own share of real merit, when he termed himself an absolutely good fencer ; and Glendinning soon found that he should have great difficulty in escaping with life and honor fom such. a.master of the sword. The English knight was master of all the mystery of. the svocca/a, imbrocata, punto- veverso incartata, and so forth, which the Italian masters of de- fence had lately introduced into the general practice. But Glen- dinning, on his part, was no novice 1n the principles of the art, according to the old Scottish fashion, and possessed the first of all qualities, a steady and collected mind. At first, being de- sirous to try the skill, and become acquainted with the play of his casmy, he stood on his defence, keeping his foot, hand, eye, and body, in perfect unison, and holding his sword short, and with the point towards his antagonist’s face, so that Sim Bierce, in order to assail him, was obliged to make actual passes, and could not avail himself of his skill in making feints ; while, on the other hand, Halbert was prompt to parry these attacks, either by shifting his ground, or with the sword. ‘The conse- quence was, that after two or three sharp attempts on the part of Sir Piercie, which were evaded or disconcerted by the address of his opponent, he began to assume the defensive in his turn, fearful of giving some advantage by being repeatedly the as- sailant. But Halbert was too cautious to press on a swordsman whose dexterity had already more than- once placed him within a hair’s-breadth of death, which he had only escaped by un- common watchfulness and agility. When each had madea feint or two, there was a pause in the conflict, both as if by one assent dropping their swords’ point, and looking on each other for a moment without speaking. At length Halbert Glendinning, who felt perhaps more uneasy on account of his family than he had done before he had displayed his own courage, and proved the strength of his antagonist, could not help saying. “Is the subject of our quarrel, Sir Knight, so mortal, that one of our two bodies must needs fill up that grave? or may we with honor, having proved ourselves against each other, sheathe our swords and depart friends?” “Valiant and most rustical Audacity,” said the Southron knight, “to no man on earth could you have put a question on the code of honor, who was more capable of rendering you a reason. Let us pause for the space of one venue, until I give you my opinion on this dependence,* for certain it is, that brave men should not run upon their fate like brute and furious Dependence—a phrase among the brethren of the sword for an existing quarrel.THE MONASTERY. 223 wild beasts, but should slay each other deliberate:y, decent! and with reason. ‘Therefore if we coolly examine the state a Our dependence, we may the better apprehend whether the sisters three have doomed one of us to expiate the same with his blood—Dost thou understand me?” “I have heard Father Eustace,” said Halbert, after a mo- ment’s recollection, “ speak of the three furies, with their thread and their shears,” 3 Enough—enough,”— interrupted Sir Piercie Shafton, crim- soning with a new fit of rage, “the thread of thy life is spun!” And with these words he attacked with the utmost ferocity the Scottish youth, who had but just time to throw himself into a posture of defence. But the rash fury of the assailant, as frequently happens, disappointed its own purpose ; for, as he made a desperate thrust, Halbert Glendinning avoided it, and ere the knight could recover his weapon, requited him (to use his own language) with a resolute stoccata, which passed through his body, and Sir Piercie Shafton fell to the ground. CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND, Yes, life hath left him—every busy thought, Each fiery passion, every strong affection, AJ] sense of outward ill and inward sorrow, Are fled at once from the pale trunk before me ; And I have given that which spoke and moved, Thought, acted, suffer’d as a living man, To be a ghastly form of bloody clay, Soon the foul food for reptiles. OLD Pray. I BELIEVE few successful duellists (if the word successful can be applied to a Superiority so fatal) have beheld their dead antagonist stretched on the earth at their feet, without wishing they could redeem with their own blood that which it has been their fate to spill. Least of all could such indifference be the lot of so young a man as Halbert Glendinning, who, unused to the sight of human blood, was not only struck with sorrow, but with terror, when he beheld Sir Piercie Shafton lie stretched on the greensward before him, vomiting gore as if impelled by the strokes of a pump. He threw his bloody sword on the ground, and hastened to kneel down and support him, vainly striving at the same time to stanch his wound, which seemed rather to bleed inwardly than externally.B24 THE MONASTERY. The unfortunate knight spoke at intervals, when the syncope would permit him, and his words, so far as intelligible, partook of his affected and conceited, yet not ungenerous character. ‘Most rustical youth,” he said, “ thy fortune hath prevailed over knightly skill—and Audacity hath overcome Condescen- sion, even as the kite hath sometimes hawked at and struck down the falcon-gentle.—Fly and save thyself !—Take my purse —it is in the nether pocket of my carnation colored hose—and is worth a clown’s acceptance. See that my mails, with my vestments, be sent to the Monastery of Saint Mary’s ’’—(here his voice grew weak, and his mind and recollection seemed to waver)—“ I bestow the cut velvet jerkin, with close breeches conforming—for—oh !—the good of my soul.” : “ Be of good comfort, sir,” said Halbert, half distracted with his agony of pity and remorse. “I trust you shall yet do well —Oh for a leech!” ‘Were there twenty physicians, O most generous Audacity, and that were a grave spectacle—I might not survive, my life is ebbing fast—-Commend me to the rustical nymph whom I called my Discretion—O Claridiana!—true empress of this bleeding heart—which now bleedeth in sad earnest !—Place me on the ground at my length, most rustical victor, born to quench the pride of the burning light of the most felicitous court of Feliciana—O saints and angels—knights and ladies— masks and theatres—quaint devices—chain-work and broidery —love, honor, and beauty !——” While muttering these last words, which slid from him, as it were, unawares, while doubtless he was recalling to mind the glories of the English court, the gallant Sir Piercie Shafton stretched out his limbs—groaned deeply, shut his eyes, and be- came motionless. The victor tore his hair for very sorrow, as he looked on the pale countenance of his victim. Life, he thought, had not utterly fled, but without better aid than his own, he saw not how it could be preserved. “Why,” he exclaimed, in vain penitence, “ why did I pro- voke him to an issue so fatal? Would to God I had submitted to the worst insult man could receive from man, rather than be the bloody instrument of this bloody deed—and doubly cursed be this evil-boding spot, which, haunted as I knew it to be by a witch or adevil, I yet chose for the place of combat ! In any other place, save this, there had been help to be gotten by speed of foot, or by uplifting of voice—but here there is no one to be found by search, no one to hear my shouts, save theLHE MONASTERY. 225 evil spirit who has counselled this mischief. It is not her hour —I will essay the spell howsoever ; and if she can give me aid, she shal do it, or know of what a madman is capable even against those of another world !” He spurned his bloody shoe from his foot, and repeated the spell with which the reader is well acquainted ; but there was neither voice, apparition, nor Bens al of answer. The youth, in the impatience of his despair, and with the rash hardihood which formed the basis of his ch 1aracter, shouted aloud, “ Witch —Sorceress—Fiend !—art thou deaf to my cries of help, and so ready to appear and answer those of vengeance? Arise and speak to me, or I will choke up thy fountain , tear down thy hollybush, and leave thy haunt as waste and bare as thy fatal assistance has made me waste of comfort and bare of counsel ! —This furious and raving invocation was sudde enly interrupted by a distant sound, resemblit ng a hollo, from the gorge of the ravine. “Now may Saint Mary | € praised,” said the youth hastily fastening his sandal, “I hear the voice of some living man, who may give me counsel and help in this fearful ex- tremity.” Having donned his sandal, Halbert G lendinning, hallooing at int tervals S, In answer to the anata which he Dads, heard, ran with the speed of a hunted buck down the rugged defile, as if paradise had been before him, hell and all her furies behind, and his eternal happiness or misery had depended upon the speed which he exerted. In a space incredib ly short for any- one but a Scottish mountaineer having his nerves strung by the deepest and most passionate interest, the youth reached the entrance of the ravine, through which the rill | that flows down Corri-nan-shian disch arges itself, and unites with the brook that waters the little valley of Glendearg. Here he paused, and looked around him upwards and down- ae through the glen, without perceiving a human form. His heart sank within him. But the windings of the glen Brice pted his prospect, and the person, whose voice he had heard, ed therefore be at no great distance, though not obvious to his sight. The branches of an oak-tree, which shot straight out from the face of a tall cliff, proffered to his bold spirit, steady head, and active limbs, the means of ascending it as a place of out-look, although the enterprise was what most men would have shrunk from. But by one bound from the earth, the active youth caught hold of the lower branch, and swung himself up into the tree, and in a minute more gained the top of the cliff from which he could easily descry a human oo)226 THE MONASTERY. figure descending the valley. It was not that of a shepherd, or of a hunter, and scarcely any others used to traverse this deserted solitude, especially coming from the north, since the reader may remember that the brook took its rise from an extensive and dangerous morass which lay in that direction. But Halbert Glendinning did not pause to consider who the traveller might be, or what might be the purpose of his journey. To know that he saw a human being. and might receive, in the extremity of his distress, the countenance and advice of a fellow-creaiure, was enough for him at the moment. He threw himself from the pinnacle of the cliff once more into the arms of the projecting oak-tree, whose boughs waved in middle air, anchored by the roots in a huge rift or chasm of the rock. Catching at the branch which was nearest to him, he dropped himself from that height upon the ground ; and such was the athletic springiness of his youthful sinews, that he pitched there as lightly, and with as little injury, as the falcon stooping from her wheel. To resume his race at full speed up the glen, was the work of an instant ; and ashe turned angle after angle of the indented banks of the valley, without meeting that which he sought, he became half afraid that the form which he had seen at sucha distance had already melted into thin air, and was either a deception of his own imagination, or of the elementary spirits by which the valley was supposed to be haunted. But, to his inexpressible joy, as he turned round the base of a huge and distinguished crag, he saw, straight before and very near to him, a person, whose dress, as he viewed it hastily, resembled that of a pilgrim. He was a man of advanced life, and wearing a long beard, having on his head a large slouched hat, without either band or brooch. His dress was a tunic of black serge, which, like those commonly called hussar-cloaks, had an upper part, which covered the arms and fell down on the lower; a small scrip and bottle, which hung at his back, with a stout staff in his hand, completed his equipage. His step was feeble, like that of one exhausted by a toilsome journey. “Save ye, good father!” said the youth. “God and Our Lady have sent you to my assistance.” . And in what, my son, can so frail a creature as I am. be of service to you?” said the old man, not a little surprised at being thus accosted by so handsome a youth, his features dis- composed by anxiety, his face flushed with exertion, his hands and much of his dress stained with blood.THE MONASTERY. 224 “A man bleeds to death in the ralley here hard b with me—come with me! You are agec ly ou have experience— you have at least your senses—and mine have well- nigh left me,” * A man—and bleeding to death—and here in this desolate Spot! |” said the stranger. ‘Stay not to question it, father.” said the youth, “but come instantly to his rescue. Follow me—follow me, without an eet s delay.” Nay, but, my son,” said the old man, “we do not lightly follow the guides who present themselves thus sudc denly in the bosom of a howling wilderness. Ere ] follow thee, thou must expound to me thy name, thy purpose, and thy cause.’ ‘* There is no time to expound an ything,” said Halbert; “1 tell thee a man’s life is at stake. and thou must come to aid him, or I will carry thee thither by force.’ ‘“ Nay, thou shalt not need,” said the trav eller» “if ti ane deed be as thou sayest, I will follow thee of free-will—the rather that I am not wholly unskilled in leech-craft, and have in my scrip that which may do thy friend a service—Yet walk more slowly, I pray thee, for I am already well-nigh forespent with travel.” With the indignant EERE of the fiery steed when com- pelled by his rider to keep pace with some slow drudge upon the highway, Halbert sacha the wayfarer, burning with anxiety, which he endeavored to subdue, that he might not alarm his gn nee who was obviously afraid to trust him. When they reached the place where they were to turn off the wider elen into the Corri, the traveller made a doubtful pause, as if unwilling to leave the broader path—‘ Young man,” he said, “if thou meanest aught but good to these gray r hairs, ‘thou wilt gain little by thy cru 1elty—I have no earthly treasure to tempt either robber or murderer,’ ‘And I,” said the youth, “am neither—and yet—God of Heaven !—I may be a adi unless your aid comes in time to this wounded wretch!” “Is it even so?” said the traveller; “and do human pas- sions disturb the breast of nature, even in her deepest solitude? —Yet why should I marvel that where darkness abides the works of darkness should abound ’—By its fruits is the tree known— Lead on, unhappy youth—I follow thee! ” And with better will to the journey than he had evinced hitherto, the stranger exerted himself to the uttermost, and seemed to forget his own fatigue in his efforts to keep pace with his impatient guide. ove ome223 THE MONASTERY. What was the surprise of Halbert Glendinning, when, upon arriving at the fatal spot, he saw no appearance of the body of Sir Piercie Shafton! The traces of the fray were otherwise sufficiently visible. The knight’s cloak had indeed vanished as well as his body, but his doublet remained where he had laid it down, and the turf on which he had been stretched was stained with blood in many a dark crimson spot. As he gazed round him in terror and astonishment, Hal- bert’s eyes fell upon the place of sepulture which had so lately appeared to gape for a victim. It was no longer open, and it seemed that earth had received the expected tenant ; for the tisual narrow hillock was piled over what had lately been an open grave, and the green sod was adjusted over all with the accuracy of an experienced sexton. Halbert stood aghast. The idea rushed on his mind irresistibly that the earth-heap before him enclosed what had lately been a living, moving, and sentient fellow-creature, whom, on little provocation, his fel] act had reduced to a clod of the valley, as senseless and as cold as the turf under which he rested. The hand that scooped the grave had completed its work ; and whose hand could it be save that of the mysterious being of doubtful qual- ity, whom his rashness had invoked, and whom he had suffered to intermingle in his destinies? As he stood with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, bitterly rueing his rashness, he was roused by the voice of the stranger, whose suspicions of his guide had again been awakened by finding the scene so different from what Halbert had led him to expect—‘ Young man,” he said, “hast thou baited thy tongue with falsehood to cut perhaps only a few days from the life of one whom Nature will soon call home, without guilt on thy part to hasten his journey?” “‘ By the blessed Heaven !—by our dear Lady!” ejaculated Halbert “Swear not at all!” said the stranger, interrupting him, ‘‘ neither by Heaven, for it is God’s throne, nor by earth, for it is his footstool—nor by the creatures whom he hath made, for they are but earth and clay as we are. Let thy yea be yea, and thy nay, nay. ‘Tell me, in a word, why and for what pur- pose thou hast feigned a tale, to lead a bewildered travellet yet farther astray?” “As I am a Christian man,” said Glendinning, “I left him here bleeding to death—and now I nowhere spy him, and much I doubt that the tomb that thou seest has closed on his mortal remains!”THE MONASTERY. 229 “And who is he for whose fate thou art so anxious?” said the stranger ; “or how is it possible that this wounded man could have been either removed from, or interred in, a place so solitary?” “His name,” said Halbert, after a moment’s pause, “is Piercie Shafton—there, on that very spot, I left him bleeding ; and what power has conveyed him hence, I know no more than thou dost.” ‘* Piercie Shafton?”’ said the stranger ; “ Sir Piercie Shafton of Wilverton, a kinsman, as it is said, of the great Piercie of Northumberland? If thou hast slain him, to return to the territories of the proud Abbot is to give thy neck to the gallows, He is well known, that Piercie Shafton -: the meddling tool of wiser plotters—a harebrained trafficker in treason—a champion of the Pope, employed as a forlorn hope by those more politic heads, who have more will to work mischief than valor to en- counter danger.—Come with me, youth, and save thyself from the evil consequences of this deed—Guide me to the Castle of Avenel, and thy reward shall be protection and safety.” Again Halbert paused, and summoned his mind to a hasty council. ‘The vengeance with which the Abbot was likely to visit the slaughter of Shafton, his friend, and in some measure his guest, was likely to be severe; yet, in the various contin- gencies which he had considered previous to their duel. he had unaccountably omitted to reflect what was to be his line of conduct in case of Sir Piercie falling by his hand. If he 1e- turned to Glendearg, he was sure to draw on his whole family, including Mary Avenel, the resentment of the Abbot and con- munity, whereas it was possible that flight might make him be regarded as the sole author of the deed, and might avert the indignation of the monks from the rest of the inhabitants of his paternal tower. Halbert recollected also the favor ex- pressed for the household, and especially for Edward, by the Sub-Prior ; and he conceived that he could, by communicating his own guilt to that worthy ecclesiastic, when at a distance from Glendearg, secure his powerful interposition in favor of his family. These thoughts rapidly passed through his mind, and he determined on flight. The stranger’s company, and his promised protection, came in aid of that resolution ; but he was unable to reconcile the invitation which the old man gave him to accompany him for safety to the Castle of Avenel, with the connections of Julian, the present usurper of that inherit- ance. “Good Father,” he said, “I fear that you mistake the man with whom you wish me to harbor. Avenel guided Piercig230 THE MONASTERY. Shafton into Scotland, and his henchman, Christie of the Clint hill, brought the Southron hither.” ‘en “Of that,” said the old man, “Iam well aware. Yet if thou wilt trust to me, as J have shown no reluctance to confide in thee, thou shalt find with Julian Avenel welcome, or at least safety.” “Father,” replied Halbert, “though I can ill reconcile what thou sayest with what Julian Avenel hath done, yet caring little about the safety of a creature so lost as myself, and as thy words seem those of truth and honesty, and finally, as thou didst render thyself frankly up to my conduct, I will return the confidence thou hast shown, and accompany thee to the Castle of Avenel by a road which thou thyself couldst never have dis- covered.” He led the way, and the old man followed for some time in silence. CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. This when the wound is stiffening with the cold, The warrior first feels pain—’tis when the heat And fiery fever of his soul is pass’d, The sinner feels remorse. Op Pray. THE feelings of compunction with which Halbert Glendin- ning was visited upon this painful occasion, were deeper than belonged to an age and country in which human life was held 50, cheap. . Lhey fell far short certainly of those which might have afflicted a mind regulated by better religious precepts, and more strictly trained under social laws; but still they were deep and severely felt, and divided in Halbert’s heart even the regret with which he parted from Mary Avenel and the tower of his fathers. The old traveller walked silently by his side for some time, and then addressed him.—“ My son, it has been said that sorrow must speak or die—Why art thou so much cast down? —Tell me thy unhappy tale, and it may be that my gray head may devise counsel and aid for yourmyouns, life? . 4. ~ Alas! 2 «said Halbert Glendinning, “ Iam cast down?—I am at this inst father’s house, from my mother, and bear on my head the blood « ‘can you wonder why ant a fugitive from my from my friends, and J] ofa man who injured me but inTHE MONAS TERY. 23% idle words, which I have thus bloodily requited. My heart now tells me I have done evil—it were harder than these rocks if it could bear unmoved the thought, that I have sent this man to a long account, unhousled and unshrieved!”’ “Pause there, my son,” said the traveller, “That thou hast defaced God’s image in thy neighbor’s person—that thou hast sent dust to dust in idle wrath or idler pride, is indeed a sin of the deepest dye thou hast cut short the space which Heaven might have allowed him for repentance, makes it yet more deadly—but for all this there is balm in Gilead.” “T understand you not, father,” said Halbert, struck by the solemn tone which was assumed by his companion. The old man proceeded. ‘Thou hast slain thine enemy —it was a cruel deed: thou hast cut him off perchance in his sins—it is a fearful aggravation. Do yet by my counsel, and in lieu of him whom thou hast perchance consigned to the kingdom of Satan, let thine efforts wrest another subject from the reign of the Evil One.” “T understand you, father,” said Halbert: “thou wouldst have me atone for my rashness by doing service to the soul of my adversary—But how may this be? I have no money to purchase masses, and gladly would I go barefoot to the Holy Land to free his spirit from purgatory, only that a “My son,” said the old man inter1 ‘upting him, ‘the sinner for whose redemption [ entreat you to labor, is not the dead but the living. It is not for the soul of thine enemy I would exhort thee to pray—that has already had its fin al doom from a Judge as merciful as He is just ; nor wert thou to coin that rock into ducats, sath sbtain a mass for each one, would it avail the de- parted spirit. Where the tree hi ith fallen, it must lie. But the sapling, Orch hath in it yet the vigor and juice of life, may be Sead to the point to which it ought to incline. “ Art thou a priest, father?” said the young man, “ or by what commission dost thou talk of such high matters ?’ “By that of my Almighty Master,” said the traveller, ‘under whose banner I am an enlisted soldier.” Halbert’s acquaintance with religious matters was no deeper than could be derived from the Archl ishop of Saint Andrew’s Catechism, and the pamphlet called the Tw apennie Faith,* both which were industriously circulated and recommended by * [This volume, printed at St. Andrews in rgc2, known as Archbishop Hamilton’s Catechism, was confounded by Bishop Spottiswood a1 ‘d others with the Twapenny Faith. A tract of four pages in 1558, ‘discovered only a few years ago, 1S more likely the one mene tioned by Knox. See Knox’s Works, vol. i. ps 291 3 The Bannatyne Miscellany, VOle ike Pp: 3133 and Knox, vol. vi. p. 676]232 THE MONASTERY. the monks of Saint Mary’s. Yet, however indifferent and superficial a theologian, he began to suspect that he was now in company with one of the gospellers, or heretics, before whose influence the ancient system of religion now tottered to the very foundation. Bred up, as may well be presumed, in a holy horror against these formidable sectaries, the youth’s first feelings were those of a loyal and devoted church vassal ‘“Old man,” he said, “ wert thou able to make good with thy hands the words that thy tongue hath spoken against our Holy Mother Church, we should have tried upon this moor which of our creeds hath the better champion.” “Nay,” said the stranger, “if thou art a true soldier of Rome, thou wilt not pause from thy purpose because thou hast the odds of years and of strength on thy side. Hearken to me, my son. I have showed thee how to make thy peace with Heaven, and thou hast rejected my proffer. I will now show thee how thou shalt make thy reconciliation with the powers of this world. Take this gray head from the frail body which supports it, and carry it to the chair of proud Abbot Boniface ; and when thou tellest him thou hast slain Piercie Shafton, and his ire rises at the deed, lay the head of Henry Warden at his foot, and thou shalt have praise instead of censure.” Halbert Glendinning stepped back in surprise. " “ What! are you that Henry Warden so famous among the heretics, that even Knox’s name is scarce more frequently in their mouths? Art thou he, and darest thou to approach the Hali- dome of Saint Mary’s?” “I am Henry Warden, of a surety,” and the old man, “far unworthy to be named in the same breath with Knox, but yet willing to venture on whatever dangers my master’s service may call me to.” “ Hearken to me, then,” said Halbert ; “to s] have no heart—to make thee prisoner é thy blood on my head—to leave thee guide were little better. I will conduct thee as I promised, in safety to the castle of Avenel ; but breathe not, while we are on the journey, a word against the doctrines of the holy church ot which I am an unworthy—but though an ignorant, a zealous member.—When thou art there arrived, beware of thyself— there is a high price upon thy head, and Julian Avenel loves the glance of gold bonnet-pieces.” * “ Yet thou sayest not,” answered the Protest ay thee 4% , Were equally to bring in this wild without a ant preacher, * A gold coin of James V -, the most beautiful of the Scotti the effigy of the sovereignty : Hie aucune er 1 series } so called becau 1S represented wearing a bonnet. "THE MONASTERY. 22 230 for such he was, “ that for lucre he would sell the blood of his guest ?”’ - Not. if thou comest an invited stranger, relying on his faith,” said the youth ; “evil as Julian may be, he dare not break the rites of hospital ality ; for, loose as we on these marches may be in all other ties, these are respected amongst us even to idolatry, and his nearest relations would think it incumbent on them to spill his blood themselves, to efface the disgrace such treason would bring upon their name and lineage. But if thou goest self- invited, and without assurance of ‘safety ] promise ‘thee thy risk is great. “Tam in God’s hand,” answered the preacher; “it is on His errand that I traverse these wilds amidst dangers of every kind ; while I am useful for my master’s service, they shall not prevail against me, and when, like the barren fig-tree, I can no longer produce fruit, what imports it when or by whom the axe is laid to the root?” “Your courage and devotion,” said Glendinning, worthy of a better cause.” “That,” said Warden, ‘cannot be—mine is the very best.” They continued their journey in silence, Halbert Glendin- ning tracing with the utmost accuracy the mazes of the dan- gerous and intricate morasses and hills which divided the Halli- dome from the barony of Avenel. [From time to time he was obliged to stop, in eee. to assist his companion to cross the black intervals of quaking bog, called in the Scottish dialect hags, by which the firmer parts of the morass were intersected. “ Courage, old man,” said Halbert, as he saw his compan- ion almost exhausted with fatigue, ‘““we shall soon be upon hard ground. And yet, soft as this moss is, I have seen the merry falconers go through it as light as deer when the quarry was upon the flight.” ‘True, my son,” answered Warden, “for so I will still call you, though you term me no longer father ; and even so doth headlong youth pursue its pleasures, without regard to the mire and the peril of the paths through which they are hurried.” “T have already told thee,” answered Halbert Glendin- ning, sternly, ‘ that T will hear nothing from thee that savors of doctrine.” “Nay, but, my son,” answered Warden, “thy spiritual father himself would surely not dispute the truth of what | have now spoken for your edification !”" Glendinning stoutly replied, “I know not i.ow that may be 66 are234 THE MONASTERY. —but I wot well it is the fashion of your brotherhood to bait your hook with fair discourse, and to hold eae a angels of light, that you may the better extend the kingdom o darkness.” “ May God,” replied the preacher, “‘ pardon those who have thus reported of his servants! I will not offend thee, my son, by being instant out of season—thou speakest but as thou art taught—yet sure I trust that so goodly a youth will be still rescued, like a brand from the burning.” While he thus spoke, the verge of the morass was attained, and their path lay on the declivity. Greensward it was, and, viewed from a distance, checkered with its narrow and verdant line the dark-brown heath which it traversed, though the dis- tinction was not so easily traced when they were walking on it.* The old man pursued his journey with comparative ease ; and, unwilling again to awaken the jealous zeal of his young companion for the Roman faith, he discoursed on other matters. The tone of his conversation was still grave, moral, and instruct- ive. He had travelled much, and knew both the language and manners of other countries, concerning which Halbert Glendinning, already anticipating the possibility of being obliged to leave Scotland for the deed he had done, was natu- rally and anxiously desirous of information. By degrees he was more attracted by the charms of the stranger’s conversation than repelled by the dread of his dangerous character as a heretic, and Halbert had called him father more than once, ere the turrets of Avenel Castle came in view. The situation of this ancient fortress was remarkable. It occupied a small rocky islet in a mountain lake, or tarn, as such a piece of water is called in Westmoreland. The lake might be about a mile in circumference, surrounded by hills of considerable height, which, except where old trees and brush- wood occupied the ravines that divided them from each other, were bare andheathy. The surprise of the spectator was chiefly excited by finding a piece of water situated in that high and mountainous region, and the landscape around had features which might rather be termed wild, than either romantic or sublime 3, yet the scene was not without its charms. Under the burning sun of summer, the clear azure of the deep un: ruffled lake refreshed the eye, and impressed the mind with a pleasing feeling of deep solitude, In winter, when the snow lay on the mountains around, these dazzling masses appeared * This sort of path, visible when looked at from a distance, but not tc : a SOT f ot to be seen are upon it, is called on the Border by the sigi rom I when you uificant name of a Blind-road.THE MONASTERY. on =35 to ascend far beyond their wonted and natural height, while the lake, which stretched beneath, and filled their bosom with all its frozen waves, lay like the surface of a darkened and broken mirror around the black and rocky islet, and the walls of the gray castle with which it was crowne: L. __As the castle occupied, either with its principal buildings, or with its flanking and outward walls, every projecting point of rock, which served as its site, it seemed as completely surrounded by water as the nest of a wild swan, save where a narrow cause- way extended betwixt the islet and ne shore. But the fortress was larger in ap pearance than in reality ; and of the buildings — it actually contained, m: any had. become ruinous and uninhabitable. In the times of the grandeur of the Avenel family, these had been occupied by a considerable garrison of followers and retainers, but they were now in a great measure deserted ; and Julian Avenel would probably have fixed his habitation in a residence better suited to his diminished for- tunes, had it not been for the great sec curity which the situation of the old castle afforded to a man of his precarious and perilous mode of life. Indeed, in this respect, the spot could scarce have been more happily chosen, for it could be rendered almost completely inaccessible at the pleasure of the inhabitant. The distance betwixt the nearest shore and the islet was not indeed above a hundred yards ; but then the causeway which connected them was extremely narrow, and completely divided by two cuts, one in the mid-way between the islet and shore, and another close under the outward gate of the castle. These formed a formidable, and almost insurmountable, interruption to any hostile approach. Each was defended by a drawbridge, one of which, being that nearest to the castlé, was ree raised at all times during the day, and both were lifted at night.* The situation of Julian Avenel, e1 igaged in a variety of feuds, and a party to almost every dark a1 nd mysterious transaction which was on foot in that wild and military frontier, required all these precautions for his security. His own ambiguous and doubtful course of policy had increased these dangers ; for as he made professions to both parties in the state, and occasion- ally united more activity with either the one or the other, as chanced best to serve his immediate purpose, he could not be * It is in vain to search near Melrose for any such castle as is here described. The lakes at the head of the Yarrow, and those at the rise of the water of Ale, present no object of the kind. But in Yetholm Loch (a romantic sheet of water, in the dry march, as it is called) there are the remains of a fortress called Lochside Tower, which, like the supposed Castle of Avenel, is built upon an island, a connected with the land by a causeway: Itis muc smaller than the Castle of Avenel is described, consisting only of a small ruinous tawer.236 THE MONASTERY. said to have either firm allies and protectors, or determined enemies. His life was a life of expedients and of peril; and while in pursuit of his interest he made all the doubles which he thought necessary to attain his object, he often overran his prey, and missed that which he might have gained by observ- ing a straighter course. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. I’ll walk on tiptoe ; arm my eye with caution, My heart with courage, and my hand with weapon, Like him who ventures on a lion’s den. Op Pray. WHEN, issuing from the gorge of a pass which terminated upon the lake, the travellers came in sight of the ancient castle of Avenel, the old man looked with earnest attention upon the scene before him. The castle was, as we have said, in many places ruinous, as was evident, even at this distance, by the broken, rugged, and irregular outline of the walls and of the towers. In others it seemed more entire, and a pillar of dark smoke, which ascended from the chimneys of the donjon, and spread its long dusky pennon through the clear ether, indicated that it was inhabited. But no corn-fields or enclosed pasture-grounds on the side of the lake showed that provident attention to comfort and subsistence which usually appeared near the houses of the greater, and even of the lesser barons. There were no cottages with their patches of infield, and their crofts and gardens, surrounded by rows of massive sycamores ; no church with its simple tower in the valley; no herds of sheep among the hills ; no cattle on the lower ground ; nothing which intimated the occasional prosecution of the arts of peace and of industry. It was plain that the inhabitants, whether few or numerous, must be considered as the garrison of the castle, living within its defended precincts, and subsisting by means which were other than peaceful. Probably it was with this conviction that the old man, gazing on the castle, muttered to himself, “ Zapis offensionis et petra scandalt /” and then, turning to Halbert Glendinning, he added, We may say of yonder fort as King James did of anotherTHE MONASTERY. 237 aso 1n this province, that he who built it was a thief in his heart.” Pee it was not so,”’ answered Glendi linning ; tins castle was built by the old lords of Avenel, men as much os ¢ loved in ane as they were respected in war. They were the bulw ark of the frontiers against foreigners, and the a of the natives from domestic ee he present usurper of their inheritance no more resembles them than the night-prowling owl resembles a al vied she builds on the same rock. “This Julian Avenel, then, holds no high place in the love and regard of his neighbors ?” said Warden, “So little,” answered Halbert, “ that besides the jack-men and riders, with whom he has associated himself, and of whom he has many at his disposal, I know of few who voluntarily associated with him. He has been more than once outlawed both by England and Scotland, hislands declared forfeited, and his head set at a price. But in these unquiet times, a man so daring as Julian Avenel has ever ee id some friends willing to protect him against the penalties of the law, on condition of his secret services.” ‘You describe a dangerous man,” replied Warden. “ You may have experience of that,” replied the youth, “ if you deal not the more wari ily ;—though it may be that he also has forsaken the community of the church, and gone astray in the path of heresy.’ “ What your blindness terms the path of heresy,” answered the reformer, “is indeed the straight and narrow way, wherein he who walks turns not aside, whether for worldly wealth or for worldly possessions. Would to God this man were moved by no other and no worse spirit than that which prompts my poor endeavors to extend the kingdom of Heaven! ‘This Baron of Avenel is personally unknown to me, is not of our congregation or of our counsel ; yet [ bear to him charges touching my safety, from those whom he ae fear if he does | not respect the em, and upon that assurance I will venture upon his hol Len am now sufficiently refreshed | by these few minutes of repose. “ Take then this advice for your safety,” said Halbert, “and believe that it is founded upon the usage of this country and its inhabitants. If you can better shift for yourself, go not to the Castle of Avenel—if you do risk going thither, obtain from him, if possible, his safe-conduct, and beware that he swears it by the Black Rood—And lastly, observe whether he eats with *It was of Lochwood, the here litary fortress of the Johnstones of Annandale, a strong castle situated in the centre ~ a quaking bog, that James’ VI. made this remark.238 THE MONASTERY. not these signs of welcome, his thoughts are evil towards you.” “ Alas!” said the preacher, “ I have no better earthly refuge for the present than these frowning towers, but I go thither trusting to aid which is not of this earth—But thou, good youth, needest thou trust thyself in this dangerous den? ” “7” answered Halbert, “am in no danger. I am well known to Christie of the Clinthill, the henchman of this Julian Avenel ; and, what is a yet better protection, I have nothing either to provoke malice or to tempt plunder.” The tramp of a steed, which clattered along the shingly banks of the loch, was now heard behind them ; and, when they ‘poked back, a rider was visible, his steel cap and the point of his long lance glancing in the setting sun, as he rode rapidly towards them. Halbert Glendinning soon recognized Christie of the Clint- hill, and made his companion aware that the henchman of Julian Avenel was approaching. “Ha, youngling!” said Christie to Halbert, as he came up to them, “thou hast made good my word at last, and come to take service with my noble master, hast thou not? Thou shalt find a good friend anda true; and ere Saint Barnaby come round again, thou shalt know every pass betwixt Milburn Plain and Netherby, as if thou hadst been born with a jack on thy back, and a lance in thy hand.—What old carle hast thou with thee ?—He is not of the brotherhood of Saint Mary’s—at least he has not the buist * of these black cattle.” “ He is a wayfaring man,” said Halbert, ‘“‘who has concerns with Julian of Avenel. For myself, I intend to go to Edinburgh to see the Court and the Queen, and when I return hither we will talk of your proffer. Meantime, as thou hast often invited me to the castle, I crave hospitality there to-night for myself and my companion.” “For thyself and welcome, young comrade,” replied Chris- tie ; “but we harbor no pilgrims, nor aught that looks like a pilgrim.” “So please you,” said Warden, ‘‘ I have letters of commen- dation to thy master from a sure friend, whom he will right willingly oblige in higher matters than in affording me a brief protection.—And I am no pilgrim, but renounce the same, with all its superstitious observances.” He offered his letters to the horseman, who shook his head. These,” he said, “‘are matters for my master, and it wil] you at the board, or pledges you in the cup ; for if he gives you ) ) * Buist—The brand, or mark, set upon sheep or cattle by their owners.THE Piakiieacoey MONASTER Y. 239 be well if he can read them himself ; for me, sword and lance are my book and psalter, and have been since I was twelve years old. But I will guide you to the castle, and the Baron of Avenel will himself judge of your errand,” By this time the party had reached the causeway, along which ¢ hristie advanced at a trot, intimating his presence to the warders within the castle by a shrill and peculiar whistle At this signal the farther drawbridge was lowered. The horse- man passed it and disappeared under the gloomy portal which was beyond it. ; Glendinning and his companion, advancing more leisurely along the rugged causeway, stood at length under the same gateway, over which frowned, in dark red freestone, the ancient armorial bearings of the house of Avenel. which represented a female figure shrouded and muffled, which occupied the whole field. ‘The cause of their assuming so singular a device was uncertain, but the figure was generally supposed to represent the mysterious being called the White Lady of Avenel.* The sight of this mouldering shield awakened in the mind of Hal- bert the strange circumstances which had connected his fate with that of Mary Avenel, and with the doings of the spiritual being who was attached to her house, and whom he saw here represented in stone, as he had before seen her effigy upon the seal ring of Walter Avenel, which, with other trinkets formerly mentioned, had been saved from pillage, and brought to Glen- dearg, when Mary’s mother was driven from her habitation. ‘You sigh, my son,” said the old man, observing the im- pression made on his youthful companion’s countenance, but mistaking the cause ; ‘ “if you fear to enter, we may yet return.” “That can ye not,’ said Christie of Clinthill, who emerged at that instant from the side-door under the archway. ‘ Look yonder, and choose whether you will return skimming the water like a wild duck, or winging the air like a plover.” They looked, and saw that the drawbridge which they had just crossed was again raised, and now interposed its planks betwixt the setting sun and the portal of the castle, deepening the gloom of the arch under which they stood. Christie laughed and bid them follow him, saying, by way of encouragement, in Halbert’s ear, “ Answer boldly and readily to whatever the Baron asks you. Never stop to pick your words, and above all show no fear of him—the devil is not so black as he is painted.”’ * There is an ancient English family, I believe, which bears, or did bear, a ghost or spirit passant sable ina fiel ld argent. This seems to have been a device of a punning ot sasting herald.THE MONASTERY. 240 As he spoke thus, he introduced them into the large ae hall, at the upper end of which blazed a huge fire of ne The long oaken table, which, as usual, occupied the mic st O the apartment, was covered with rude preparations for the Sie ing meal of the Baron and his chief domestics, five or six ol whom, strong, athletic, savage-looking men, paced up and down the lower end of the hall, which rang to the jarring clang of their long swords that clashed as they moved, and to the heavy tramp of their high-heeled jack-boots. Iron Jacks, or Coats of buff, formed the principal part of their dress, and steel-bonnets, or large slouched hats with Spanish plumes drooping backwards, were their head attire. The Baron of Avenel was one of those tall, muscular, mar- tial figures, which are the favorite subjects of Salvator Rosa. He wore a cloak which had been once gayly trimmed, but which, by long wear and frequent exposure to the weather, was now faded in its colors. Thrown negligently about his tall person, it partly hid, and partly showed, a short doublet of buff, under which was in some places visible that light shirt of mail which was called a secret, because worn instead of more ostensible armor to protect against private assassination. A leathern belt sustained a large and heavy sword on one side, and on the other that gay poniard which had once called Sir Piercie Shafton master, of which the hatchments and gildings were already much defaced, either by rough usage or neglect. Notwithstanding the rudeness of his apparel, Julian Avenel’s manner and countenance had far more elevation than those of the attendants who surrounded him. He might be fifty or up- wards, for his dark hair was mingled with gray, but age had neither tamed the fire of his eye nor the enterprise of his dis- position, His countenance had been handsome, for beauty was an attribute of the family; but the lines were roughened by fatigue and exposure to the weather, and rendered coarse by the habitual indulgence of violent passions. He seemed in deep and moody reflection, and was pacing at a distance from his dependants along the upper end of the hall, sometimes stopping from time to time to caress and feed a goshawk, which sat upon his wrist, with its jesses (z.e. the leathern straps fixed to its legs) wrapt around his hand. The bird, which seemed not insensible to its master’s attention, an- swered his caresses by ruffling forward its feathers, and peck- ing playfully at his finger. At such intervals the Baron smiled, but instantly resumed the darksome air of sullen meditation. He did aot even deign to look upon an object, which few couldLH MONASTERY. 241 have passed and repassed so often without bestowing on it a transient glance. This was a woman of exceeding beauty, rather gayly than richly attired, who sat ona low seat close by t he ‘huge hall chimney. ‘The gold chains round her neck and arms,—the gay gown of green which swept the floor,—the silver embroidered girdle, with its bunch of keys depending in housewifely pride by a silver chain,—the yellow silken couvrechef (Scottict, curch) which was disposed around her head, and partly concealed her dark profusion of hair,—above all, the circumstance so deli- cately touched in the old ballad, that | “the girdle was too short,” the “gown of green all too strait,” for the wearer’s present shape, would have intimated the Baron’s lady. But then the lowly seat, —the expression of deep melancholy, which was changed into a timid smile whenever she saw the least chance of catching the eye of Julian Avenel,—the subdued look of grief, and the starting tear for which that constrained smile was again exchanged when she saw herself entirely disregarded— these were not the attributes of a wife, or they were those of a dejected and afflicted female, who had yielded her love on less than legitimate terms. Julian Avenel, as we have said, continued to pace the hall, without paying any of that mute attention which is rendered to almost every female either by affection or courtesy. He seemed totally unconscious of her presence, or of that of his atten- dants, and was only roused from hie own dark reflections by the notice he paid to the falcon, to which, however, the lady seemed to attend, as if studying to find either an opportunity of speaking to the Baron, or of finding something enigmatical in the expressions which he used to the bird. All this the strangers had time enough to remark ; for no sooner had they entered the apartment than their usher, Christie of the Clint- hill, after exchanging a significant glance with the menials or troopers at the lower end of the apartment, signed to Halbert Glendinning and to his comp: anion to stand still near the door, while he himself, advancing nearer the table, placed himself in such a situation as to catch the Baron’s observation when he should be disposed to look around, but without presuming to intrude himself on his master’s notice. Indeed, the look of this man, naturally bold, hardy, and audacious, seemed totally changed when he was in presence of his master, and resembled the dejected and cowering manner of a quarrelsome dog when rebuked by his owner, or when he finds himself obliged to de- precate the violence of a — adversary of his own species. I242 THE MONASTERY. In spite of the novelty of his own situation, and every pain ful feeling connected with it, Halbert feit his curiosity inter. ested in the female, who sate by the chimney unnoticed and un- regarded. He marked with what keen and trembling solicitude she watched the broken words of Julian, and how her glance stole towards him, ready to be averted upon the slightest chance of his perceiving himself to be watched. Meantime he went on with his dalliance with his feathered favorite, now giving, now withholding, the morsel with which he was about to feed the bird, and so exciting its appetite and eratifying it by turns. “What! more yet ?—thou foul kite, thou wouldst never have done—give thee part thou wilt have all—Ay, prune thy feathers, and prink thyself gay—much thou wilt make of it now—dost think I know thee not ?—dost think I see not that all that ruffling and pluming of wing and feathers is not for thy master, but to try what thou canst make of him, thou greedy gled ?—well—there—take it then, and rejoice thy- felf—little boon goes far with thee, and with all thy sex—and so it should.” He ceased to look on the bird, and again traversed the apartment. Then taking another small piece of raw meat from the trencher, on which it was placed ready cut for his use, he began once again to tempt and tease the bird, by offering and withdrawing it, until he awakened its wild and bold disposition. “What! struggling, fluttering, aiming at me with beak and single? * Sola! Sola! wouldst mount? wouldst fly? the jesses are round thy clutches, fool—thou canst neither stir nor soar but by my will— Beware thou come to reclaim, wench, else I will wring thy head off one of these days—Well, have it then, and well fare thou with it.—So ho, Jenkin!” One of the at- tendants stepped forward—‘‘ Take the foul gled hence to the mew—or, stay ; leave her, but look well to her casting and to her bathing—we will see her fly to-morrow. How now, Chris- lie? so soon returned !”’ Christie advanced to his master, and gave an account of himself and his journey, in the way in which a police officer holds communication with his magistrate, that is, as much by signs as by words. “Noble sir!” said that worthy satellite, “the Laird of »’ he named no place, but pointed with his finger in a south-western direction,—“ may not ride with you the day he * In the Aizdly language of hawking, as Lady Juliana Berners terms it, hawks’ talong are called their szugles.GOSHAWKEK. EDING A 1 “ = & oon EL BARON OF AVE! TeTHE MONASTERY. 243 uurposed, because the Lord Warden has threatened that he will - Here another blank intelligibly enough made up by the speaker touching his own neck with his left forefinger, and leaning his head a little to one side. % ‘ert rardly aitett 1? ons lie cs Cowardly caitiff!” said Julian ; “ by Heaven! the whole } world turns sheer naught— it is not worth a brave man’s living in—ye may ride a day and night, and never see a feather wave or hear a horse prance—the spirit of our fathers is dead amongst us—the very brutes are degenerated—the cattle we bring home at our life’s risk are mere carrion—our hawks are riflers *—our hounds are turnspits and trindle-tails—our men are women—and our women are He looked at the female for the first time, and stopped short in the midst of what he was about to say, though there was something so contemptuous in the glance, that the blank might have been thus filled up—‘‘ Our women are such as she is.”’ He said it not, however, and as if desirous of attracting his attention at all risks, and in whatever manner, she rose and came forward to him, but with a timorousness ill-disguised by affected gayety.—‘“ Our women, Julian—what would you say of the women ?” “ Nothing,” answered Julian Avenel, “ at least nothing but that they are kind-hearted wenches like thyself, Kate.” The female colored deeply, and returned to her seat.—‘‘ And what strangers hast thou brought with thee, Christie, that stand yon- der like two stone statues?” said the Baron. “The taller,” answered Christie, “is, so please you, a young fellow called Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son of the old widow at Glendearg.”’ “What brings him here ?”’ said the Baron ; “ hath he any message from Mary Avenel?” ‘Not as I think,” said Christie ; ‘the youth is roving the country—he was always awild slip, for I have known him since he was the height of my sword.’ “What qualities hath he?” said the Baron. ‘All manner of qualities,” answered his follower—“ he can strike a buck, track a deer, fly a hawk, halloo to a hound—he shoots in the long and cross-bow to a hair’s-breadth—wields a lance or sword like myself nearly—backs a horse manfully and fairly—I wot not what more a man need to do to make him a gallant companion.” * So called when they only caught their prey by the feathers.244 THE MONASTERY. “ And who,” said the Baron, “is the old miser * who stands beside him ?” “ Some cast of a priest as 1 fancy—he says he is charged with letters to you.” “Bid them come forward,” said the Baron ; and no sooner had they approached him more nearly, than, struck by the fine form and strength displayed by Halbert Glendinning, he ad- dressed him thus: ‘I am told, young Swankie, that you are roaming the world to seek your fortune—if you will serve Julian Avenel, you may find it without going farther.” “So please you,’ answered Glendinning, “ something has chanced to me that makes it better I should leave this land, and I am bound for Edinburgh.” * “What !—thou hast stricken some of the king’s deer, I war- rant—or lightened the meadows of Saint Mary’s of some of their beeves—or thou hast taken a moonlight leap over the Border ?” “No, sir,” said Halbert, ‘“‘my case is entirely different.” ‘Then I warrant thee,” said the Baron, “thou hast stab- bed some brother churl in a fray about a wench—thou art a likely lad to wrangle in such a cause.” Ineffably disgusted at his tone and manner, Halbert Glen- dinning remained silent, while the thought darted across lis mind, what would Julian Avenel have said, had he known the quarrel, of which he spoke so lightly, had arisen on account of his own brother’s daughter! ‘ But be thy cause of flight what it will,” said Julian, in continuation, “ dost thou think the law or its emissaries can follow thee into this island, or arrest thee under the standard of Avenel ?—Look at the depth of the lake the strength of the walls, the length of the causeway—look at my men, and think if they are likely tosee a comrade injured or if I, their master, am a man to desert a faithful follower, in good or evil. I tell thee it shall be an eternal day of truce be- twixt thee and justice, as they call it, from the instant thou hast put my colors into thy cap—thou shalt ride by the Warden’s nose as thou wouldst pass an old market-woman, and ne’er a ES ee ee “but I must answer i brief ae lef, that I cannot profit by them—my fortunes lead me elsewhere.” , 66 re s ae ee oo fool for thy pains,” said Julian, 5 2 signing Christie to approach, he whis. * Miser, used i i ich i , used in the sense in which it often occ in § ich is 3 urs in § which is indeed i literal import,—‘‘ wretched old man.”’ ‘ha heTHE aioe MONASTERY. 248 pered in his ear, “ There is age in that young fellow’s looks Christie, and we want men of limbs and sinews sO compacted —those thou hast brought to me of late are the mere refuse of mankind, wretches scarce worth the arrow that ends th 1em : this youngster is limbed like Saint George. Ply him with wine and vassail—let the wenches weave their meshes about him like spiders—thou understandest?”’ Christie gave a sagacious nod of intelligence, and fell back to a re oe distance from his master.—“ And thou, old man,” ‘said the Baron. turning to the traveller, “hast thou been roaming the world after fortune too ?—it seems not she has fallen i thy way.’ “So please you,” replied W arden, “I were perhaps more to be pitied than I am now, had I adbea met with that fortune, which, like others, I have ease in my greener days.” “Nay, understand me, friend,” said the Baron “ St then art satisfied with thy buckram gown and long staff, I also am well content thou shouldst be as poor and contemptible as is good for the health of thy body and soul—AllI care to know of thee is, the cause which hath brought thee to my castle where few crows of thy kind care to settle. Thou art, I war- rant thee, some ejected monk of a suppressed convent, paying in his old days the price of the luxurious idleness in which he spent his youth.—Ay, or it may be some pilgrim with a budget of lies from Saint James of Compostella, or Our Lady of Eo. retto ; or thou mayest be some pardoner with his budget of relics from Rome, forgiving sins at a penny a-dozen, and one to the tale——Ay, I guess why I find thee in this boy’s comp any, and doubtless a wouldst have such a strapping lad as he to carry thy wallet, and relieve thy lazy shoulders ; but by the So will cross thy cunning. I make my vowto sun and moon, I will not see a proper lad so misleard as to run the country with an old knave like Simmie and his brother.* — Away with thee [he added, rising in wrath, and speaking so fast as to give no opportunity of answer, being probably determined to terrify the elder guest into an abrupt flight—“ Away with thee, with thy clouted coat, scrip, and scallop-shell, or, by the name of Avenel, I will have them loose the hounds on thee.” Warden waited with the greatest patience until Julian Avenel, astonished that the threats and violence of his language made no impression on him, paused in a sort of wonder, and said in * Two guesttonarit, or begging friars, whose accoutrements and eee ee subject of an old Sco ttish satirical poem. [The old poem of Syme an ae 1s oe ae 4 preserved in Bannatyne’s Manuscript, is included in the Sede Remains of Ancient Pop- wlar Poetry, 1822.)246 THE MONASTERY. a less imperious tone, ‘‘ Why the fiend dost thou not answer me ‘ . ‘When you have done speaking,” said Warden, in the same composed manner, “it will be full time to reply.” “ Say on, man, in the devil’s name—but take heed—beg not here—were it but for the rinds of cheese, the refuse of the rats, or a morsel that my dogs would turn from—neither a grain of meal, nor the nineteenth part of a groat, will I give to any feigned limmar of thy coat.” “Tt may be,” answered Warden, “that you would have less quarrel with my coat if you knew what it covers. J am neither a friar nor mendicant, and would be right glad to hear thy testimony against these foul deceivers of God’s church, and usurpers of his rights over the Christian flock, were it given In Christian charity.” “ And who or what art thou, then,” said Avenel, “that thou comest to this Border land, and art neither monk, nor soldier, nor broken man!” “Tam an humble teacher of the Holy Word,” answered Warden. “This letter from a most noble person will speak why I am here at this present time.” He delivered the letter to the Baron, who regarded the seal with some surprise, and then looked on the letter itself, which seemed to excite still more. He then fixed his eyes on the stranger, and said, in a menacing tone, “I think thou darest not betray me or deceive me? ” “Tam not the man to attempt either,’ was the concise reply. Julian Avenel carried the letter to the window, where he perused, or at least attempted to peruse it more than once, often looking from the paper and gazing on the stranger who had delivered it, as if he meant to read the purport of the missive in the face of the messenger. Julian at length called to the female,—‘ Catherine, bestir thee, and fetch me presently that letter which I bade thee keep ready at hand in thy casket. having no sure lockfast place of my own.” | Catherine went with the readiness of one willing to be em- ployed; and as she walked, the situation which requires a wider gown and a longer girdle, and in which woman claims from man a double portion of the most anxious care, was still more visible than before. She soon returned with the paper, and was rewarded with a cold—‘“ I thank thee, wench; thou art a careful secretary.” 7 ; This second paper he also perused and reperused more thanTHE MONASTERY. 247 once, and still, as he read it, bent from time to time a wary and observant eye upon Henry Warden. ‘This examination and re-examination, though both the man and the place were dan- gerous, the preacher endured with the most composed and steady countenance, seeming, under the eagle, or rather the vulture eye of the baron, as unmoved as under the gaze of an ordinary and peaceful peasant. At length Julian Avenel folded both papers, and having put them into the pocket of his cloak, cleared his brow, and, coming forward, addressed his female companion. ‘Catherine,’ said he, “I have done this good man injustice, when I mistook him for one of the drones of Rome. He isa preacher, Catherine—a preacher of the—the new doctrine of the Lords of the Congregation.” “The doctrine of the blessed Scriptures,” said the preacher, “ purified from the devices of men.” “ Sayest thou ?”’ said Julian Avenel—‘ Well, thou mayest call it what thou lists ; but to me it is recommended, because it flings off all those sottish dreams about saints and angels and devils, and unhorses lazy monks that have ridden us so long, and spur-galled us so hard. No more masses and corpse-gifts —no more tithes and offerings to make men poor—no more prayers or psalms to make men cowards—no more christenings and penances, and confessions and marriages.” “So please you,” said Henry Warden, “ it is against the cor- ruptions, not against the fundamental doctrines, of the church, which we desire to renovate, and not to abolish.” “ Prithee, peace, man,” said the Baron ; “we of the laity care not what you set up, so you pull merrily down what stands in our way. Specially it suits well with us of the Southland fells ; for it is our profession to turn the world upside down, and we live ever the blithest life when the downer side is uppermost.” Warden would have replied ; but the Baron allowed him not time, striking the table with the hilt of his dagger, and crying out, —“* Ha ! you loitering knaves, bring our supper-meal quickly. See you not this holy man is exhausted for lack of food ! heard ye ever of priest or preacher that devoured not his five meals a-day?”’ The attendants bustled to and fro, and speedily brought in several large smoking platters filled with huge pieces of beef, boiled and roasted, but without any variety whatsoever ; with- out vegetables, and almost without bread, though there were at the upper end a few oat-cakes in a basket. Julian Avenel made a sort of apology to Warden.248 THE MONASTERY. “Vou have been commended to our care, Sir Preacher, since that is your style, by a person whom we highly honor.” “T am assured,” said Warden, ‘‘that the most noble Lord ‘ ‘“ Prithee, peace, man,” said Avenel ; “‘ what need of naming names, so we understand each other? I meant but to speak in reference to your safety and comfort, of which he desires us to be chary. Now, for your safety, look at my walls and water. But touching your comfort, we have no corn of our own, and the meal-girnels of the south are less easily transported than their beeves, seeing they had no legs to walk upon. But what though? a stoup of wine thou shalt have, and of the best— thou shalt sit betwixt Catherine and me at the board-end.— And, Christie, do thou look to the young springald, and call to the cellarer for a flagon of the best.” The Baron took his wonted place at the upper end of the board ; his Catherine sate down, and courteously pointed to a seat betwixt them for theirreverend guest. But, notwithstand- ing the influence both of hunger and fatigue, Henry Warden retained his standing posture. CHAPTER TWENTY-PIFTR. When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray—— * * ~ % VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. JuLIAN AVENEL saw with surprise the demeanor of the reverend stranger. ‘‘ Beshrew me,” he said, “these new-fash- ioned religioners have fast-days, I warrant me—the old ones used to confer these blessings chiefly on the laity.” ‘We acknowledge no such rule,” said the preacher—“ We hold that our faith consists not in using or abstaining from special meats on special days; and in fasting we rend our hearts, and not our garments.” “The better—the better for yourselves, and the worse for Tom Tailor,” said the Baron ; ‘‘but come, sit down, or, if thou needs must e’en give us a cast of thy office, mutter thy charm.” “Sir Baron,” said the preacher, “I am ina strange land 4 }THE MONASTERY’ 249 where neither mine office nor my doctrine are known, and where, it would seem, both are ereatly misunderstood. It is my duty so to bear me, that in my person, however unworthy, my Master’s dignity may be respected, and that sin may take not confidence from relaxation of the bonds of discipline.” “Hola! halt there,” said the Baron ; ‘“‘ thou wert sent hither for thy safety, but not, I think, to preach to me, or control me, What is it thou woulk ist have, Sir Preacher? Remember thoy speakest to one somewhat short of patience, who loves a short health and a long draught.” “ In a word, then,” said Henry Warden, “that lady ‘How ?” said the Baron, starting—‘ what of her ?—what hast thou to say of that dame?” “Is she thy house-dame?”’ said the preacher, after a mo- ment’s pause, in which he seemed to seek for the best mode of expressing what he had to say—*‘ Is she, in brief, thy wife ?” The unfortunate young woman pressed both her hands on her face, as if to hide it, but the deep blush which crimsoned her brow and neck, showed that her cheeks were also glowing ; and the bursting tears, which found their way betwixt her slender fingers, bore witness to her sorrow, as well as to her shame. ‘Now, by my father’s ashes!” said the Baron, rising and spurning from him his footstool with such violence, that it hit the wall on the opposite side of the apartment—then instantly constraining himself, he muttered, ‘‘ What need to run myself into trouble for a fool’s word ?’—then resuming his seat, he answered coldly and scornfully—‘ No, Sir Priest or Sir Preacher, Catherine is not my wife—C ease thy whimpering, thou foolish wench—she is not my wife—but she is handfasted with me, and that makes her as honest a woman.” ‘““ Handfasted ?” repeated Warden. ‘““Knowest thou not that rite, holy man?” said Avenel, in the same tone of derision ; “then I will tell thee. We Border- men are more wary than your inland clowns of Fife and Lothian —no jump in the dark for us—no clenching the fetters around our wrists till we know how they will wear with us—we take our wives, like our horses, upon trial. When we are handfasted, as we term it, we are man and wife for a year and day; that space gone by, each may choose another mate, or, at their pleasure, may ‘call the priest to marry them for life—and this we call handfasting.” * * This custom of handfasting actually prevailed in the upland days. It arese partly from tne want of priests. W hile the convents subsisted, oe were detached on regular Circuits through the wilder districts, to marry those who had lived in this species of con nection. A practice of the same kind existed in the Isle of Portland 3)£50 THE MONASTERY. “Then,” said the preacher, “I tell thee, noble Baron, in brotherly love to thy soul, it is a custom licentious, gross, and corrupted, and, if persisted in, dangerous, yea, damnable. It Linds thee to the frailer being while she is the object of desire —it relieves thee when she is most the subject of pity—it gives all to brutal sense, and nothing to generous and gentle affec- tion. I say to thee, that he who can meditate the breach of such an engagement, abandoning the deluded woman and the helpless offspring, is worse than the birds of prey ; for of them the males remain with their mates until the nestlings can take wing. Above all, I say it is contrary to the pure Christian doctrine, which assigns woman to man as the partner of his labor, the soother of his evil, his helpmate in peril, his friend in affliction ; not as the toy of his looser hours, or as a flower, which, once cropped, he may throw aside at pleasure.” “Now, by the Saints, a most virtuous homily!” said the Baron ; “ quaintly conceived and curiously pronounced, and to a well-chosen congregation. Hark ye, Sir Gospeller! trow ye to have afool in hand? Know I not that your sect rose by bluff Harry Tudor, merely because ye aided him to change zs Kate ! and wherefore should I not use the same Christian lib- erty with mzve? ‘Tush, man! bless the good food, and meddle not with what concerns thee not—thou hast no gull in Julian Avenel.” “He hath gulled and cheated himself,” said the preacher, “should he even incline to do that poor sharer of his domestic cares-the imperfect justice that remains to him. Can he now raise her to the rank of a pure and uncontaminated matron ?— Can he deprive his child of the misery of owing birth toa mother who has erred? He can indeed give them both the rank, the state of married wife and of lawful son ; but, in pub- lic opinion, their names will be smirched and sullied with a stain which his tardy efforts cannot entirely efface. Yet render it to them, Baron of Avenel, render to them this late and im- perfect justice. Bid me bind you together forever, and cele- brate the day of your bridal, not with feasting or wassail, but with SOTTOW for past sin, and the resolution to commence a better life. Happy then will have the chance been that has drawn me to this castle, though I come driven by calamity, and unknowing where my course is bound, like a leaf travelling on the north wind.” The plain, and even coarse features, of the zealous speaker, were warmed at once and ennobled by the dignity of his enthus- {asm ; and the wild Baron, lawless as he was, and accustomec.THE MONASTERY. 257 to spurn at the control whether of re] for the first time perhaps in h.s life, that he was under subjec- tion to a mind superior to hisown. He sat mute and suspended in his deliberations, hesitating betwixt anger and shame, yet borne down by the weight of the Just rebuke thus boldly fulmi- nated against him. The unfortunate young woman, conceiving hopes from her tyrant’s silence and apparent indecision. forgot both her fear and shame in her timid expectation that Avene] would relent : and fixing upon him her anxious and beseeching eyes, gradually drew near and nearer to his Seat, till at length, laying a trembling hand on his cloak, she ventured to utter, “QO noble Julian, listen to the good man !’ The speech and the motion were ill-timed, and wrought on that proud and wayward spirit the reverse of her wishes, The fierce Baron started up in a fury, exclaiming, “ What! thou foolish callet, art thou confederate with this strolling vag- abond, whom thou hast seen beard me in my own hall! Hence with thee, and think that I am proof both to male and female hypocrisy ? ’”’ The poor girl started back, astounded at his voice of thunder and looks of fury, and, turning pale as death, endeavored to obey his orders, and tottered towards the door. Her limbs failed in the attempt, and she fell on the stone floor in a man- ner which her situation might have rendered fatal—The blood gushed from her face.—Halbert Glendinning brooked not a sight so brutal, but, uttering a deep imprecation, started from his seat, and laid his hand on his sword. under the strong im- pulse of passing it through the body of the cruel and _ hard- hearted ruffan. But Christie of the Clinthill, guessing his in- tention, threw his arms around him. and prevented him from stirring to execute his purpose. The impulse to such an act of violence was indeed but momentary, as it instantly appeared that Avenel himself, shocked at the effect of his violence, was lifting up and endeavoring to soothe in his own way the terrified Catherine. ““ Peace,” he said, “ prithee, peace, thou silly minion—why, Kate, though I listen. not to this tramping preacher, I said not what might happen an thou dost bear me a stout boy. There —there—dry thy tears—call thy women.—So ho !—-where be these queans ?— Christie— Rowley — Hutcheon—drag them hither by the hair of the head!” i A half-dozen of startled wild-looking females rushed into the room, and bore out her who might be either termed their 'g10us or moral law, felt,252 THE MONASTERY. mistress or their companion. She showed little sign of lite except by groaning faintly and keeping her hand on her side. No sooner had this luckless female been conveyed from the Baron, advancing to the table, filled and apartment, than the ! drank a deep goblet of wine; then, putting an obvious restraint | horror-struck on his passions, turned to the preacher, who stooc at the scene he had witnessed, and said, “ You have borne too hard on us, Sir Preacher—but coming with the commendations which you have brought me, I doubt not but your meaning was good. But we are a wilder folk than you inland men of Fife and Lothian. Be advised, therefore, by me—Spur not an un- broken horse—put not your ploughshare too deep into new land __Preach to us spiritual liberty, and we will hearken to you.— But we will give no way to spiritual bondage.—Sit, therefore, down, and pledge me in old sack, and we will talk over other matters.” “Tt is from spiritual bondage,” said the preacher, in the same tone of admonitory reproof, “that I came to deliver you —it is from a bondage more fearful than that of the heaviest earthly gyves—it is from your own evil passions. ” “ Sit down,” said Avenel fiercely ; ‘‘sit down while the play is good—else by my father’s crest and my mother’s honor ! . “ Now,” whispered Christie of the Clinthill to Halbert, “ if he refuse to sit down, I would not give a gray groat for his head.” “Tord Baron,” said Warden, “‘ thou hast placed me in ex- tremity. But if the question be, whether I am to hide the light which I am commanded to show forth, or to lose the light of this world, my choice is made. I say to thee, like the Holy Baptist to Herod, it is not lawful for thee to have this woman ; and I say it though bonds and death be the consequence, counting my life as nothing in comparison of the ministry to which I am called.” Julian Avenel, enraged at the firmness of this reply, flung from his right hand the cup in which he was about to drink to his guest, and from the other cast off the hawk, which flew wildly through the apartment. His first motion was to lay hand upon his dagger. But, changing his resolution, he ex- claimed, ‘To the dungeon with this insolent stroller !—I will hear no man speak a word for him.—Look to the falcon Christie, thou fool—an she escape, I will despatch you ater her -every man—Away with that hypocritical dreamer—drag him hence if he resist!” eTHE MONASTERY. 253 He was obeyed in is points. Christie of the Clinthill rrested the hawk’s flight, 1 y putting his foot on her jesses, and so holding her fast, w hile are Warden was led off, without having shown the slightest symptoms a terror, by two of the Baron’s satellites. Julian Avenel walked the apartment fora short time in sullen silence, and despatching one of his attend- ants with a whispered message, which probably related to the health of the unfortunate Catharine, he said aloud, “These rash and meddling priests—By Heaven! they make us worse than we would be without them.” * : The answer which he Peery received seemed somewhat to pacify his angry mood, and he took his place at the board, commanding his retinue to do the like. All sat down in silence, and began the repast. During the meal Sopa in vain attempted to engage his youthful companion in carousal, or, at least, in conversation. Halbert Glendinning bigdited fatigue, and expressed himself unwilling to take any liquor stronger than the heather ale, which was at that time frequently used at meals. Thus every effort at jovialty died away, until the Baron, striking his hand against the table, as if impatient of the long unbroken silence, cried out aloud, “What ho! my masters—are ve Border- riders, and sit as mute over your meal as a mess of monks and friars ?—-Some one sing, if no one list to speak. Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.—Louis,”’ he added, speaking to one of the youngest of his followers, ‘ thou art edi enough to sing when no one bids thee.”’ The young man looked first at his master, then up to the arched roof of the hall, then drank off the horn of ale, or wine, which stood beside him, and with a SGcaht; yet not unmelodious voice, sung the following ditty to the dinieht air of “ Blue Bonnets over the Border.’ I March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, W hy the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story; Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory! * Note H. Julian Avenel.THE MONASTERY. I]. Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; Come to the cray where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms then, and marc England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border ! * h in good order ; had in it that warlike characte which at any other time would have roused Halbert’s spirit ; but at present the charm of minstrelsy had no effect upon him. He made it his request to Christie to suffer him to retire to rest, a request with which that worthy person, seeing no chance of making a favorable impression on his intended proselyte in his present humor, was at length pleased to comply. But no Sergeant Kite, who ever practised the profession of recruiting, was more attentive that his object should not escape him, than was Christie of the Clinthill. He indeed conducted Talbert Glendinning to a small apartment overlooking the lake, which was accommodated with a truckle bed. But before quitting him, Christie took special care to give a look to the bars which crossed the outside of the window, and when he lett the apart- ment, he failed not to give the key a double turn ; circumstances which convinced young Glendinning that there was no intention of suffering him to depart from the Castle of Avenel at his own time and pleasure. He judged it, however, most prudent to let these alarming symptoms pass without observation. No sooner did he find himself in undisturbed solitude, than he ran rapidly over the events of the day in his recollection, and to his surprise found that his own precarious fate, and even the death of Piercie Shafton, made less impression on him than the singularly bold and determined conduct of his companion. Henry Warden. Providence, which suits its instruments to the end they are to achieve, had awakened in the cause of anon in Scotland, a body of preachers of more energy than refinement, bold in spirit, and strong in faith, contemners of whatever stood betwixt them and their principal object, and seeking the advancement of the great cause in which they labored by the roughest road, provided it were the shortest. The soft breeze may wave the willow, but it requires the voice The song, rude as it was, 2 ae ee jE : [A spirited ballad in the same strain, called General Lesiy’s March to Longmarstos 9/4 > nrinte : } a < 7 . y ea eb a x é EGY SOTe Moor, is printed in Allan Ramsay’s Tea-Tadle Miscellany, and other collections. |THE MONASTERY. - 95 of the tempest to agitate the boughs of the oak ; and, accord- ingly, to milder hearers, and in aless rude age, their manners would have been ill adapted, but they were singularly suc- cessful in their mission to the rude people. to whom it was addressed. Owing to these reasons, Halbert Glendinning, who had resisted and repelled the arguments of the preacher, was forcibly struck by the firmness of his demeanor in the dis ispute with Julian Avenel. It might be discourteous, and most certainly it was incautious, to choose such a place and such an audience, for upbraiding with his trangressions a baron, whom both manners and situation placed in full possession of independent power. But the conduct of the preacher was uncompromising, firm, manly, and obviously grounded upon the deepest convic- tion which duty and principle could afford ; and, Glendinning, who had viewed the conduct of Avenel with the deepest abhor- rence, was proportionally ppaenng in the brave old man, who had ventured life rather than withhold the censure due to guilt. This pitch of virtue et to him to be in religion what was demanded by chivalry of her votaries in war; an absolute surrender of all selfish feelings, and a combination of every energy proper to the human mind, to discharge the task which duty demanded. Halbert was at the period when youth is most open to generous emotions, and knows best how to appreciate them in others, and he felt, although he hardly knew why, that, whether catholic or heretic, the safety of this man deeply interested him. Curiosity mingled with the feeling, and led him to wonder what the nature of those doctrines could be, which stole their votary so completely from himself, and devoted him to chains or to death as their sworn champion. He had indeed been told of saints and martyrs of former days, who had braved for their religious faith the extremity of dea | torture. But their spirit of enthusiastic devotion had cs ept in the ease and indolent habits of their successors, and their adventures, like those of knights-errant were rather read for amusement than for edification. A new impulse had been necessary to rekindle the energies of religious zeal, and that impulse was now oper- ating in favor of a purer religion, with one of whose steadiest votaries the youth had now met for the first time. The sense that he himself was a prisoner, under the power of this savage chieftain, by no means diminished Halbert’s interest in the fate of his fellow-sufferer, while he determined at the same time so far to emulate his fortitude, that neither )¢ ] Si256 THE MONASTERY. threats nor suffering should compel him to enter into the service of such a master. The possibility of escape next occurred to him, and though with little hope of effecting 1t in that way, Glendinning proceeded to examine more particularly the window of the apartment. ‘The apartment was situated in the first storey of the castle ; and was not so far from the rock on which it was founded, but that an active and bold man might, with little assistance, descend to a shelf of the rock which was immediately below the window, and from thence either leap or drop himself down into the lake which lay before his eye, clear and blue in the placid light of a full summer’s moon.—‘‘ Were I once placed on that ledge,” thought Glendinning, “ Julian Avenel and Christie had seen the last of me.” The size of the window favored such an attempt, but the stanchions or iron bars seemed to form an insurmountable obstacle. While Halbert Glendinning gazed from the window with that eagerness of hope which was prompted by the energy of his character and his determination not to yield to circum- stances, his ear caught some sounds from below, and listening with more attention, he could distinguish the voice of the preacher engaged in his solitary devotions. ‘To open a corre- spondence with him became immediately his object, and failing to do so by less marked sounds, he at length ventured to speak, and was answered from beneath—‘“ Is it thou, myson?” The voice of the prisoner now sounded more distinctly than when it was first heard, for Warden had approached the small aper- ture, which, serving his prison for a window, opened just betwixt the wall and the rock, and admitted a scanty portion of light through a wall of immense thickness. This soupirail being placed exactly under Halbert’s window, the contiguity permitted the prisoners to converse in alow tone, when Halbert declared his intention to escape, and the possibility he saw of achieving his purpose, but for the iron stanchions of the window—* Prove thy strength, my son, in the name of God! ' said the preacher. Halbert obeyed him more in despair than hope, but to his great astonishment, and somewhat to his terror, the bar parted asunder near the bottom, and the longer part being easily bent outwards, and not secured with lead in the upper socket, dropt out into Halbert’s hand. He immedi- ately whispered, but as energetically as a whisper could be ex- pressed—‘ By Heaven, the bar has given way in my hand!” “Thank Heaven, my son, instead of swearing by it,” an swered Warden from his dungeon. ee Ge With little effort Halbert Glendinning forced himself through AL ; MON. RY: s60 THE MONASTE that can turn the spit nae langer: the ater—Gang awa, bairn, I will turn the broach there is poor Simmie baitn is melting like an icicle in warm W and take a mouthful of the caller air, and till ye come back.” be “Rin up to the bartizan at the tower-head, callant,” said Dame Glendinning, “the air will be callerer there than ony gate else, and bring us word if our Halbert and the gentleman are coming down the glen.” The boy lingered long enough to allow his substitute, Tibb Tacket, heartily to tire of her own generosity, and of his cricket stool by the side of a huge fire. He at length returned with the news that he had. seen nobody. The matter was not remarkable so far as Halbert Glendin- ning was concerned, for, patient alike of want and of fatigue, ‘t was no uncommon circumstance for him to remain in the wilds till curfew time. But nobody had given Sir Piercie Shafton credit for being so keen a sportsman, and the idea of an Englishman preferring the chase to his dinner was alto- gether inconsistent with their preconceptions of the national char- acter. Amidst wondering and conjecturing, the usual dinner- hour passed long away ; and the inmates of the tower, taking a hasty meal themselves, adjourned their more solemn prepara- tions until the hunters’ return at night, since it seemed now certain that their sport had either carried them to a greater distance, or engaged them for a longer time than had been expected. About four hours after noon, arrived, not the expected sports- men, but an unlooked-for visitant, the Sub-Prior from the Monastery. The scene of the preceding day had dwelt on the mind of Father Eustace, who was of that keen and penetrating cast of mind which loves not to leave unascertained whatever of mysterious is subjected to its inquiry. His kindness was interested in the family of Glendearg, which he had now known for a long time ; and besides, the community was interested in the preservation of the peace betwixt Sir Piercie Shafton and his youthful host, since whatever might draw public attention on the former, could not fail to be prejudicial to the Monastery, which was already threatened by the hand of power. He found the family assembled all but Mary Avenel, and was informed that Halbert Glendinning had accompanied the stranger on a day’s sport. So far was well. They had not returned ; but when did youth and sport conceive themselves bound by set hours? and the circumstance excited no alarm in his mind While he was conversing with Edward Glendinning touching y lTHE MONASTERY. 261 his progress in the studies he had pointed out to him, they were startled by a shriek from Mary Avenel’s apartment, which drew the whole family thither in headlong haste. They found her in a swoon in the arms of an { Martin, who was bit terly ’ accusing himself of having killed her ; so indeed it seemed. for her pale features and closed eyes vameied rather a dead corpse than a living person. The whole fami ily were instantly in tumult. Snatching her from Martin’s arms with the eagerness of affec- tionate terror, Edward bore her to the casement, that she might receive the influence of the open air; the Sub- Prior, who like many of his profession, had some knowledge of me icine, has- tened to prescribe the readiest remedies which occurred to him, and the terrified females contended with and impeded each other, in their rival efforts to be useful. “It has been ane of her weary ghaists,” said Dame Glen- dinning. “It’s just a trembling on her spirits, as her blessed mother used to have,” said Tibb. “It’s some ill news has come ower her,’ said the miller’s maiden ; while burnt feathers, cold water, and all the usual means of restoring suspended animation, were employed _alter- nately, and with little effect. At length a new assistant, who had joined the group unob- served, tendered his aid in the following terms :—“ How is this, my most fair Discretion? What cause hath moved the ruby current of life to rush back to the citadel of the heart, leav- ing pale those features in which it should have del lighted to meander forever ? — let me approach her,” he said, § ‘ with this sovereign essence distilled by the fair hands of the divine Urania, and powerful to recall fugitive life, even if it were trembling on the verge of departure.” Thus speaking, Sir Piercie Shafton knelt down, and most gracefully presented to the nostrils of Mary Avenel a silver pouncet-box, exquisitely chased, containing a sponge dipped in the essence which he recommended so highly. Yes, gentle reader, it was Sir Piercie Shafton himself who thus unexpectedly proffered his good offices ! his cheeks, indeed, very pale, and some part of his dress stained with blood, but not otherwise appearing different from what he was on the preceding evening. But no sooner had Mary Avenel opened her eyes, and fixed them on the figure of the officious courtier, than she screamed faintly, and exclaimed,—“ Secure the murderer !” Those present stood aghast with astonishment, and none more so than the Euphuist, who found himself so suddenly and262 THE MONASTERY. so strangely accused by the patient whom he was endeavoring to succor, and who repelled his attempts to yield her assist- ance with the energy of abhorrence. “Take him away!” she exclaimed—“ take away the mur- derer!” “Now, by my knighthood,” answered Sit” Piercie,” “your lovely faculties either of mind or body are, O my most fait Discretion, obnubilated by some strange hallucination. For either your eyes do not discern that it is Piercie Shafton, yout most devoted Affability, who now stands before you, or else, your eyes discerning truly, your mind hath most erroneously concluded that he hath been guilty of some delict or violence to which his hand is a stranger. No murder, O most scornful Discretion, hath been this day done, saving but that which your angry glances are now performing on your most devoted captive.” He was here interrupted by the Sub-Prior, who had, in the mean time, been speaking with Martin apart, and had received from him an account of the circumstances, which, suddenly communicated to Mary Avenel, had thrown her into this state. “Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, in a very solemn tone, yet with some hesitation, “‘ circumstances have been communicated tous of a nature so extraordinary, that, reluctant as I am to exercise such authority overa guest of our own venerable commu- nity, I am constrained to request from you an explanation ct them. You left this tower early in the morning, accompanied by a youth, Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son of this good dame, and you return hither without him. Where, and at what hour, did you part company from him ?” The English knight paused for a moment, and then replied, ‘“T marvel that your reverence employs so grave a tone to enforce so light a question. I parted with the villagio whom you call Halbert Glendinning some hour or twain after sunrise.” “ And at what place, I pray you?” said the monk. “In a deep ravine, where a fountain rises at the base of a huge rock; an earth-born Titan, which heaveth up its gray head, even as e ‘Spare us farther description,” said the Sub-Prior; “we know the spot. But that youth hath not since been heard of, and it will fall on you to account for him.” “My bairn! my bairn!” exclaimed Dame Glendinning. “Ves, holy father, make the villain account for my bairn!” “T swear, good woman, by bread and by water, which are the props of our life :THE MONASTERY. 26 3 é¢ S , b y 7 ‘ - Swear by wine and wastel-bread, for these are tl thy life, thou greedy Southron!” said Dame Glendi base belly-god, to come here to eat the best, and lives that give it to him!” “I tell thee, woman,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “I did but go with thy son to the hunting.” eG 27) be . : = as a ™ . 9 . se A Black hunting it has been to hin, poor bairn,” replied Pibb ; “and sae I said it wad Prove since I first saw the false Southron snout of thee. Little good comes of a Piercie’s hunt- ing, from Chevy Chase till now.” “ Be silent, woman,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and the English knight ; we do not yet ] suspicion.” ~ We will have his heart’s blood!” said Dame Glendinning ; and, seconded by the faithful Tibbie, she made such a sudden onslaught on the unlucky Euphuist, as must have terminated in something serious, had not the monk, aided by Mysie Happer, interposed to protect him from their tury. Edward had left 1€ props of nning ;—“ 9 practise on our rail not upon ) : B of William Allan, that he should sink to be the solitary drone of a cell, graced only above the swarm with the high commis- sion of executing Roman malice on all who oppose Roman im- posture ?”’ “ Not to thee,” answered the Sub-Prior, ‘be assured—not unto thee, nor unto mortal man, will I render an account of the power with which the Church may have invested me. It was granted but as a deposit for her welfare—tor her welfare it shall at every risk be exercised, without fear and without favor.” “J expected no less from your misguided zeal,” answered the preacher ; “and in me have you met one on whom you may fearlessly exercise your authority, secure that his mind at least will defy your influence, as the snows of that Mont Blanc which we saw together, shrink not under the heat of the hottest summer sun.” “JT do believe thee,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘‘I do believe that thine is indeed metal unmalleable by force. Let it yield then to persuasion. Let us debate these matters of faith, as we once were wont to conduct our scholastic disputes, when hours, nay, days, glided past in the mutual exercise of our intellectual powers. It may be thou mayest yet hear the voice of the shep- herd, and return to the universal fold.” “No, Allan,” replied the prisoner, “this is no vain question, devised by dreaming scholiasts, on which they may whet their ‘ntellectual faculties until the very metal be wasted away. ‘The errors which I combat are like those fiends which are only cast out by fasting and prayer. Alas! not many wise, not many iearned, are chosen; the cottage and the hamlet shall in our days bear witness against the schools and their disciples. Thy very wisdom, which is foolishness, hath made thee, as the Greeks of old, hold as foolishness that which is the only true wisdom.” “This,” said the Sub-Prior, sternly, “1s the mere cant of ignorant enthusiasm, which appealeth from learning and from authority, from the sure guidance of that lamp which God hath afforded us in the Councils and in the Fathers of the Church, to a rash, self-willed, and arbitrary interpretation of the Scrip- tures, wrested according to the private opinion of each specu- lating heretic.” ‘““T disdain to reply to the charge,” replied Warden. “ The question at issue between your Church and mine, is, whetherTHE MONASTERY. 313 we will be judged by the Holy Scriptures, or by the levices and decisions of men not less subject to error than ourselves, and who have defaced our holy religion with vain devices, reared up idols of stone and wood, in form of those, who, when they lived, were but sinful] creatures, to share the worship due only to the Creator—established a toll-house betwixt heaven and hell, that profitable purgatory of which the Pope keeps the keys, like as an iniquitous judge commutes punishment for bribes, and 2 “ Sitence, blasphemer,” said the Sub-Prior, sternly, “or 1 will have thy blatant obloquy stopped with a gag “ Ay,” replied Warden, “ such is the freedom of the Chris- tian conference to which Rome’s priests so kindly invite us |— the gag—the rack—the axe—is the ratio ultima Lome. But know thou, mine ancient friend, that the character of thy former companion is not so changed by age, but that he still dares to endure for the cause of truth all that thy proud hierarchy shali dare to inflict.” “Of that,” said the monk, “| nothing doubt—Thou wert ever a lion to turn against the spear of the hunter, not a stag to be dismayed at the sound of his bugle.” —He walked through the room in silence. “Welly ood,” he said at length, “wecan no longer be friends. Our faith, our hope, our anchor on futurity, is no longer the same.” ‘Deep is my sorrow that thou speakest truth. May God So judge me,” said the Reformer, “as I would buy the conver- sion of a soul like thine with my dearest heart’s blood.” “To thee, and with better reason, do I return the wish,” replied the Sub-Prior ; “it is such an arm as thine that should defend the bulwarks of the Church, and it is now directing the battering-ram against them, and rendering practicable the breach through which all that is greedy, and all that is base, and all that is mutable and hot-headed in this innovating age, already hope to advance to destruction and to spoil. But since such is our fate, that we can no longer fight side by side as friends, let us at least act as generous enemies. You cannot have for: gotten, tien ‘O gran bonta dei cavalieri antiqui! : Erano nemici, eran’ di fede diversa ! ’>— Although, perhaps,” he added, stopping short in his quotation, “your new faith forbids you to reserve a place in your memory, even for what high poets have recorded of loyal faith and gen: €rous sentiment.” Ap 3 “ The faith of Buchanan,” replied the preacher, “ the faitTHE MONASTERY. cannot be unfriendly to literature. of Buchanan and of Beza, : ted affords strains fitter for a disso- But the poet you have quo lute court than for a convent.” ; : “J might retort on your Theodore Beza,” said the Sub-Prior, smiling ; “ but I hate the judgment that, like the flesh fly, skims over whatever is sound, to detect and settle upon some spot which is tainted. But to the purpose. If I conduct thee or send thee a prisoner to Saint Mary’s, thou art to-night a tenant of the dungeon, to-morrow a burden to the gibbettree. Ir T were to let thee go hence at large, I were thereby wronging the Holy Church, and breaking mine own solemn vow. Other resolutions may be adopted in the capital, or better times may speedily ensue. Wilt thou remain a true prisoner upon thy parole, rescue or no rescue, as is the phrase amongst the war- riors of this country? Wilt thou solemnly promise that thou wilt do so, and that at my summons thou wilt present thyself before the Abbot and Chapter at Saint Mary’s, and that thou wilt not stir from this house above a quarter of a mile in any direction? Wilt thou, I say, engage me thy word for this? and such is the sure trust which I repose in thy good faith, that thou shalt remain here unharmed and unsecured, a prisoner at large, subject only to appear before our court when called upon.” The preacher paused—* I am unwilling,” he said, “ to fetter my native liberty by any self-adopted engagement. But I am already in your power, and you may bind me to my answer. By such promise, to abide within a certain limit, and to appear when called upon, I renounce not any liberty which | at present possess, and am free to exercise ; but,on the contrary, being in bonds, and at your mercy, I acquire thereby a liberty which I at present possess not. I will therefore accept of thy proffer. as what is courteously offered on thy part, and may be honor ably accepted on mine.” “Stay yet,” said the Sub-Prior, “ one important part of thy engagement is forgotten—thou art farther to promise, that while thus left at liberty, thou wilt not preach or teach, directly or indirectly, any of those pestilent heresies by which so many souls have been in this our day won over from the kingdom of light to the kingdom of darkness.” : “There we break off our treaty,” said Warden, firmly-— Woe unto me if I preach not the Gospel!” The Sub-Prior’s countenance became clouded, and he again paced the apartment, and muttered, “ A plague ‘upon the self. willed fool!” then stopped short in his walk, and proceeded in his argument.—“ Why, by thine own reasoning, Henry, thy re:THE MONASTER} 3 319 fusal here is but peevish obstinacy. It is in my power to place you where your preaching can reach no human ear; in promis- ing therefore to abstain from it, you grant notl hing which you have it in your power to refuse.” ‘I know not that,” replied Henry Warden : indeed cast into a dun: geon, but can I foretell that my Master hath not task-work for me to perform even in that dre ary man- sion? The chains of Saints have, ere now, of breaking the bonds of Satan. the jailer whom he brought to beli and all his house.’ ‘‘ Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, ina tone betwixt anger if you match yourself with the blessed Apostle, it were ame we had done—prepare to endure what thy folly, as well as thy heresy, deserves.—Bind him soldier.’ With proud submission to his fate. and r garding the Sub- Prior with something which almost amounted to a superiority, the preacher placed his arms so that could be again fastened round him. Spare me not,” he said to Christie : for even that ruffian hesitated to draw the cord straitly. The Sub-Prior, meanwhile, looked at him from under his cowl, which he had drawn over his head. and partly over his face, as if he wished to shade his own emotions. ‘They were those of a huntsman within point-blank shot of a noble stag, who is yet too much struck with his majesty of front and of antler to take aim at him. They were those of a fowler , who, levelling his gun at a magni ificent e: gle, is yet reluctant to use his advantage when he sees the noble sovereign of the birds pruning himself in proud defiance of whatever may be attempted against him. The heart of the Sub-Prior (bigoted as he was) relented, and he doubted if he ought to purchase, by a rigor- ous discharge of what he deemed his duty, the remorse he might afterwards feel for the death of one so nobly indepen- dent in thought and character, the friend, besides, ot his own happiest years, during which they had, side by side, striven in the noble race of knowledge, and indulged their intervals of repose in the lighter studies of classical and general letters. The Sub-Prior’s hand pressed his half-o ‘ersh acdowed cheek, and his eyes more comple Ately obscured, was bent on the ground, as if to hide the workings of his relenting nature. ‘Were but Edward safe from the infection,” he thou xht to himself—“ Edward, whose eager and enthusiastic mind presses forward in the chase of all that hath even the shadow of knowl- ‘thou mayest been the means In a prison, holy Paul found leve the word of sal vation, he and scorn, éé a smile of the bonds320 THE MONASTERY. edge, I might trust this enthusiast with the women, after due caution to them that they cannot, without guilt, attend to his reveries.” As the Sub-Prior revolved these thoughts, and delayed the definitive order which was to determine the fate of the prisoner, a sudden noise at the entrance of the tower diverted his atten- tion for an instant, and, his cheek and brow inflamed with all the glow of heat and determination, Edward Glendinning rushed into the room. ee LT CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND. Then in my gown of sober grey Along the mountain path 171] wander, And wind my solitary way To the sad shrine that courts me yonder. There, in the calm monastic shade, All injuries may be forgiven ; All there for thee, obdurate maid, My orisons shall rise to heaven. Tue CrugeL Lapy oF THE MOUNTAINS. ‘ux first words which Edward uttered were,—“ My brother is safe, reverend father—he is safe, thank (Sodjand lives !—— There is not in Corri-nan-shian a grave, nora vestige of a grave. The turf around the fountain has neither been disturbed by pick-axe, Spade, nor mattock, since the deer’s-hair first sprang there, He lives as surely as I live!” The earnestness of the youth—the vivacity with which he looked and moved—the springy step, outstretched hand, and ardent eye, reminded Henry Warden of Halbert, so lately his guide. The brothers had indeed a strong family resemblance, though Halbert was far more athletic and active in his person, taller and better knit in the limbs, and though Edward had, on ordinary occasions, a look of more habitual acuteness and more profound reflection. The preacher was interested as well as the _Sub-Prior. “Of whom do you speak, my son?” he said, in a tone as unconcerned as if his own fate had not been at the same instant trembling in the balance, and asif a dungeon and death did not appear to be his instant doom—* Of whom, I say, speak you? lf of a youth somewhat older than you seem to be— brown-haived, open-featured, taller and stronger than you appear,THE MONASTERY. 207 yet having much of the same air and of the same tone of voice. —if such a one is the brother whom you seek, it may be I can tell you news of him.” ‘“* Speak, then, for Heaven’s sake,” said Edward—* life or death lies on thy tongue! ” The Sub-Prior joined eagerly in the same request, and, with- out waiting to be urged, the preacher gave a minute account of the circumstances under which he met the elder Glendinning, with so exact a description of his person, that there remained no doubt as to his identity. When he mentioned that Halbert Glendinning had conducted him to the dell in which they ‘found the grass bloody, and a grave newly closed, and told how the youth accused himself of the slaughter of Sir Piercie Shafton, the Sub-Prior looked on Edward with astonishment. “ Didst thou not say, even now,” he said, “that there was no vestige of a grave in that spot?” ‘No more vestige of the earth having been removed than if the turf had grown there since the days of Adam,” replied Edward Glendinning. “It is true,” he added, ‘‘ that the ad- jacent grass was trampled and bloody.” “These are delusions of the Enemy,” said the Sub-Prior, crossing himself. ‘ Christian men may no longer doubt of it.” ‘But an it be so,” said Warden, “Christian men might better guard themselves by the sword of prayer than by the idle form of a cabalistical spell.” “The badge of our salvation,” said the Sub-Prior, “cannot be so termed—the sign of the cross disarmeth all evil spirits.” “ Ay,” answered Henry Warden, apt and armed for con- troversy, “but it should be borne in the heart, not scored with the fingers in the air. That very impassive air, through which your hand passes, shall as soon bear the imprint of your action, as the external action shall avail the fond bigot who subsitutes vain motions of the body, idle genuflections, and signs of the cross, for the living and heart-born duties of faith and good works.” "I pity thee,” said the Sub-Prior, as actively ready for po- lemics as himself,—“ I pity thee, Henry, and reply not to thee, Thou mayest as well winnow forth and measure the ocean with a sieve, as mete out the power of holy words, deeds, and signs, by the erring gauge of thine own reason.” oe “Not by mine own reason would I mete them,” said Warden ; “but by His holy Word, that unfading and unerring lamp of our paths, compared to which human reason is but as a glimmering and fading taper, and your boasted tradition only 21322 THE MONASTERY. Show me your Scripture -yarrant fort in signs and motions !”’ field of debate,” said the Sub-Prior, J will not:at present yeenms the a misleading wildfire. ascribing virtue to such va ‘¢T offered thee a fair “which thou didst refuse. controversy.” : “Were these my last accents,” said the reformer, and were they uttered at the stake, half-choked with smoke, and as the fagots kindled into a blaze around me, with that last utterance s devices of Rome.” I would testify against the superstitiou The Sub-Prior suppressed with pain the controversial answer which arose to his lips, and, turning to Edward Glendinning, he said, ‘‘ there could be now no doubt that his mother ought presently to be informed that her son lived.” “T told you that two hours since,” said Christie of the Clinthill, ‘(an you would have believed me. But it seems you are more willing to take the word of an old gray sorner, whose life has been spent in pattering heresy, than mine, though | never rode a foray in my life without duly saying my paternoster.”’ “ Go then,” said Father Eustace to Edward ; “ let thy sorrow- ing mother know that her son is restored to her from the grave, like the child of the widow of Zarephath ; at the intercession,’ he added, looking at Henry Warden, “of the blessed Saint whom I invoked in his behalf.” “ Deceived thyself,” said Warden, instantly, “thou art a deceiver of others. It was no dead man, no creature of clay, whom the blessed Tishbite invoked, when, stung by the re- proach of the Shunammite woman, he prayed that her son’s soul might come into him again.” “It was by his intercession, however,” repeated the Sub- Prior ; “for what says the Vulgate? Thus it is written ; ‘A? exaudivit Dominus vocem HHelie; et reversa est anima puert intra eum, et revixit ;’—and thinkest thou the intercession of a glorified saint is more feeble than when he walks on earth, shrouded in a tabernacle of clay, and seeing but with the eye of flesh?” During this controversy Edward Glendinning appeared rest less and impatient, agitated by some strong internal feeling, but whether of joy, grief, or expectation, his countenance did not expressly declare. He took now the unusual freedom to break in upon, the discourse of the Sub-Prior, who, notwith- standing his resolution to the contrary, was obviously kindling in the spirit of controversy, which Edward diverted by conjur- ing his reverence to allow him to speak a few words with him in private. “Remove the prisoner,” said the Sub-Prior to Christie ;THE MONASTERY. ee 373 “look to him carefully that he escape not; but for thy life d : ys es ) ¥y He aq him no injury.” His commands being obeyed, Fdward and the left alone, when the Sub-Prior thus addressed him : < What hath come over thee. Edward, that thy eye kindles SO wildly, and thy cheek is thus changing from scarlet to pale? Why didst thou break in so hastily and unadvisedly upon the argument with which I was prostrating yondezi neretic? And wherefore didst thou not tell thy mother that her son is restored to her by the intercession, as Holy Church well warrants us to believe, of blessed Saint Benedict, the patron of our Order? For if ever my prayers were put forth to him with zeal, it hath been in behalf of this house, and thine eyes have seen the result—go tell it to thy mother.” “I must tell her then,” said Edward, “that if she has re- gained one son, another is lost to her.” “What meanest thou, Edward? what language is this?” said the Sub-Prior. “Father,” said the youth, kneeling down to him, “my sin and my shame shall be told thee, and thou shalt witness my penance with thine own eyes.” “I comprehend thee not,” said the Sub-Prior. “What canst thou have done to deserve such self-accusation ?>-—Hast thou too listened,” he added, knitting his brows, “to the demon of heresy, ever most effectual tempter of those, who, like yonder unhappy man, are distinguished by their love of knowledge ?” “T am guiltless in that matter,’ answered Glendinning, “nor have presumed to think otherwise than thou, my kind father, hast taught me, and than the Church allows.” “And what is it then, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, kindly, “which thus afflicts thy conscience? speak it to me, that I may answer thee in the words of comfort ; for the Church’s mercy is great to those obedient children who doubt not her power.” ‘““My confession will require her mercy,” replied Edward. “’ My brother Halbert—so kind, so brave, so gentle, who spoke not, thought not, acted not, but in love to me, whose hand had aided me in every difficulty, whose eye watched over me like the eagle’s over her nestlings, when they prove their first flight from the eyry—this brother, so kind, so gently affectionate—I heard of his sudden, his bloody, his violent death, and I re- joiced—I heard of his unexpected restoration, and I sor. rowed !” monk were 4 o 5524 THE MONASTERY. “ Edward,” said the father, “ thou art beside thyselfi—what could urge thee to such odious ingratitude ?—In your hurry of spirits you have mistaken the confused tenor of your feelings —Go, my son, pray and compose thy mind—we will speak of this another time.” “ No, father, no,” said Edward, vehemently, “ now or never ! —I will find the means to tame this rebellious heart of mine, or I will tear it out of my bosom—Mistake its passions ? No, father, grief can ill be mistaken for joy—All wept, all shrieked around me—my mother—the menials—she too, the cause of my crime—all wept—and I—I could hardly disguise my brutal and insane joy under the appearance of revenge— Brother, I said, I cannot give thee tears, but I will give thee blood—Yes, father, as I counted hour after hour, while I kept watch upon the English prisoner, and said, Iam an hour nearer to hope and to happiness “JT understand thee not, Edward,” said the monk, ‘‘ nor can I conceive in what way thy brother's supposed murder should have affected thee with such unnatural joy—surely the sordid desire to succeed him in his small possessions - “Perish the paltry trash!” said Edward with the same emotion. “No, father, it was rivalry—it was jealous rage—it was the love of Mary Avenel, that rendered me the unnatural wretch I confess myself ! ” “Of Mary Avenel!” said the Priest—* of a lady so high above either of you in name andin rank? How dared Hal- bert—how dared you, to presume to lift your eye to her but in honor and respect, as a superior of another degree from ours?” “When did love wait for the sanction of heraldry ?”’ re- plied Edward ; “and in what but a line of dead ancestors was Mary, our mother’s guest and foster-child, different from us, with whom she was brought up ?—Enough, we loved—we both loved her! But the passion of Halbert was requited. He knew it not, he saw it not—but I was sharper-eyed. I saw that even when I was more approved, Halbert was more be- loved. With me she would sit for hours at our common task with the cold simplicity and indifference ofa sister, but with Halbert she trusted not herself. She changed color, she was fluttered when he approached her ; and when he left her she was sad, pensive, and solitary. I bore all this—I saw my rival’s advancing progress in her affections—I bore it, father, and yet I hated him not—I could not have him!” “And well for thee that thou didst not,’’ said the father:TE MONASTREPY THE MONASTERY. 326 “wild and headstrong as thou art, wouldst thou hate thy brother for partaking in thine own folly ?” “Father,” replied Edward, “the world esteems thee wise, and holds thy knowledge of mankind high; but thy question shows that thou hast never loved. It was by an effort that I saved myself from hating my kind and affectionate brother, who, all unsuspicious of my rivalry, was perpetually loading me with kindness. Nay, there were moods of my mind in which I could return that kindness for a time with energetic enthusiasm. Never did I feel this so strongly as on the night which parted us. But I could not help rejoicing when he was swept from my path—could not help sorrowing when he was again restored to be a stumbling-block in my paths.” ‘““May God be gracious to thee, my son!” said the monk ; “this is an awful state of mind. Even in such evil mood did the first murderer rise up against his brother, because Abel’s was the more acceptable sacrifice.” “IT will wrestle with the demon which has haunted me, father,” replied the youth, firmly—‘“I will wrestle with him, and I will subdue him. But first | must remove from the scenes which are to follow here. I cannot endure that I should see Mary Avenel’s eyes again flash with joy at the restoration of her lover. It were a sight to make indeed a second Cain of me! My fierce, turbid, and transitory joy discharged itself in a thirst to commit homicide, and how can I estimate the frenzy of my despair?” “Madman!” said the Sub-Prior, ‘at what dreadful crime does thy fury drive?” “My lot is determined, father,” said Edward, in a resolute tone ; “I will embrace the spiritual state which you have so oft recommended. It is my purpose to return with you to Saint Mary’s, and, with the permission of the Holy Virgin and of Saint Benedict, to offer my profession to the Abbot.” “Not now, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, “not in this dis temperature of mind. The wise and good accept not gifts which are made in heat of blood, and which may be after re- pented of ; and shall we make our offerings to wisdom and to goodness itself with less of solemn resolution and deep devo- tion of mind, than is necessary to make them acceptable to our own frail companions in this valley of darkness? ‘This I say to thee, my son, not as meaning to deter thee from the good path thou art now inclined to prefer, but that thou mayest make thy vocation and thine election sure.” “There are actions, father,’’ returned Edward, ‘ which ’THE MONASTERY. brook no delay, and this is one. It must be done this very now; or it may never be done. Let me go with you ; let me not behold the return of Halbert into this house. Shame, and the sense of the injustice I have already done him, will join with these dreadful passions which urge me to do him yet farther wrong. Let me then go with you.” “With me, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, “ thou shalt surely eo; but our rule, as well as reason and good order, requiie that you should dwell a space with us as a probationer, or novice, before taking upon thee those final vows, which, sequestering thee forever from the world, dedicate thee to the service of Heaven.” “ And when shall we set forth, father? ” said the youth, as eagerly as if the journey which he was now undertaking led to the pleasures of a summer holiday. “Even now, if thou wilt,” said the Sub-Prior, yielding to his impetuosity—“‘ go, then, and command them to prepare for our departure.—Yet stay,” he said, as Edward, with all the awakened enthusiasm of his character, hastened from his pres- ence, ‘“‘come hither, my son, and kneel down.” Edward obeyed, and kneeled down before him. Notwith- standing his slight figure and thin features, the Sub-Prior could, from the energy of his tone, and the earnestness of his devo- tional manner, impress his pupils and his penitents with no or- dinary feelings of personal reverence. His heart always was, as well as seemed to be, in the duty which he was immediately performing ; and the spiritual guide who thus shows a deep con- viction of the importance of his office, seldom fails to impress a similar feeling upon his hearers. Upon such occasions as the present, his puny body seemed to assume more majestic stature—his spare and emaciated countenance bore a bolder, loftier, and more commanding port—his voice, always beautiful, trembled as laboring under the immediate impulse of the Divinity—and his whole demeanor seemed to bespeak, not the mere ordinary man, but the organ of the Church in which she had vested her high power for delivering sinners from their load of iniquity. “ Fast thou, my fair son,” said he, “faithfully recounted the circumstances which have thus suddenly determined thee to a religious life?” “ The sins I have confessed, my father,” answered Edward, “but I have not yet told of a strange appearance, which acting in my mind, hath, I think, aided to determine my resolution.” ‘Tell it then now,” returned the Sub-Prior; “it is thyTHE MONASTERY. 327 duty to leave me uninstructed in naught, so that thereby I may understand the temptation that besets thee.” ‘IT tell it with unwillingness,” said Edward ; “for although, God wot, I speak but the mere truth, yet even while my tongue speaks it as truth, my own ears receive it as fable.” “Yet say the whole,” said Father Eustace ; “neither fear rebuke from me, seeing I may know reasons for receiving as true that which others might regard as fabulous.” ‘ Know, then, father,” replied Edward, “that betwixt hope and despair—and, heavens! what a hope !—the hope to find the corpse mangled and crushed hastily in amongst the bloody clay which the foot of the scornful victor had trod down upon my good, my gentle, my courageous brother,—I sped to the glen called Corri-nan-shian ; but, as your reverence has been already informed, neither the grave which my unhallowed vishes had in spite of my better self longed to see, nor any appearance of the earth having been opened, was visible in the solitary spot where Martin had, at morning yesterday, seen the fatal hillock. You know our dalesmen, father. The place hath an evil name, and this deception of the sight inclined them to leave it. My companions became affrighted, and has- tened down the glen as men caught in trespass. My hopes were too much blighted, my mind too much agitated, to fear either the living or the dead. I descended the glen more slowly than they, often looking back, and not ill pleased with the pol- troonery of my companions, which left me to my own perplexed and moody humor, and i: luced them to hasten into the broader dale. They were alread out of sight, and lost amongst the windings of the glen, whe: looking back, I saw a female form standing beside the fountai:. 2 ‘How, my fair son?” said Sub-Prior, “‘ beware you jest not with your present situation ! “I jest not, father,” answered the youth ; ‘it may be I shall never jest again—surely not for many a day. I saw, I say, the form of a female clad in white, such as the Spirit which haunts the house of Avenel is supposed to be. Believe me, my father, for, by heaven and earth, I say naught but what I saw with Eaese.eyes:!”’ “TI believe thee, my son,” said the monk; “ proceed in thy strange story.” - “The apparition,’ said Edward Glendinning, “ sung, and thus ran her lay ; for, strange as it may seem to you, her words abide by my remembrance as if they had been sung to me from infancy upward :— ‘THE MONASTERY. ‘Thou who seek’st my fountain lone, With thoughts and hopes thou dar’st not own; Whose heart within leap’d wildly glad When most his brow seem’d dark and sad ; Hie thee back, thou find’st not here Corpse or coffin, grave or bier ; The Dead Alive is gone and fled— Go thou and join the Living Dead! ‘The Living Dead, whose sober brow - Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now, Whose hearts within are seldom cured Of passions by their vows abjured ; Where, under sad and solemn show, Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow. Seek the convent’s vaulted room, Prayer and vigil be thy doom: Doff the green, and don the gray, To the cloister hence away !’” “Tis a wild lay,” said the Sub-Prior, “and chanted, I feat me, with no good end. But we have power to turn the machi- nations of Satan to his shame. Edward, thou shalt go with me as thou desirest ; thou shalt prove the life for which I have long thought thee best fitted—thou shalt aid, my son, this trembling hand of mine to sustain the Holy Ark, which bold unhallowed men press rashly forward to touch and to profane.—Wilt thou not first see thy mother?” “T will see no one,” said Edward, hastily ; ‘I will risk nothing that may shake the purpose of my heart. From Saint Mary’s they shall learn my destinatio: —all of them shall learn it. My mother—Mary Avenel—my estored and happy brother —they shall all know that Edward ! ves no longer to the world to be a clog on their happiness. Mary shall no longer need to constrain her looks and expressions to coldness because I am nigh. She shall no longer 2 ‘My son,” said the Sub-Prior, interrupting him, “it is not by looking back on the vanities and vexations of this world, that we fit ourselves for the discharge of duties which are not of it. Go, get our horses ready, and, as we descend the glen together, I will teach thee the truths through which the fathers and wise men of old had that precious alchemy, which can con: vert suffering into happiness.”THE MONASTERY. CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD. Now, on my faith, this gear is all entangled, Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy knitter, Dragg’d by the frolic kitten through the cabin While the good dame sits nodding o’er the fire! Masters, attend ; ’twill crave some skill to clear it. OLD Pray. EpwarD, with the speed of one who doubts the steadiness of his own resolution, hastened to prepare the horses for their departure, and at the same time thanked and dismissed the neighbors who had come to his assistance, and who were not a little surprised both at the suddenness of his proposed depar- ture, and at the turn affairs had taken. 7 ‘‘ Here’s cold hospitality,” quoth Dan of the Howlet-hirst to his comrades; “I trow the Glendinnings may die and come alive right oft, ere I put foot in stirrup again for the matter.” Martin soothed them by placing food and liquor before them. They ate sullenly, however, and departed in bad humor. The joyful news that Halbert Glendinning lived, was quickly communicated through the sorrowing family. The mother wept and thanked Heaven alternately ; until, her habits of domestic economy awakening as her feelings became calmer, she ob- served, ‘It would be an unco task to mend the yetts, and what were they to do while they were broken in that fashion? At open doors dogs come in.” Tibb remarked, “ She aye thought Halbert was ower gleg at his weapon to be killed sae easily by ony Sir Piercie of them a’. They might say of these Southrons as they like; but they had not the pith and wind of a canny Scot, when it came to close prips.” On Mary Avenel the impression was inconceivably deepet. She had but newly learned to pray, and it seemed to her tha: her prayers had been instantly answered—that the compassion of Heaven, which she had learned to implore in the words of Scripture, had descended upon her after a manner almost mira- culous, and recalled the dead from the grave at the sound of her lamentations. There was a dangerous degree of enthus- iasm in this strain of feeling, but it originated in the pures} devotion.330 THE MONASTERY. A silken and embroidered muffler, one of the few articles of more clostly attire which she possessed, was devoted to the pur- pose of wrapping up and concealing the sacred volume, which henceforth she was to regard as her chiefest treasure, lamenting only that, for want of a fitting interpreter, much must remain to her a book closed and a fountain sealed. She was unaware of the yet greater danger she incurred, of putting an imperfect or even false sense upon some of the doctrines which appeared most comprehensible. But Heaven had provided against both these hazards. < While Edward was preparing the horses, Christie of the Clinthill again solicited his orders respecting the reformed preacher, Henry Warden, and again the worthy monk labored to reconcile in his own mind the compassion and esteem which, almost in spite of him, he could not help feeling for his former companion, with the duty which he owed to the Church. The unexpected resolution of Edward had removed, he thought, the chief objection to his being left at Glendearg. “Tf I carry this Wellwood, or Warden, to the Monastery,” he thought, “ he must die--die in his heresy—perish body and soul. And though such a measure was once thought advisable, to strike terror into the heretics, yet such is now their daily increasing strength, that it may rather rouse them to fury and to revenge. True, he refuses to pledge himself to abstain from sowing his tares among the wheat ; but the ground here is too barren to receive them. I fear not his making impression on these poor women, the vassals of the Church, and bred up in due obedience to her‘behests. The keen, searching, inquiring, and bold disposition of Edward, might have afforded fuel to the fire ; but that is removed, and there is nothing left which the flame may catch to.—Thus shall he have no power to spread his evil doctrines abroad, and yet his life shall be preserved, and it may be his soul rescued as a prey from the fowler’s net. I will myself contend with him in argument ; for when we studied in common, I yielded not to him, and surely the cause for which I struggle will support me, were I yet more weak than I deem myself. Were this man reclaimed from his errors, an hundred-fold more advantage would arise to the Church from his spiritual regeneration, than from his temporal death.” Having finished these meditations, in which there was at once goodness of disposition and narrowness of principle, a considerable portion of self-opinion and no small degree of self-delusion, the Sub-Prior commanded the prisoner to be brought into his presence.Be had ep ans THE MONASTERY. 331 “Henry,” he said, ‘whatever a rigid sense of dut demand of me, ancient frendship and Christian compassion forbid me to lead thee to assured death. Thou wert wont to be generous, though stern and stubborn in thy resolves ; let not thy sense of what thine own thoughts term duty, draw thee farther than mine have done, Remember, that every sheep whom thou shalt here lead astray from the fold, will be de- manded in time and through eternity of him who hath left thee the liberty of doing such evil. I ask no engagement of thee, save that thou remain a prisoner on thy word at this tower, and wilt appear when summoned.” “Thou hast found an invention to bind my hands,” replied the preacher, “more sure than would have been the heaviest shackles in the prison of thy convent. I will not rashly do what may endanger thee with thy unhappy superiors, and I will be the more cautious, because, if we had farther oppor- tunity of conference, I trust thine own soul may yet be rescued as a brand from the burning, and that, casting from thee the livery of Antichrist, that trader in human sins and human souls, I may yet assist thee to lay hold on the Rock of Ages.” The Sub-Prior heard the sentiment, so similar to that which had occurred to himself, with the same kindly feelings with which the game-cock hears and replies to the challenge of his rival, “TI bless God and Our Lady,” said he, drawing himself up, “that my faith is already anchored on that Rock on which Saint Peter founded his Church.” “It is a perversion of the text,” said the eager Henry War- den, “ grounded on a vain play upon words—a most idle paro- nomasia,” The controversy would have been rekindled, and in all prob- ability—for what can insure the good temper and moderation of polemics ?—might have ended in the preacher’s being trans- ported a captive to the Monastery, had not Christie of the Clinthill observed that it was growing late, and that he, having to descend the glen, which had no good reputation, cared not greatly for travelling there after sunset. The Sub-Prior, there- fore, stifled his desire of argument, and again telling the preacher, that he trusted to his gratitude and generosity, he bade him farewell. ‘Be assured, my old friend,” replied Warden, “that. no willing act of mine shall be to thy prejudice. But if my Master shall place work before mie, I must obey God rather thin man.” y may332 THE MONASTERY. These two men, both excellent from natural disposition and acquired knowledge, had more points of similarity than they themselves would have admitted. In truth, the chief distinc- tion betwixt them was, that the Catholic, defending a religion which afforded little interest to the feelings, had, in his devo- ton to the cause he espoused, more of the head than of the heart, and was politic, cautious, and artful ; while the Protes- tant, acting under the strong impulse of more lately-adopted con- viction, and feeling, as he justly might, a more animated con- fidence in his cause, was enthusiastic, eager, and precipitate in his desire to advance it. The priest would have been contented to defend, the preacher aspired to conquer ; and, of course, the impulse by which the latter was governed, was more active and more decisive. They could not part from each other without a second pressure of hands, and each looked in the face of his old companion, as he bade him adieu, with a countenance strongly expressive of sorrow, affection, and pity. Father Eustace then explained briefly to Dame Glendinning, that this person was to be her guest for some days, forbidding her and her whole household, under high spiritual censures, to hold any conversation with him on religious subjects, but com- manding her to attend to his wants in all other particulars. “May our Lady forgive me, reverend father,’ said Dame Glendinning, somewhat dismayed at this intelligence, * buted must needs say, that ower mony guests have been the ruin of mony a house, and I trow they will bring down Glendearg. First came the. Lady of Avenel—(her soul be at rest—she meant nae ill)—but she brought with her as mony bogles and fairies, as hae kept the house in care ever since, sae that we have been living as it were in a dream. And then came that English knight, if it please you, and if he hasna killed my son outright, he has chased him aff the gate, and it may be lang eneugh ere I see him again—forby the damage done to outer door and inner door. And now your reverence has given me the charge of a heretic, who, it is like, may bring the great horned devil himself down upon us all ; and they say that it is neither door nor window will serve him, but he will take away the side of the auld tower along with him. Nevertheless, reverend father, your pleasure is doubtless to be done to our power.” “Go to, woman,” said the Sub-Prior; “ send for workmen from the clachan, and let them charge the expense of their sre; pairs to the Community, and | wilk give the treasurer warrant to allow them. Moreover, in settling the rental mails, and feu-ray een ene LHE MONASTERY. 3313 duties, thou shalt have allowance for the trouble and charges to which thou art now put, and I will cause strict search to be made after thy son.” The dame curtseyed deep and low at each favorable ex- pression; and when the Sub-Prior had done speaking, she added her farther hope that the Sub-Prior would hold some communing with her gossip the Miller, concerning the fate of his daughter, and expound to him that the chance had by no means happened through any negligence on her part. “I sair doubt me, father,” she said, “ whether Mysie finds her way back to the Mill ina hurry ; but it was all her father’s own fault that let her run lamping about the country, riding on bare-backed naigs, and never settling to do a turn of wark within doors, unless it were to dress dainties at dinner time for his ain kyte.”’ “You remind me, dame, of another matter of urgency,” said Father Eustace ; “and, God knows, too many of them press on me at this moment. This English knight must be sought out, and explanation given to him of these most strange chances. The giddy girl must also be recovered. If she hath suffered in reputation by this unhappy mistake, I will not hold myself innocent of the disgrace. Yet how to find them out I know not.” “So please you,” said Christie of the Clinthill, “I am will- ing to take the chase, and bring them back by fair means or foul ; for though you have always looked as black as night at me, whenever we have forgathered, yet I have not forgotten that, had it not been for you, my neck would have kend the weight of my four quarters.* If any man can track the tread ot them, I will say in the face of both Merse and Teviotdale, and take the Forest to boot, Iam that man. But first I have matters to treat of on my master’s score, if you will permit me to ride down the glen with you.” ‘“ Nay but, my friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “thou shouldst remember I have but slender cause to trust thee for a com- panion through a place so solitary.” “Tush! tush!” said the jackman, “fear me not; I had the worst too surely to begin that sport again. Besides, have I not said a dozen of times, I owe you a life? and when I owe a man either a good turn or a bad, I never fail to pay it sooner * In Sir David Lyndsay’s Play, this proverbial saying is used by Common Thift in a more homely form : Get this curst King me in his grippis, es My craig (or neck) will wit quhat weyis my hippis.THE MONASTERY. or later. Moreover, beshrew me if I care to-go alone dowit the glen, or even with my troopers, who are, eveTy ‘oon of whereas, if your rev- them, as much devil’s bairns as myself ; erence, since that is the word, take beads and psalter, and I come along with jack and spear, you will make the devils take the air, and I will make all human enemies take the earth.” : Edward here entered, and told his reverence that his horse was prepared. At this instant his eye caught his mother’s, and the resolution which he had so strongly formed was stag- gered when he recollected the necessity of bidding her fare- well. The Sub-Prior saw his embarrassment, and came to his relief. “Dame,” said he, “I forgot to mention that your son Ed- ward goes with me to Saint Mary’s, and will not return for two or three days.” “You'll be wishing to help him to recover his brother? May the saints reward your kindness !”’ The Sub-Prior returned the benediction which, in this in- stance, he had not very well deserved, and he and Edward set forth on their route. They were presently followed by Christie, who came up with his followers at such a speedy pace, as intl mated sufficiently that his wish to obtain spiritual convoy through the glen was extremely sincere. He had, however, other matters to stimulate his speed, for he was desirous to communicate to the Sub-Prior a message from his master Ju- lian, connected with the delivery of the prisoner Warden ; and having requested the Sub-Prior to ride with him a few yards before Edward and the troopers of his own party, he thus ad- dressed him, sometimes interrupting his discourse in a manner testifying that his fear of supernatural beings was not altogether lulled to rest by his confidence in the sanctity of his fellow- traveller. “iy master,” said the rider,” deemed he had sent you an acceptable gift in that old heretic preacher ; but it seems, from he slight care you have taken of him, that you make small ac- count of the boon.” “Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, “do not thus judge of it. The Community must account highly of the service, and will reward it to thy master in goodly fashion. But this man and I are old friends, and I trust to bring him back from the paths: of perdition.” “Nay,” said the moss-trooper, “when I saw you shake hands at the beginning I counted that you would fight it all outTHE MONASTERY. 235 be no extreme dealings my master—Saint Mary ! In love and honor, and that there would betwixt ye—however it is all one to what call you yon, Sir Monk ?” “The branch of a will us and the sky.” “ Beshrew me,” said Christie, “ if it looked not like a man’s hand holding a sword.—But. touching my master, he, like a prudent man, hath kept himself aloof in these broken times, until he could see with precision what footing he was to stand upon. Right tempting offers he hath had from the Lords of Congregation, whom you call heretics ; and at one time he was minded, to be plain with you, to have taken their way—for he was assured that the Lord James * was coming this road at the head of a round body of cavalry. And accordingly Lord James did so far reckon upon him, that he sent this man Warden, or whatsoever be his name, to my master’s protection, as an assured friend ; and, moreover, with tidings that he himself was march- ing hitherward at the head of a strong body of horse.” ‘Now, Our Lady forefend!” said the Sub-Prior. ‘Amen !” answered Christie, in some trepidation, “ did your reverence see aught ?”’ ‘Nothing whatever,” replied the monk ; “it was thy tale which wrested from me that exclamation.” “ And it was some cause,” replied he of the Clinthill, ‘ for if Lord James should come hither, your Halidome would smoke for it. But be of good cheer—that expedition is ended before it was begun. The Baron of Avenel had sure news that Lord James has been fain to march westward with his merry-men, to protect Lord Semple against Cassilis and the Kennedies. By my faith, it will cost him a brush ; for wot ye what they say of that name,— Ow streaming across the path betwixt “’Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr, Portpatrick and the cruives of Cree, No man need think for to bide there, Unless he court Saint Kennedie.’ ” t “Then,” said the Sub-Prior, “ the Lord James’s purpose of coming southwards being broken, cost this person, Henry Warden, a cold reception at Avenel Castle.” “It would not have been altogether so rough a one,” said the moss-trooper ; “for my master was in heavy thought what to do in these unsettled times, and would scarce have hazarded erin ggeee Raet ee ann he Reet Mamas: description of Carrick (South Ayrshire), by the parish minister of Maybole, who says that the Kennedys flourished so is power and number that they gave rise to the rhyme in question. ]THE MONASTERY. misusing a man sent to him by so terrible a leader as the Lord James. But, to speak the truth, some busy devil tempted the old man to meddle with my master’s Christian liberty of hand- fasting with Catherine of Newport. So that broke the wand of peace between them, and now ye may have my master, and all the force he can make, at your devotion, for Lord James never forgave wrong done to him ; and if he come by the upper hand, he will have Julian’s head if there were never another of the name, as itis like there is not, excepting the bit slip of a lassie yonder. And now I have told you more of my master’s affairs than he would thank me for; but you have done me a frank turn once, and I may need one at your bands again.” “ Thy frankness,” said the Sub-Prior,* shall surely advantage thee ; for much it concerns the Church in these broken times to know the purposes and motives of those around us. But what is it that thy master expects from us in reward of good service ; for I esteem him one of those who are not willing to work without their hire ?” “ Nay, that I can tell you flatly ; for Lord James had prom- ised him, in case he would be of his faction in these parts, an easy tack of the teind-sheaves of his own barony of Avenel, ° together with the lands of Cranberry Moor, which lie intersected with his own. And he will look for no less at your hand.” “ But there is old Gilbert of Cranberry Moor,” said the Sub- Prior, “ what are we to make ofhim? The heretic Lord James may take on him to dispone upon the goods and lands of the Halidome at his pleasure, because, doubtless, but for the pro tection of God, and the baronage which yet remain faithful to their creed, he may despoil us of them by force ; but while they are the property of the Community, we may not take steadings from ancient and faithful vassals, to gratify the covetousness of those who serve God only from the lucre of gain.” “‘ By the mass,” said Christie, “itis well talking, Sir Priest 4 but when ye consider that Gilbert ‘has but two half-starved cowardly peasants to follow him, and only an auld jaded aver to ride upon, fitter for the plough than for manly service; and that the Baron of Avenel never rides with fewer than ten jack- men at his back, and often with fifty, bodin in all that. effeirs to war as if they were to do battle for a kingdom, and mounted on nags that nicker at the clash of the sword as if it were the clank of the lid of a corn-chest—I say, when ye have computed all this, ye may guess what course will best serve your Monastery.” “ Friend,” said the monk, “I would willingly purchase thyLHE MONASTERY. 337 master’s assistance on his own terms, since times leave us no better means of defence against the sacrilegious spoliation of heresy ; but to take from a poor man his patrimony “ For that matter,” said the rider, “his seat would scarce be a soft one, if my master thought that Gilbert’s interest stood betwixt him and what he wishes. The Halidome has land enough, and Gilbert may be quartered elsewhere.” “We will consider the possibility of so disposing the matter,” said the monk, “and will expect in consequence your master’s most active assistance, with all the followers he can make. to join in the defence of the Halidome, against any force by which it may be threatened.” : “A man’s hand and a mailed glove on that,” * said the jack- man. ‘“ They call us marauders, thieves, and what not: but the side we take we hold by.—And I will be blithe wher my Baron comes to a point which side he will take, for the castle is a kind of hell (Our Lady forgive me for naming such a word in this place!) while he is in his mood, studying how he may best advantage himself. And now, Heavenbe praised ! we are in the open valley, and I may swear a round oath, should aught happen to provoke it.” ‘“ My friend,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘thou hast little merit in abstaining from oaths or blasphemy, if it be only out of fear of evil spirits.” “Nay, I am not quite a church vassal yet,” said the jackman, ‘and if you link the curb too tight on a young horse, I promise you he will rear—Why, it is much for me to forbear old customs on any account whatever.” The night being fine, they forded the river at the spot where the Sacristan met with his unhappy encounter with the spirit. As soon as they arrived at the gate of the Monastery, the porter in waiting eagerly exclaimed, ‘Reverend father, the Lord Abbot is most anxious for your presence.” ‘“‘ Let these strangers be carried to the great hall,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘and be treated with the best by the cellarer ; reminding them, however, of that modesty and decency of con- duct which becometh guests in a house like this.” ‘“ But the Lord Abbot demands you instantly, my venerable brother,” said Father Philip, arriving in great haste. “I have not seen him more discouraged or desolate of counsel since the field of Pinkiecleugh was stricken.” “TI come, my good brother, I come,” said Father Eustace. “TI pray thee, good brother, let this youth, Edward Glendinning, * Note J. Good faith of the Borderers. 22 9THE MONASTERY. be conveyed to the Chamber of the Novices, and placed under their instructor. God hath touched his heart, and he proposeth laying aside the vanities of the world, to become a brother of our holy order ; which, if his good parts be matched with fitting docility and humility, he may one day live to adorn.” ““ My very venerable brother,” exclaimed old Father Nich- olas, who came hobbling with a third summons to the Sub-Prior, “T pray thee to hasten to our worshipful Lord Abbot; The holy patroness be with us ! never saw | Abbot of the House of Saint Mary’s in such consternation ; and yet I remember me well when Father Ingelram had the news of Flodden-field.” “ T come, I come, venerable brother,” said Father Eustace —And having repeatedly ejaculated “I come!” he at last went to the Abbot in good earnest. CHEATER VHik PY-FOUR GH. It is not texts will do it—Church artillery Are silenced soon by real ordnance, And canons are but vain opposed to cannon. Go, coin your crosier, melt your church plate down, Bid the starved soldier banquet in your halls, And quaff your long-saved hogsheads—Turn them out, Thus primed with your good cheer, to guard your wall;, And they will venture for’ t.—— Op Pray. Tue Abbot received his counsellor with a tremulous eagerness of welcome, which announced to the Sub-Prior an extreme agi- tation of spirits, and the utmost need of good counsel. ‘There was neither mazer-dish nor standing-cup upon the little table, at the elbow of his huge chair of state ; his beads alone lay there, and it seemed as if he had been telling them in his ex- tremity of distress. Beside the beads was placed the mitre of the Abbot, of an antique form, and blazing with precious stones, and the rich and highly-embossed crosier rested agaist the same table. The Sacristan and old Father Nicholas had follow the Sub- Prior into the Abbot’s apartment, perhaps with the hope of learning something of the important matter which seemed to be in hand.—They were not mistaken ; for, after having ushered in the Sub-Prior, and being themselves in the act of retiring, the Abbot made them a signal to remain.THE MONASTERY. 339 “ My brethren,” he said, “it is well known to you with what painful zeal we have overseen the weighty affairs of this houre committed to our unworthy hand—your bread hath been given to you, and your water hath been sure—lI have not wasted the revenues of the Convent on vain pleasures, as hunting or hawk- ing, or in change of rich cope or alb, or in feasting idle bards and jesters, saving those who, according to old wont, were re- ceived in time of Christmas and Eastet. Neither have I en- riched either mine own relations nor strange women, at the expense of the patrimony.” ‘There hath not been such a Lord Abbot,” said Father Nicholas, “to my knowledge, since the days of Abbot Ingelram who , At that portentous word, which always preluded a long story, the Abbot broke in. ‘‘ May God have mercy on his soul !—we talk not of him now. —What I would know of ye, my brethren, is, whether I have, in your mind, faithfully discharged the duties of mine office?” n° here has never been subject of complaint,” answered the Sub-Prior, The Sacristan, more diffuse, enumerated the various acts of indulgence and kindness which the mild government of Abbot Boniface had conferred on the brotherhood of Saint Mary’s— the zndulgentie—the gratias—the biberes—the weekly mess of boiled almonds—the enlarged accommodations of the refectory —the better arrangement of the cellarage—the improvement of the revenue of the Monastery—the diminution of the privations of the brethren. “You might have added, my brother,” said the Abbot, listening with melancholy acquiescence to the detail of his own merits, ‘that I caused to be built that curious screen, which secureth the cloisters from the north-east wind.—But all these things avail nothing—As we read in holy Maccabee, Cafta est civitas per voluntatem Det. It hath cost me no little thought, no common toil, to keep these weighty matters in such order as you have seen them—there was both barn and binn to be kept full—Infirmary, dormitory, guest-hall, and refectory, to be looked to—processions to be made, confessions to be heard, strangers to be entertained, venze to be granted or refused ; and I warrant me, when everyone of you was asleep in your cell, the Abbot hath lain awake for a full hour by the bell, thinking how these matters might be ordered seemly and suitably,” ‘“ May we ask, reverend my lord,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘what£40 THE MONASTERY. additional care has now been thrown upon y course seems to point that way?” “ Marry, this it is,” said the Abbot. ‘The talk is not now of biberes,® or of caritas, or of boiled almonds, but of an English band coming against us from Hexham, commanded by Sir John Foster; nor is it of the screening us from the east wind, but how to escape Lord James Stewart, who cometh to lay waste and destroy with his heretic soldiers.” “T thought that purpose had been broken by the feud between Semple and the Kennedies,” said the Sub-Prior, hastily. “They have accorded that matter at the expense of the Church as usual,” said the Abbot ; “ the Earl of Cassilis is to have the teind-sheaves of his lands, which were given to the house of Crossraguel, and he has stricken hands with Stewart, who is now called Murray.—Principes convenerunt unum adversus Dominum.—There are the letters.” The Sub-Prior took the letters, which had come by an ex- press messenger from the Primate of Scotland, who still labored to uphold the tottering fabric of the system under which he was at length buried, and, stepping towards the lamp, read them with an air of deep and settled attention—the Sacristan and Father Nicholas looked as helplessly at each other as the denizens of the poultry-yard when the hawk soars over ite» Bne Abbot seemed bowed down with the extremity of sorrowful apprehension, but kept his eye timorously fixed on the Sub- Prior, as if striving to catch some comfort from the expression of his countenance. When at length he beheld tlt, after a second intent perusal of the letters, he remained still silent and full of thought, he asked him in an anxious tone, ‘What is to be done? ”’ “ Our duty must be done,” answered the Sub-Prior, “and ths rest is in the hands of God.” “Our duty—our duty?” answered the Abbot, impatiently ; “ doubtless we are to do our duty; but what is that duty? or how will it serve us ?—Will bell, book, and candle, drive back the English heretics? or will Murray care for psalms and anti- phonars? or can I fight for. the Halidome, like Judas Macca- beus, against those profane Nicanors ? or send the Sacristan against this new Holofernes, to bring back his head in a basket ?”’ “True, my Lord Abbot,” said the Sub-Prior, “we cannot fight with carnal weapons, it is alike contrary to our habit and * Note K. Indulgences to the Monks. ou, since your dis:THE MONASTERY. 341 vow ; but we can die for our Convent and for our Order. Be. sides, we can arm those who will and can fight. The English are but few in number, trusting, as it would seem, that ‘they will be joined by Murray, whose march has been interrupted. If Foster, with his Cumberland and Hexham bandits, ventures to march into Scotland, to pillage and despoil : will levy our vassals, and, I trust, shall be found to give him battle.” ‘In the blessed name of Our Lady,” said the Abbot, “ tl you that I am Petrus Eremita, to go forth the | host ?” “Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, “let some man skilled in war lead our people—there is Julian Avenel, an approved soldier.” “* But a scoffer, a debauched person, and, in brief, a man of Belial,”’ quoth the Abbot. “Stil,” said the monk, “we must use his ministry in that to which he has been brought up. We can guerdon him richly, and indeed I already know the price of his service. The Eng- lish, it is expected, will presently set forth, hoping here to seize upon Piercie Shafton, whose refuge being taken with us, they make the pretext of this unheard-of inroad.” “Is it even so?” saidthe Abbot; “I never judged that his body of satin and his brain of feathers boded us much good.” “Yet we must have his assistance, if possible,” said the Sub- Prior; “he may interest in our behalf the great Piercie, of whose friendship he boasts, and that good and faithful Lord may break Foster’s purpose. I will despatch the jackman after him with all speed.—Chiefly, however, I trust to the military spirit of the land, which will not suffer peace to be easily broken on the frontier. Credit me, my lord, it will bring to our side the hands of many, whose hearts may have gone astray after strange doctrines. The great chiefs and barons will be ashamed to let the vassals of peaceful monks fight unaided against the old enemies of Scotland.” “It may be,” said the Abbot, “that Foster will wait for Murray, whose purpose hitherward is but delayed for a short space.” ' “‘ By the rood, he will not,” said the Sub-Prior ; ‘‘ we know this Sir John Foster—a pestilent heretic, he will long to destroy the Church—born a Borderer, he will thirst to plunder her of her wealth—a Border-warden, he will be eager to ride in Scot- land. There are too many causes to urge him on. If he joins with Murray, he will have at best but an auxiliary’s share of the spoil—if he comes hither before him, he will reckon on the our House, we strong enough wink eader of an342 THE MONASTEK Ve whole harvest of depredation as his own. — Julian Avenel alse has, as I have heard, some spite against Sir John Foster ; they will fight, when they meet, with double determination.—Sacris- tan, send for our bailiff—Where is the roll of fencible men liable to do suit and service to the Halidome >—-Send off to the Baron of Meigallot ; he can raise threescore horse and better —Say to him the Monastery will compound with him for the customs of his bridge, which have been in controversy, if he will show himself a friend at such a point. And now, my lord, let us compute our possible numbers, and. those of the enemy, that human blood be not spilled in vain—Let us therefore cal- culate S “My brain is dizzied with the emergency,” said the poor Abbot——“ I am not, I think, more a coward than others, so far as my own person 1s concerned ; but speak to me of marching and collecting soldiers, and calculating forces, and you may as well tell of it to the youngest novice of a nunnery. But my resolution is taken.—-Brethren,” he said, rising up, and coming forward with that dignity which his comely person enabled him to assume, “hear for the last time the voice of your Abbot Boniface. I have done for you the best that I could ; in quieter times I had perhaps done better, for it was for quiet that I sought the cloister, which has been to me a place of turmoil, as much as if I had sate in the receipt of custom, or ridden forth as leader of an armed host. But now matters turn worse and worse, and I, as I grow old, am less able to struggle with them. Also, it becomes me not to hold a place, whereof the duties, through my default or misfortune, may be but imperfectly filled by me. Wherefore I have resolved to demit this mine high office, so that the order of these matters may presently devolve upon Father Eustatius here present, our well-beloved Sub-Prior ; and I now rejoice that he hath not been provided according to his merits elsewhere, seeing that I well hope he will succeed to the mitre and staff which it is my present purpose to lay down.” “Tn the name of Our Lady, do nothing hastily, my lord!” said Father Nicholas—‘“I do remember that when the worthy Abbot Ingelram, being in his ninetieth year—for I warrant you he could remember when Benedict the thirteenth was de- posed—and being ill at ease and bed-rid, the brethren rounded in his ear that he were better resign his office. And what said he, being a pleasant man? marry, that while he could crook his little finger he would keep hold of the crosier with it.” The Sacristan also strongly remonstrated against the resTHE MONASTER ¥ 343 olution ot his Superior, and set down the insufficiency he pleaded to the native modesty of his disposition. The Abbot listened in downcast silence ; even flattery could not win his ear. Father Eustace took a nobler tone with his disconcerted and dejected Superior. “« My Lord Abbot,” he said, af] have been silent concerning the virtues with wl governed this house, do not think that [ am unaware of them. I know that no man ever brought to your high office a more sincere wish to do well to all mankind: and if your rule has not been marked with the bold lines which sometimes distin- guished your spiritual predecessors, their faults have equally been strangers to your character,” “I did not believe,” said the Abbot. turning his looks to Father Eustace with some surprise, ‘that you, father, of all men, would have done me this justice.” “ In your absence,” said the Sub-Prior, “I have even done it more fully. Do not lose the good opinion which all men entertain of you, by renouncing your office when your care is most needed.” ~ But, my brother,” said the Abbot, “I leave a more able in my place.” * That you do not,” said Eustace ; “because it is not ne- cessary you should resign, in order to possess the use of what- ever experience or talent I may be accounted master oe have been long enough in this profession to know that the in- dividual qualities which any of us may have, are not his own, but the property of the Community, and only so far useful when they promote the general advantage. If you care not in person, my lord, to deal with this troublesome matter. let me implore you to go instantly to Edinburgh, and make what friends you can in our behalf, while I in your absence will, as Sub- Prior, do my duty in defence of the Halidome. If I succeed, may the honor and praise be yours, and if I fail, let the disgrace and shame be mine own.” The Abbot mused for a space, and then replied,—‘“ No, Father Eustatius, you shall not conquer me by your generosity. In times like these, this house must have a stronger pilotage than my weak hands afford; and he who steers the vessel must be chief of the crew. Shame were it to accept the praise of other men’s labors ; and, in my poor mind, all the praise which can be bestowed on him who undertakes a task so peril- ous and perplexing, is a meed beneath his merits. Misfortune to him would deprive him of an iota of it! Assume, therefore, 1ich you have244 THE MONASTERY. ao your authority to-night, and proceed in the preparations you judge necessary. Let the Chapter be summoned to-morrow after we have heard mass, and all shall be ordered as I have told you. Benedicite, my brethren !—peace be with you !— May the new Abbot-expectant sleep as sound as he who is about to resign his mitre.” They retired, affected even to tears. The good Abbot had shown a point of his character to which they were strangers. Even Father Eustace had held his spiritual Superior hitherto as a good-humored, indolent, self-indulgent man, whose chief merit was the absence of gross faults ; so that this sacrifice of power to a sense of duty, even if a little alloyed by the meaner motives of fear and apprehended difficulties, raised him con- siderably in the Sub-Prior’s estimation, He even felt an aver- sion to profit by the resignation of the Abbot Boniface, and in 4 manner to rise on his ruins ; but this sentiment did not long contend with those which led him to recollect higher consider- ations. It could not be denied that Boniface was entirely unfit for his situation in the present crisis ; and the Sub-Prior felt that he himself, acting merely as a delegate, could not well take the decisive measures which the time required ; the weal of the Community therefore demanded his elevation. If, be- sides, there crept in a feeling of a high dignity obtained, and the native exultation of a haughty spirit called to contend with the imminent dangers attached to a post of such distinction, these sentiments were so cunningly blended and amalgamated with others of a more disinterested nature, that, as the Sub- Prior himself was unconscious of their agency, we, who have a regard for him, are not solicitous to detect it. The Abbot elect carried himself with more dignity than formerly, when giving such directions as the pressing circum- stances of the times required ; and those who approached him could perceive an unusual kindling of his falcon eye, and an unusual flush upon his pale and faded cheek. With briefness and precision he wrote and dictated various letters to different barons, acquainting them with the meditated invasion of the Halidome by the English, and conjuring them to lend aid and assistance as inacommoncause. ‘The temptation of advantage was held out to those whom he judged less sensible of the cause of honor, and all were urged by the motives of patriotism and ancient animosity to the English. The time had been when no such exhortations would have been necessary. But so essential was Elizabeth’s aid to the reformed party in Scotland, and so strong was that party almost everywhere, that there was reasonTHE MONASTERY. CE ey 34 to believe a great many would observe neutrality on the present occasion, even if they did not go the length of uniting with the English against the Catholics. When Father Eustace considered the number of the imme- diate vassals of the Church, whose aid he might legally com- mand, his heart sunk at the thoughts of ranking them under the banner of the fierce and profligate Julian Avenel. “ Were the young enthusiast Halbert Glendinning to be found,” thought Father Eustace in his anxiety, “I would have risked the battle under his leading, young as he is, and with better hope of God’s blessing. But the bailiff is now too infirm, nor know I a chief of name whom I might trust in this import- ant matter better than this Avenel.”—He touched a bell which stood on the table, and commanded Christie of the Clinthill to be brought before him.—‘ Thou owest me a life,” said he to that person on his entrance, “and I may do thee another good turn if thou be’st sincere with me.” Christie had already drained two standing-cups of wine, which would, on another occasion, have added to the insolence of his familiarity. But at present there was something in the augmented dignity of manner of Father Eustace, which imposed a restraint on him. Yet his answers partook of his usual character of undaunted assurance. He professed himself will- ing to return a true answer to all inquiries. “Has the Baron (so styled) of Avenel any friendship with Sir John Foster, Warden of the West Marches of England?” “Such friendship as is between the wild-cat and the terrier,” replied the rider. “Will he do battle with him should they meet ?” ‘As surely,”’ answered Christie, “as ever cock fought on Shrovetide-even.”’ ‘And would he fight with Foster in the Church’s quarrel ? ” “On any quarrel, or upon no quarrel whatever,” replied the jackman. “We will then write to him, letting him know, that if upon occasion of an apprehended incursion by Sir John Foster he will agree to join his force with ours, he shall lead our men, and be gratified for doing so to the extent of his wish.—Yet one word more—Thou didst say thou couldst find out where the English knight Piercie Shafton has this day fled to?”’ “That I can, and bring him back too, by fair means or force, as best likes your reverence.” ‘No force must be used upon him. Within what time wilt thou find him out?”3.46 THE MONASTERY. “Within thirty hours, so he have not crossed the Lothian Firth—If it is to do you a pleasure, I will set off directly, and wind him as a sleuth-dog tracks the moss-trooper,” answered Christie. “ Bring him hither then, and thou wilt deserve good at our hands, which I may soon have free means of bestowing on thee.” “Thanks to your reverence, | put myself in your reverence’s hands. We of the spear and snaffle walk something recklessly through life ; but if a man were worse than he is, your rever- ence knows he must live, and that’s not to be done without shifting, I trow.” “ Peace, sir, and begone on thine errand—thou shalt have a letter from us to Sir Piercie.” Christie made two steps towards the door; then turning back and hesitating, like one who would make an impertinent pleasantry if he dared, he asked what he was to do with the wench Mysie Happer whom the Southron knight had carried off with him. “ Am I to bring her hither, please your reverence ? . “Hither, you malapert knave ?” said the churchman ; “ re- member you to whom you speak ?”’ “ No offence meant,” replied Christie ; “but if such is not your will, I would carry her to Avenel Castle, where a well- favored wench was never unwelcome.” “ Bring the unfortunate girl to her father’s, and break no scurril jests here,” said the Sub-Prior— See that thou guide cher in all safety and honor.” “Tn safety, surely,’’ said the rider,“ and in such honor as her outbreak has left her—I bid your reverence farewell, I must be on horse before cock-crow.” “ What, in the dark !—how knowest thou which way to go? : “T tracked the knight’s horse tread as far as near to the ford, as we rode along together,” said Christie, ‘Cand I observed the track turn to the northward. He is for Edinburgh, I will warrant you—so soon as daylight comes I will be on the road again. It isa kenspeckle hoof-mark, for the shoe was made by old Eckie of Cannobie—I would swear to the curve of the cawker.” So saying he departed. “Hateful necessity,” said Father Eustace, looking after him, ‘that obliges us to use such implements as these! But, assailed as we are on all sides, and by all conditions of men, en is left us >—But now let me to my most needful task,THE MONASTERY 347 ke. Abh- is ii 6 The Abbot elect accordingly sate down to write letters, arrange orders, and take upon him the whole charge of an in. sutution which tottered to its fall. with the same spirit of proud and devoted fortitude wherewith the commander of a fortress + ‘ + r r : : reduced nearly to the last extremity, calculates what means re. main to him to protract the fata] hour of successful storm. In T , a fa 2 - c ay =\ « > ; r the meanwhile Abbot Boniface, having given a few natural sighs to the downfall of the pre-eminence he had so long enjoyed amongst his brethren, fell fast asleep, leaving the whole cares and toils of office to his assistant and successor, a CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFT ri. And when he came to broken bri He slack’d his bow and swam ; And when he came to grass growing, Set down his feet and ran, SSS; Git Morricr. WE return to Halbert Glendinning, who, as our readers may remember, took the high road to Edinburgh. His intercourse with the preacher Henry Warden, from whom he recejved a letter at the moment of his deliverance, had been so brief, that he had not even learned the name of the nobleman to whose care he was recommended, Something like a name had been spoken indeed, but he had only comprehended that he was to meet the chief advancing towards the south, at the head of a party of horse. When day dawned on his journey, he was in the same uncertainty. A better scholar would have been in- formed by the address of the letter, but Halbert had not so far profited by Father Eustace’s lessons as to be able to decipher it. His mother-wit taught him that he must not, in such uncer- tain times, be too hasty in asking information of anyone ; and When, after a long day’s journey, night surprised him near a little village, he began to be dubious and anxious concerning the issue of his journey. In a poor country, hospitality is generally exercised freely, and Halbert, when he requested a night’s quarters, did nothing either degrading or extraordinary. The old woman, to whom he made this request, granted it the more readily, that she thought she saw some resemblance between Halbert and her son Saunders, who had been killed in one of the frays so com-THE MONASTER xe mon in the time. It is true Saunders was a short square-made fellow, with red hair and a freckled face, and somewhat bandy- legged, whereas the stranger was of a brown complexion, tall, and remarkably well made. Nevertheless, the widow was clear that there existed a general resemblance betwixt her guest and Saunders, and kindly pressed him to share of her evening cheer. A pedler, a man of about forty years old, was also her guest, who talked with great feeling of the misery of pursuing such a profession as his in the time of war and tumult. ‘We think much of kn ights and soldiers,” said he ; “but the pedder-coffe who travels the land has need of more courage fan them all, J am sure he maun face mair risk, God help him. Here have I come this length, trusting the godly Earl of Murray would be on his march to the Borders, for he was to have euestened with the Baron of Avenel ; and instead of that comes news that he has gone westlandways about some tuilzie in Ayr- shire. And what to do I wot not ; for if I go to the south without a safeguard, the next bonny rider 1 meet might ease me of sack and pack, and maybe of my life to. boot ; and then, i try to strike across the moors, I may be as ill off before I can join myself to that good lord’s company.” No one was quicker at catching a hint than Halbert Glen- dinning. He said he himself had a desire to go westward, The pedler looked at him with a very doubtful air, when the old dame, who perhaps thought her young guest resembled the umquhile Saunders, not only in his looks, but in a certain pretty turn to slight-of-hand, which the defunct was supposed to have possessed, tipped him the wink, and assured the pedler he need have no doubt that her young cousin was a true man. “ Cousin |” said the pedler, “I thought you said this youth had been a stranger.” “Tl hearing makes ill rehearsing,” said the landlady ; ele is a stranger to me by eye sight, but that does not make him a stranger to me by blood, more especially seeing his likeness to my son Saunders, poor barn. The pedler’s scruples and jealousies being thus removed, or at least silenced, the travellers agreed that they would proceed in company together the next morning by daybreak, the pedler acting as a guide to Glendinning, and the youth as a guard to the pedler, until they should fall in with Murray’s detachment of horse. It would appear that the landlady never doubted what was to be the event of this compact, for, taking Glendin- ning aside, she charged him “to be moderate with the puir vody, but at all events, not to forget to take a piece of black sey,THE MONASTERY. ’ 349 = 1 to make the auld Halbert laughed and took his leave. It did not a little appall the pecler, when, in the midst of a oo 1 Aa | black heath, the young man told him the nature of the commis: sion with which ineir hostess had charged him. He took heart, however, coat seeing the open, fr. ank, and friendly demeanor of the youth, and vented his exclamations on the ungrateful old traitress. “TI gave her,’ he said, “yeste e’en nae farther gane, a yard of that ve ery bl: ick sey, to mak ce han a couvre-chef ; but I see it is ill done to teach the cat the way to the kirn.” Thus set at ease on the i itentions of his co) mpanion (for in those happy days the worst was always to be expected from a Stranger) the pedler acted as Halbert’s guide over moss and moor, over hill and m: iny a dale, in such a direction as might best lead them towards the route of Murr: ay’s party. At length they arrived upon the side of an eminence, which commanded a distant Prospect over a tract of savage and i desc late moorland, marshy and waste—an alte rnate change of sh ingly hill Sel level morass, only varied by b ee stagnant pools of water. A road scarcely marked winded like a serpent through the wilder- ness, and the pedler, pointi ng to it, ae The road from Edinburgh to Glasgow. Here we must w ait, and if Murray and his train be not alre: ady passed OY we shall soon see trace of them, unless some new purpose shall have altered their resolu. tion ; for in these blessed days no man, were he the nearest the throne, as the Earl of aa irray may be, knows when he lays his head on his pillow at night where it is to lie upon the fol- lowing even.” They paused according ly, and sat down, the pedler cautiously using for a seat the box which contained his treasures, and not concealing from his companion that he wore under his cloak a pistolet hanging at his belt in case of need. He was courteous, however, and offered Halbert a share of the provisions which he carried about him for refreshment. They were of the coarsest kind—oat-bread baked into cakes, oatmeal slaked with coid water, an onion or two, and a rs of smoked ham, com- pleted the feast. But such as it was, no Scotsman of the time, had his rank been much higher than bi of Glendinning, would have refused to share in it, especially as the pedler produced, with a mysterious air, a tup’s horn, which he carried slung from his s houlders, and which, when its contents were examined, produced to each par ty a clam-shell full of excellent usque- baugh—a liquor strange to Halbert, for the strong waters know n in the south of A ended came from France, and in fact wife a new rokelay.’350 THE MONASTERY. such were but rarely used. The pedler recommended it as excellent, said he had procured it in his last visit to the braes of Doune, where he had securely traded under the safe-conduct of the Laird of Buchanan. He also set an example to Hal- bert, by devoutly emptying the cup “ to the speedy downfall of Antichrist.” Their conviviality was scarce ended, ere a rising dust was seen on the road of which they commanded the prospect, and half-a-score of horsemen were dimly descried advancing at con- siderable speed, their casques glancing, and the points of their spears twinkling as they caught a glimpse of the sun. “These,” said the pedler, “ must be the out-scourers of Murray’s party ; let us lie down in the peat hag, and keep our- selves out of sight.” “And why so?” said Halbert ; “let us rather go down and make a signal to them.” “ God forbid!” replied the pedler ; “ do you ken so ill the customs of our Scottish nation? ‘That plump of spears that are spurring on so fast are doubtless commanded by some wild kinsman of Morton, or some such daring fear-nothing as neither regards God nor man. It is their business, if they meet with any enemies, to pick quarrels and clear the way of them ; and the chief knows nothing of what happens, coming up with his more discreet and moderate friends, it may be a full mile in the rear. Were we to go near these lads of the laird’s belt, your letter would do you little good, and my pack would do me muckle black ill ; they would tirl every steek of claithes from our back, fling us into a moss-hag with a stone at our heels, naked as the hour that brought us into this cumbered and sinful world, and neither Murray nor any other man ever the wiser. But if he did come to ken of it, what might he help it? —it would be accounted a mere mistake, and there were all the moan made. O credit me, youth, that when men draw cold steel on each other in their native country, they neither can nor may dwell deeply on the offences of those whose swords are useful to them.” They suffered, therefore, the vanguard, as it might be termed, of the Earl of Murray’s host to pass forward ; and it was not long until a denser cloud of dust began to arise to the northward. “ Now,” said the pedler, “let us hurry down the hill ;-for to tell the truth,” said he, dragging Halbert along earnestly, a Scottish noble’s march is like a serpent—the head is fur- nished with fangs, and the tail hath its sting ; the only harm- less point of access is the main body.”THE MONASTERY. 35% “T will hasten as fast as you,” said the youth ; “but tel] me why the rearward of such an army should be as dangerous as the van?” 7 “ Because, as the vanguard consists of their picked wild desperates, resolute for mischief, such as neither fear God nor regard their fellow-creatures. but understand themselves bound to hurry from the road whatever js displeasing to themselves, so the rear-guard consists of mis proud serving-men, who being in charge of the baggage, take care to amend by their exac- tions upon travelling-merchants and others, their own thefts on their master’s property. You will hear the advanced enfans Perdus, as the French call them, and so they are indeed, namely ; : ‘Spy y children of the fall, singing unclean and fulsome ballads of sin and harlotrie. And then will come on the middle-ward, when you will hear the canticles and psalms sung by the reforming nobles, and the gentry, and honest and pious clergy, by whom they are accompanied. And last of all, you will find in the rear a legend of godless lackies, and palfreniers, and horse- boys, talking of nothing but dicing, drinking, and drabbing.” As the pedler spoke, they had reached the side of the high- road and Murray’s main bo ly was in sight, consisting of about three hundred horse. marching with creat regularity, and in a closely compacted body. Some of the troopers wore the liv- eries of their masters, but this was not common. Most of them vere dressed in such colors as chance dictated. But the majority, being clad in blue cloth, and the whole armed with cuirass and back-plate, with sleeves of mail gauntlets, and pol- droons, and either mailed hose or strong jack-boots, they had something of a uniform appearance. Many of the leaders were clad in complete armor, and all in a certain half military dress, which no man of quality in those disturbed times ever felt him. self sufficiently safe to abandon. The foremost of this party immediately rode up to the pedler and to Halbert Glendinning, and demanded of them who they were. The pedler told his story, the young Glendinning ex- hibited his letter, which a gentleman carried to Murray. In an instant after, the word “Halt!” was given through the squadron, and at once the onward heavy tramp, which seemed the most distinctive attribute of the body, ceased, and was heard no more. The command was announced that the troop should halt here for an hour to refresh themselves and their horses. The pedler was assured of safe protection, and accom- modated with the use of a baggage horse. But at the same time he was ordered into the rear ; a command which he re-352 THE MONASTERY. luctantly obeyed, and not without wringing hand of Halbert as he separated from him. The young heir of Glendearg was in the meanwhile con- ducted to a plot of ground more raised, and therefore drier than the rest of the moor. Here a carpet was flung on the ground by way of table-cloth, and around it sat the leaders of the party, partaking of an entertainment as coarse with relation to their rank, as that which Glendinning had so lately shared. Murray himself rose as he came forward, and advanced a step to meet him. This celebrated person had in his appearance, as well as in his mind, much of the admirable qualities of James V. his einer. Elad mot the stain of illegitimacy rested upon his birth, he would have Glled the Scottish throne with as much honor as any of the Stewart race. But History, while she acknowledges his high talents, and much that was princely, nay, royal, in his conduct, cannot forget that ambition led him farther than honor or loyalty warranted. Brave amongst the bravest, fair in presence and in favor, skilful to manage the most intricate affairs, to attach to himself those who were doubtful, to stun and overwhelm, by the suddenness and intre- pidity of his enterprises, those who were resolute in resistance, he attained, and as to personal merit certainly deserved, the highest place in the kingdom. But he abused, under the in- fluence of strong temptation, the opportunities which his sister Marty's misfortunes and imprudence threw in his way ; he sup- planted his sovereign and benefactress in her power, and his history affords us one of those mixed characters, in which prin- ciple was so often sacrificed to policy, that we must condemn the statesman while we pity and regret the individual. Many events in his life gave likelihood to the charge that he himself aimed at the crown; and it is too true, that he countenanced the fatal expedient of establishing an English, that is a foreign and a hostile interest, in the councils of Scotland. But his death may'be received as an atonement for his offences, and may serve to show how much more safe is the person of a real patriot, than that of the mere head of a faction, who iS -ac- counted answerable for the offences of his meanest attend- ants. When Murray approached, the young rustic was naturally abashed at the dignity of his presence. The commanding form and the countenance to which high and important thoughts were familiar, the features which bore the resemblance of Scot- Jand’s long line of kings, were well calculated to impress awe pathetically theLHE MONASTERY. ar 393 Neuish nim from 1€ was attended. lace, supplied the hain, with its medal, hung 2onnet was decorated with » and with a small tufted feather; a long and heavy sword was girt to his Side, as the familiar companion of his hand. He wore gilded spurs on his boots, and these completed his equipment. ~ This letter,” he said. « is from tl word, Henry Warden. young man? answered in the affirmative. and reverence, His dress had little to disti the high-born nobles and barons by whom ] A buff-coat, richly embroidered with silken place of armor ; and a Massive gold ¢ round his neck. His black velvet | a string of large and fair pearls 1€ godly preacher of the IS it not so?” Halbert © And he writes to us, it would seem, in some strait, and refers us to you for the circumstances. Let us know, I pray you, how things stand with him.” In some perturbation Halbert G] of the circumstances which had accompanied the preacher’s imprisonment. When he came to the discussion of the Aan. fasting engagement, he was Struck with the ominous and dis- pleased expression of Murray’s brows, and contrary to all pru- dential and politic rule something was wrong, yet not well aware what that something was, had almost Stopped short in his narrative. “ What ails the fool?” said the Earl, drawing his dark-red eyebrows together, while the same dusky glow kindled on his brow—* Hast thou not learned to tell a true tale without stam- mering ?’ “So please you,” answered Halbert, with considerable ad- dress, “I have never before spoken in such a presence,” “ He seems a modest youth,” said Murray, turning to his next attendant, “and yet one who in a good cause will neither fear friend nor foe.—Speak on, friend, and speak freely.” Halbert then gave an account of the quarrel betwixt Julian Avenel and the preacher, which the Earl, biting his lip the while, compelled himself to listen to as a thing of indifference, At first he appeared even to take the part of the Baron, fe Henry Warden,” he said, “is too hot in his zeal. Lhe law both of God and man maketh allowance for certain alli- ances, though not strictly formal, and the issue of such may succeed.” endinning gave an account , seeing’ This general declaration he expressed, accompanying it with a glance around upon the few followers who were present at this interview. The most of them answered—‘ Phere issue contravening that ;”’ but one or two looked on the ground, and were silent. Murray then turned again to Glendinning, com #3THE MONASTER Y, 39% manding him to say what next chanced, and not to omit any articular, When he mentioned the manner In which Julian had cast from him his concubine, Murray drew a deep breath, set his teeth hard, and laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Casting his eyes once more around the circle, which was now augmented by one or two of the reformed preachers, he seemed to devour his rage in silence, and again commanded Halbert to proceed. When ne came to describe how Warden had been dragged to a dungeon, the Earl seemed to nave found the point at which he might give vent to his own resentment, secure of the sympathy and approbation of all who were present. “ Judge you,” he said, looking to those around him, “judge you, my peers, and noble gentlemen of Scotland, betwixt me and this Julian Avenel—be hath broken his own word, and hath vio- lated my safe-conduct — and judge you also, my reverend brethren, he hath put his hands forth upon a preacher of the gospel, and perchance may sell his blood to the worshippers of Antichrist !” ‘Let him die the death of a traitor,” said the secular chiefs, “and let his tongue be struck through with the hangman’s fiery iron to avenge his perjury!” “Let him go down to his place with Baal’s priests,” said the preachers, “ and be his ashes cast into Tophet i Murray heard them with the smile of expected revenge ; yet it is probable that the brutal treatment of the female, whose circumstances somewhat resembled those of the Harl’s own mother, had its share in the erim smile which curled his sun- Harnt cheek and its haughty lip. To Halbert Glendinning, when his narrative was finished, he spoke with great kindness. “ Fle is a bold and gallant youth,” said he to those around, “and formed of the stuff which becomes a bustling time. There are periods when men’s spirits shine bravely through them. I will know something more of him.” He questioned him more particularly concerning the Baron of Avenel’s probable forces—the strength of his castle—the dis- positions of his next heir, and this brought necessarily forward the sad history of his brother's daughter, Mary Avenel, which was told with an embarrassment that did not escape Murray. “Ha! Julian Avenel,” he said, ‘and do you provoke. my resentment, when you have so much more reason to deprecate my justice! I knew Walter Avenel, a true Scotsman and*a good soldier. Our sister, the Queen, must right his daughter; and were her land restored, she would be a fitting bride to some brave man who may better merit our favor than theLHE MONASTERY. dace 355 traitor Julian.”—Then looking at Halbert, he said, “ Art thou of gentle blood, young man?” Halbert, with a faltering andu of his distant pretensions to cl Glendonwynes of Galloway, wl a smile. ‘ Nay—nay—leave pedigrees to bards and heralds. days each man is the son of his own deeds. The glorious light of reformation hath shone alike on prince and peasant ; and peasant as well as prince may be illustrated by fighting in its defence. Itisa stirring world, where al] may advance them- selves who have stout hearts and strong arms. ‘Tell me frankly why thou hast left thy father’s house >” : Halbert Glendinning made a frank confession of his duel with Piercie Shafton, and mentioned his supposed death. ‘“ By my hand,” said Murray, hawk, to match thee so early with such a kite as Piercie Shafton. Queen Elizabeth would give her glove filled with gold crowns to know that meddling coxcomb to be under the sod.—Would she not, Morton ?” “ Ay, by my word, and esteem her glove a better the crowns,” replied Morton, “ which few Border lad fellow will esteem just valuation.” ‘ But what shall we do with this young homicide ? ” Murray ; “ what will our preachers say?” “Tell them of Moses and of Benaiah,”’ said Morton ; “it is but the smiting of an Egyptian when all is said out.” “Let it be so,” said Murray, laughing ; “but we will bury the tale, as the prophet did the body, in the sand. I will take care of this swankie.—Be near to us, Glendinning, since that is thy name. We retain thee as a squire of our household. The master of our horse will see thee fully equipped and armed.” During the expedition which he was now engaged in, Murray found several opportunities of putting Glendinning’s courage and presence of mind to the test, and he began to ris€ so rapidly in his esteem, that those who knew the Earl considered the youth’s fortune as certain. One step only was wanting to raise him to a still higher degree of confidence and favor—it was the abjuration of the Popish religion. The ministers who attended upon Murray, and formed his chief support amongst the people, found an easy convert in Halbert Glendinning, whe from his earliest days, had never felt much devotion towards the Catholic. faith, and who listened eagerly to more reasonable views of religion. By thus adopting the faith of his master, he icertain voice, began to speak aim a descent from the ancient en Murray Interrupted him with In our ‘thou art a bold sparrow- gift than S like this said356 THE MONASTERY. rose higher in his favor, and was constantly about his person during his prolonged stay ‘n the west of Scotland, which the intractability of those whom the Earl had to deal with, pro- tracted from day to day, and week to week. 2 ae ae, CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH. Faint the din of battle bray’d Distant down the hollow wind War and terror fled before, Wounds and death were left behind. PENROSE. Tue autumn of the year was well advanced, when the Earl of Morton, one morning, rather unexpectedly, entered the ante- chamber of Murray, in which Halbert Glendinning was in waiting. “ Call your master, Halbert,” said the Earl; “I have news for him from Teviotdale ; and for you too, Glendinning. — News! news! my Lord of Murray!” he exclaimed at the door of the Earl’s bedroom ; “‘come forth instantly.” The Earl appeared, and greeted his ally, demanding eagerly his tidings. “T have hada sure friend with me from the south,” said Morton ; “he has been at Saint Mary’s Monastery, and brings aoe . important tidings. oe “ Of what complexion ?” said Murray, “ and can you trust the bearer?” “He is faithful, on my life,’ said Morton; “I wish all around your Lordship may prove equally so.” “ At what, and whom, do you point?” demanded Murray. “ Here is the Egyptian of trusty Halbert Glendinning, our Southland Moses, come alive again, and flourishing, gay and bright as ever, in that Teviotdale Goshen, the Halidome of Kennaquhair.” “ What mean you, my lord?” said Murray. “Only that your new henchman has put a false tale upon vou. Piercie Shafton is alive and well; by the same tok J : ay en that the gull is thought to be detained there by love to a miller’s daughter, who roamed the country with him in dis- guise.” . e 3:9 e e ° e e “Glendinning,” said Murray, bending his brow into hisTHE MONASTER fy 357 darkest frown, “thou hast not, I trust, dared to bring me a lie in thy mouth, in order to win my confidence ?” ‘““My lord,” said Halbert, “I am incapable of a lie. JI should choke on one were my life to require that I pronounced it. I say, that this sword of my father was through the body —the point came out behind his back—the hilt pressed upon his breast-bone. And I will plunge it as deep in the body of anyone who shall dare to charge me with falsehood.” ‘How, fellow!” said Morton, “wouldst thou beard a no- bleman? ” * Be silent, Halbert,” said Murray, “and you, my Lord of Morton, forbear him. I see truth written on his brow.’ “T wish the inside of the manuscript may correspond with the superscription,” replied his more suspicious ally. “Ibeok to it, my lord, you will one day lose your life by too much con- fidence.” “ And you will lose your friends by being too readily sus- picious,” answered Murray. “Enough of this—let me hear thy tidings.” “Sir John Foster,” said Morton, “is about to send a party into Scotland to waste the Halidome.” ‘How! without waiting my presence and permission?’ said Murray—“ he is mad—will he come as an enemy into the Queen’s country ? ‘He has Elizabeth’s express orders,’’ answered Morton, “and they are not to be trifled with. Indeed, his march has been more than once projected and laid aside during the time we have been here, and has caused much alarm at Kennaquhair. Boniface, the old Abbot, has resigned, and whom, think you, they have chosen in his place? ” ‘No one, surely,” aid Murray ; “ they would presume to hold no election until the Queen’s pleasure and mine were known ?” Morton shrugged his shoulders—‘“‘ They have chosen the pupil of old Cardinal Beatoun, that wily determined champion of Rome, the bosom-friend of our busy Primate of Saint An- drews. Eustace, late the Sub-Prior of Kennaquhair, is now its abbot, and, like a second Pope Julius, is levying men and mak. ing musters to fight with Foster if he comes forward.” “We must prevent that meeting,” said Murray, hastily ; “whichever party wins the day, : were a fatal encounter for us Who commands the troop of the Abbot?” “Our faithful old friend, Julian Avenel, nothing less,” an swered Morton.350 THE MONASTERY. “Glendinning,” said Murray, “ sound trumpets to horse directly, and let all who love us get on horseback without de- lay—Yes, my lord, this were indeed a fatal dilemma. If we take part with our English friends, the country will cry shame on us—the very old wives will attack us with their rocks and spindles—the very stones of the street will rise up against US we cannot set our face to such a deed of infamy. And my sister, whose confidence I already have such difficulty in pre- serving, will altogether withdraw it from me. Then, were we to oppose the English Warden, Elizabeth would call it a pro- tecting of her enemies, and what not, and we should lose her. “The she-dragon,” said Morton, “is the best card in out pack ; and yet I would not willingly stand still and see English blades carve Scots flesh—What say you to loitering by the way, marching far and easy for fear of spoiling our horses? They might then fight dog fight bull, fight Abbot fight archer, and no one could blame us for what chanced when we were not present.” “ Al] would blame us, James Douglas,” replied Murray ; “we should lose both sides—we had better advance with the utmost celerity, and do what we can to keep the peace betwixt them.—I would the nag that brought Piercie Shafton hither had broken his neck over the highest heuch in Northumber- Jand !—He is a proper coxcomb to make all this bustle about, and to occasion perhaps a national war!” “ Had we known in time,” said Douglas, “we might have had him privily waited upon as he entered the Borders ; there are strapping lads enough would have nid us of him for the lucre of his spur-whang.* But to the saddle, James Stewart, since so the phrase goes. I hear your trumpets sound to horse and away-—we shall soon see which nag is best breathed.” Followed by a train of about three hundred well mounted men-at-arms, these two powerful barons directed their course to Dumfries, and from thence eastward to Teviotdale, march- ing at a rate which, as Morton had foretold, soon disabled a good many of their horses, so that when they approached the scene of expected action, there were not above two hundred of their train remaining in a body, and of these most were mounted on steeds which had been sorely jaded. They had hitherto been amused and agitated by various re- ports concerning the advance of the English soldiers and the degree of resistance which the Abbot was able to oppose to them. But when they were six or seven miles from Saint * Spur-whang—Spur-leather,THE MONASTERY. 359 r me : = ’ , Z . . Mary’s of Kennaquhair, a gentleman of the country, whom Murray had summoned to attend him. and on whose intelligence he knew he could rely, arrived at the-head of two or three ser- vants, “ bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste.” Accord- ing to his report, Sir John Foster. after several times announ- cing, and as often delaying, his intended incursion, had at last been so stung with the news that Piercie Shafton was openly residing within the Halidome, that he determined to execute the command of his mistress, which directed him, at every risk, to make nimself master of the Euphuist’s person. The Abbot’s unceasing exertions had collected a body of men almost equal in number to those of the English Warden, but less practised in arms. They were united under the command of Julian Avenel, and it was apprehended they would join battle upon the banks of a small stream which forms the verge of the Hali- dome. “Who knows the place?” said Murray. “I do, my lord,” answered Glendinning. “*Tis well,” said the Earl; “take a score of the best- mounted horse—make what haste thou canst, and announce to them that Iam coming up instantly with a strong power, and will cut to pieces, without mercy, whichever party strikes the first blow.—Davidson,” said he to the gentleman who brought the intelligence, “thou shalt be my guide.—Hie thee on, Glendinning—Say to Foster I conjure him as he respects his mistress’s service, that he will leave the matter in my hands. Say to the Abbot, I will burn the Monastery over his head, if he strikes a stroke till come.—Tell the dog, Julian Avenel, that he hath already one deep score to settle with me—I will set his head on the top of the highest pinnacle of Saint Mary’s, if he presume to open another. Make haste, and spare not the spur for fear of spoiling horse-flesh.” * Your bidding shall be obeyed,my lord,” said Glendinning ; and choosing those whose horses were in best plight to be his attendants, he went off as fast as the jaded state of their cavalry permitted. Hill and hollow vanished from under the feet of the chargers. They had not ridden half the way, when they met stragglers coming off from the field, whose appearance announced that the conflict was begun. Two supported in their arms a third, their elder brother, who was pierced with an arrow through the body. Halbert, who knew them to belong to the Halidome, called them by their names, and questioned them of the state of the affray - but just then, in spite of their efforts to retain260 THE MONASTERY. J him in the saddle, their brother dropped from the horse, and they dismounted in haste to receive his last breath, From men thus engaged no information was to be obtained. Glendinning, therefore, pushed on with his little troop, the more anxiously, as he perceived other stragglers, bearing Saint Andrew’s cross upon their caps and corselets, flying apparently from the field Perjattie: © Most‘of these: when’ they were awalh of a body of he one hand or the horsemen approaching on the road, held to t o to speech of other, at such a distance as precluded comin them. Others, whose fear was more intense, kept the onward road, galloping wildly as fast as their horses could carry them, and when questioned, only glared without reply on those who spoke to them, and rode on without drawing bridle. Several of these were also known to Halbert, who had therefore no doubt, from the circumstances in which he met them, that the nen of the Halidome were defeated. He became now un- speakably anxious concerning the fate of his brother, who, he could not doubt, must have been engaged in the aliray. Ite therefore increased the speed of his horse, so that not above five or six of his followers could keep up with him. At length he réached a little hill, at the descent of which, surrounded by a semicircular sweep of a small stream, lay the plain which had been the scene of the skirmish. It was a melancholy spectacle. War and terror, to use the expression of the poet, had rushed on to the field, and left only wounds and death behind them. ‘The battle had been stoutly contested, as was almost always the case with these Border skir- mishes, where ancient hatred and vautual injuries made men stubborn in maintaining the cause of their conflict. Towards the middle of the plain, there lay the bodies of several men who had fallen in the very act of grappling with the enemy ; and there were seen countenances which still bore the stern ex- pression of unextinguishable hate and defiance, hands which clasped the hilt of the broken falchion, or strove in vain to pluck the deadly arrow from the wound. Some were wounded, and, cowed of the courage they had lately shown, were begging aid, and craving water, ina tone of melancholy depression, while others tried to teach the faltering tongue to pronounce some half-forgotten prayer, which, even when first learned, they had but half understood. Halbert, uncertain what course he was next to pursue, rode through the plain to see if, among the dead or wounded, he could discover any traces of his brother Edward. He experienced no interruption from the English. A distant cloud of dust announced that they were still pur:THE MONASTERY. 267 suing the scattered fugitives, and he guessed, that to approach them with his followers until they were again under some com- mand would be to throw away his own life and that of his men, whom the victors would instantly confound with the Scots against whom they had been successful. He resolved, there- fore, to pause until Murray came up with his forces, to which he was the more readily moved, as he heard the trumpets of the English Warden sounding the retreat, and recalling from the pursuit. He drew his men together, and made a stand in an advantageous spot of ground, which had been occupied by the Scots in the beginning of the action, and most fiercely dis- puted while the skirmish lasted. While he stood here, Halbert’s ear was assailed by the feeble rioan of a woman, which he had not expected to hear amid that scene until the retreat of the foes had permitted the rela- tions of the slain to approach, for the purpose of paying them the last duties. He looked with anxiety, and at length ob- served that by the body of a knight in bright armor, whose crest, though soiled and broken, still showed the marks of rank and birth, there sat a female wrapped in a horseman’s cloak, and holding something pressed against her bosom, which he soon discovered to beachild. He glanced towards the English, They advanced not, and the continued and prolonged sound of their trumpets, with the shouts of the leaders, announced that their powers would not be instantly re-assembled. He had, therefore, a moment to look after this unfortunate woman. He gave his horse to a spearman as he dismounted, and approaching the unhappy female, asked her, in the most sooth- ing tone he could assume, whether he could assist her in her distress. The mourner made him no direct answer ; but endeav- oring, with a trembling and unskilful hand, to undo the springs of the visor and gorget, said, in a tone of impatient grief, “Oh, he would recover instantly could I but give him air—land and living, life and honor, would I give for the power of undoing these cruel iron plaitings that suffocate him!” He that would soothe sorrow must not argue on the vanity of the most deceitful hopes. The body lay as that of one whose last draught of vital air had been drawn, and who must never more have concern with the nethersky. But Halbert Glendinning failed not to raise the visor and cast loose the gorget, when, to his great surprise, he recognized the pale face of Julian Avenel. His last fight was over, the fierce and turbid spirit had departed in the strife in which it had so long delighted. “ Alas! he is gone,” said Halbert, speaking to the young262 THE MONASTERY. woman, in whom he had now no difficulty of knowing the un happy Catherine. “Oh, no, no, no,” she reiterated, ‘“‘ do not say so—he is not dead—he is but in a swoon. I have lain as long in one myself ——and then his voice would arouse me, when he spoke kindly and said, Catherine, look up for my sake—And look up, Julian, for mine!” she said, addressing the senseless corpse ; “‘ I know you do but counterfeit to frighten me, but I am not frightened,” she added, with an hysterical attempt to laugh; and then instantly changing her tone, entreated him to “ speak, were it but to curse my folly. Oh, the rudest word you ever said to me would now sound like the dearest you wasted on me before I gave you all. Lift him up,” she said, “ lift him up, for God’s sake !—have you no compassion ? He promised to wed mei I bore him a boy, and this child is so like to its father!—How shall he keep his word if you do not help me to awaken him? —Christie of the Clinthill, Rowley, Hutcheon ! ye were con- stant at his feast, but ye fled from him at the fray, false villains as ye are!” “Not I, by Heaven !” said a dying man, who made some shift to raise himself on his elbow, and discovered to Halbert the well-known features of Christie ; ‘I fled nota foot, anda man can but fight while his breath lasts—mine is going fast.— So, youngster,” said he, looking at Glendinning, and seeing his military dress, “ thou hast ta’en the basnet at last? it is a better cap to live in thandiein. I would chance had sent thy brother here instead—there was good in him—but thou art as wild. and wilt soon be as wicked, as myself.” “God forbid!” said Halbert hastily. “Marry, and amen, with all my heart,” said the wounded man, “there will be company enow without thee where I am going. But God be praised I had no hand in that wickedness,” said he, looking to poor Catherine ; and with some exclamation in his mouth, that sounded betwixt a prayer and acurse, the soul of Christie of the Clinthill took wing to the last account. Deeply wrapt in the painful interest which these shocking events had excited, Glendinning forgot for a moment his own situation and duties, and was first recalled to them by a tramp- ling of horse, and the cry of Saint George for England, which the English soldiers still continued to use. His handful of men, for most of the stragglers had waited for Murray’s coming up, remained on horseback, holding their lances upright, having no command either to submit or resist. “There stands our Captain,” said one of them, as a strong party of English came up, the vanguard of Foster’s troop.\ THE MONASTERY. 363 =v our Captain ! with his sword sheathed, and on foot in the presence of his enemy ? a raw soldier, I warrant him,” said the English leader. “So ho! young man, is your dream out. and will you now answer me if you will firht or fly ?” _“Neither,”’ answered Halbert Glendinning, with great tran- quillity. “Then throw down thy sword and yield thee,” answered the Englishman. “Not till I can help myself no otherwise,” said Halbert, with the same moderation of tone, and manner. “Art thou for thine own hand, friend. or to whom dost thou Owe service ? ” demanded the English Captain. “To the noble Earl of Murray.’ ‘Then thou servest,” said the Southron, ‘ the most dis] nobleman who breathes—false both to England and Scotla “Thou list,” said Glendinning, regardless of all quences, ‘Ha! art thou so hot now, and were so cold but a minute since? I lie, do I? Wilt thou do battle with me on that quarrel ?”’ ‘With one to one—one to two—or two to five, as you list,” said Halbert Glendinning ; ‘“orant me but a fair field.” “That thou shalt have.—Stand back, my mates,” said the brave Englishman. “If I fall, give him fair play, and let him go off free with his people.” “ Long life to the noble Captain!” cried the soldiers, as impatient to see the duel, as if it had been a bull-baiting. “ He will have a short life of it, though,” said the sergeant, “if he, an old man of sixty, is to fight for any reason, or for no reason, with every man he meets, and especially the young fellows he might be father to.—And here comes the Warden besides to see the sword-play.” In fact, Sir John Foster came up with a considerable body of his horsemen, just as his Captain, whose age rendered him unequal to the combat with so strong and active a youth as Glendinning, was deprived of his swora. “Take it up for shame, old Stawarth Bolton,” said the English Warden ; “and thou, young man, tell me who and what thou art ? ” ‘A follower of the Earl of Murray, who bore his will to your honor,” answered Glendinning,—“ but here he comes to say it himself ; I see the van of his horsemen come over the hills.” “Get into order, my masters,” said Sir John Foster to his followers ; “ you that have broken your spears,draw your swords. oyal THe conse-36 A THE MONASTERY. We are something unprovided for a second field, but if onder dark cloud on the hill-edge bring us foul weather, we must bear as bravely as our broken cloaks will bide it. Mean- while, Stawarth, we have got the deer we have hunted for— here is Piercie Shafton hard and fast betwixt two troopers.” “Who, that lad?” said Bolton; “he. 1S 00) imore Piercie Shafton thanl am. He hath his gay cloak indeed—but Piercie Shafton is a round dozen of years older than that slip of roguery. I have known him since he was thus high. Did you never see him in the tilt-yard or in the presence?” “To the devil with such vanities ! ” said Sir John Foster ; “when had I leisure for them or anything else? During my whole life has she kept me to this hangman’s office, chasing thieves one day and traitors another, in daily fear of my life ; the lance never hung up in the hall, the foot never out of the stirrup, the saddles never off my nags’ backs ; and now, because I have been mistaken in the person of a man I never saw, I warrant me, the next letters from the Privy Council will rate me as I were a dog—a man were better dead than thus slaved and harassed.” A trumpet interrupted Foster's complaints, and a Scottish pursuivant who attended, declared “ that the noble Earl of Murray desired, in all honor and safety, a personal conference with Sir John Foster, midway between their parties, with six of company in each, and ten free minutes to come and go.” “ And now,” said the Englishman, “ comes another plague. I must go speak with yonder false Scot, and he knows how to frame his devices, to cast dust in the eyes of a plain man, as well as ever a knave in the north. I am no match for him in words, and for hard blows we are but too ill provided.—Pur- suivant, we grant the conference—and you, Sir Swordsman ” (speaking to young Glendinning), * draw off with your troopers to your own party—march—attend your Earl's: .tcumpet—— Stawarth Bolton, put our troop in order, and be ready to move forward at the wagging of a finger—Get you gone to your own friends, I tell you, Sir Squire, and loiter not here.” Notwithstanding this peremptory order, Halbert Glendin- ning could not help stopping to cast a look upon the unfor- tunate Catherine, who lay insensible of the danger and of the trampling of so many horses around her, insensible, as the second glance assured him, of all and forever. Glendinning almost rejoiced when he saw that the last misery of life was over, and that the hoofs of the war-horses, amongst which he was compelled to leave her, could only injure and deface aLiPE MONAS LER ¥. 368 senseless corpse. He caught the infant from her arms, half ashamed of the shout of laughter y vhich rose on all sides, at seeing an armed man in such a situation assume such an un- wonted and inconvenient burden. ‘Shoulder your infant!” cried 4 harquebusier, “Port your infant!” said a pikeman, " Peace, ve brutes, “said Stawarth Bolton, « and respect humanity in others if you have none yourselves, JI pardon the lad having done some discredit to my gray hairs, when I see him take care of that helpless creature, which ve would have trampled upon as if ye had been littered of bt tch-wolves. not hee of women.” . While this passed, the leaders on either neutral space betwixt the hae of either, and the Earl accost- ed the English Warden: “ Is this fair or honest usage, Sir John, or for whom do you hold the Farl of Morton and myself, that you ride in Scotland with arrayed banner, figh t, slay, and make prisoners at your own pleasure? Is it well d. one, think you, to spoil our land and shed our blood. af have given to your mistress of our devotion due side met in the er the many proofs we to ber will, saving always the allegiance due to our own sovereign ?” ‘My Lord of Murray,” answered Foster, “all the world knows you to be aman of quick ingine and deep wisdom, and these several weeks have you held me in hand with prom- ising to arrest my sovereign mistress’s rebel, this Piercie Shafton of Wiverton, and you have never kept your word, alleging turmoils in the west, and I wot not what other causes of hindrance. Now, since he has had the insolence to return hither, and live openly within ten miles of England, I could no longer, in plain duty tomy mistress and queen, tarry upon your successive ¢ delay s, and therefore I have used her force to take her rebel, by the strong hand, wherever I can find him.” “And is Piercie Shafton in your hands, then?” said the Earl of Murray. “ Be aware that I may not, without my own great shame, suffer you to remove him hence without doing battle.” “Will you, Lord Earl, after all the advantages you have received at the hands of the Queen of England, do battle in the cause of her rebel?” said Sir John Foster. “ Not so, Sir John,” answered the Earl, “but I will fight to the death in defence of the liberties of our free kingdom of Scotland.” iy way faith,” said Sit John Foster, “ Iam well content—= my sword is not blunted with all it has done yet this day.”366 THE MONASTERY. > said Sir George Heron of Chip- e should fight these Scottish 1 old Stawarth Bolton, “By my honor, Sir John,’ chase, “there is but little reason W Lords e’en now, for I hold opinion witl Awall and believe yonder prisoner to be no more Piercie Shafton than he is the Earl of Northumberland ; and you were but ill advised to break the peace betwixt the countries for a prisoner of less consequence than that gay mischief-maker.” “ Sir George,” replied Foster, “JT have often heard you herons are afraid of hawks—Nay, lay not hand on sword, man J did but jest ; and for this prisoner, let him be brought up hither, that we may see who or what he is—always under assur- ance, my lords,” he continued, addressing the Scots. “ Upon our word and honor,” said Morton, “ we will ofter no violence.’ The laugh turned against Sir John Foster considerably, when the prisoner, being brought up, proved not only a different person from Sir Piercie Shafton, but a female in man’s attire. “ Pluck the mantle from the quean’s face, and cast her to the horse-boys,” said Foster ; “ she has kept such company ere now, I warrant.” Even Murray was moved to laughter, no common thing with him, at the disappointment of the English Warden ; but he would not permit any violence to be offered to the fair Molin- ara, who had thus a second time rescued Sir Piercie Shafton at her own personal risk. “You have already done more mischief than you can well answer,” said the Earl to the English Warden, “ and it were dishonor to me should I permit you to harm a hair of this young woman’s head.” “My lord,” said Morton, “if Sir John will ride apart with me but for one moment, I will show him such reasons as shall make him content to depart, and to refer this unhappy day’s work to the judgment of the Commissioners nominated to try offences on the Border.” He then Jed Sir John Foster aside, and spoke to him in this manner :—‘ Sir John Foster, I much marvel that a man who knows your Queen Elizabeth as you do, should not know that, if you hope anything from her, it must be for doing her useful service, not for involving her in quarrels with her neighbors, without any advantage. Sir Knight, I will speak frankly what I know to be true. Had you seized the true Piercie Shafton by this ill-advised inroad ; and had your deed threatened, as most likely it might, a breach betwixt the countries, your politic princess and her politic council would rather have dis-; oy TACT RE py THE MONASTERY. 367 praced Sir John Foster than entered into war in his behalf, But now that you have stricken short of your aim, you ma rely on it you will have little thanks for carrying the matter farther. I will work thus far on the Earl of Murray, that he will undertake to dismiss Sir Piercie Shafton from the realm of Scotland.—Be well advised, and let the matter now pass off— you will gain nothing by farther violence, for if we fight, you, as the fewer and the weaker through your former action, will needs have the worse.”’ Sir John Foster listened with his head declining on his breast-plate. “It is a cursed chance,” he said, “and I shall have little thanks for my day’s work.” He then rode up to Murray, and said, that, in deference to his Lordship’s presence and that of my Lord of Morton, he had come to the resolution of withdrawing himself, with his power, without farther proceedings. “Stop there, Sir John Foster,” said Murray, “ I cannot per- mit you to retire in safety, unless you leave some one who may be surety to Scotland, that the injuries you have at present done us may be fully accounted for ;—you will reflect that by per- mitting your retreat, I become accountable to my Sovereign, who will demand a reckoning of me for the blood of her subjects, if I suffer those who shed it to depart so easily.” ‘Tt shall never be told in England,” said the Warden, ‘that John Foster gave pledges like a subdued man, and that on the very field on which he stands victorious.—But,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “if Stawarth Bolton wills to abide with you on his own free choice, I will say nothing against it; and, as I bethink me, it were better he should stay to see the dismissal of this same Piercie Shafton.” “TI receive him as your hostage, nevertheless, and shall treat him as such,” said the Earl of Murray. But Foster, turn- ing away as if to give directions to Bolton and his men, affected not to hear this observation. “There rides a faithful servant of his most beautiful and Sovereign Lady,” said Murray aside to Morton. ‘“ Happy man, he knows not whether the execution of her commands may not cost him his head; and yet he is most certain that to leave them unexecuted will bring disgrace and death without reprieve. Happy are they who are not only subjected to the caprices of Dame Fortune, but held bound to account and be responsible for them, and that to a sovereign as moody and fickle as her humorous ladyship herself ! ”358 THE MONASTERY. “ We also have a female Sovereign, my lord,” said Motion. “We have so, Douglas,” said the Earl, with a suppressed sigh ; “‘ but it remains to be seen how long a female hand can hold the reins of power in a realm so wild as ours. We will now go on to Saint Mary’s and see ourselves after the state of that House.—Glendinning, look to that woman and protect her.—What the fiend, man, hast thou got in thine arms ?—an infant, as I live!—where couldst thou find such a charge, at such a place and moment?” Halbert Glendinning briefly told the story. The Earl rode forward to the place where the body of Julian Avenel lay, with his unhappy companion’s arms wrapped around him like the trunk of an uprooted oak borne down by the tempest with all its ivy garlands. Both were cold dead. - Murray was touched in an unwonted degree, remembering, perhaps, his own birth. “What have they to answer for, Douglas,” he said, “ who thus abuse the sweetest gifts of affection?” The Earl of Morton, unhappy in his marriage, was a libertine in his amours. “Vou must ask that question of Henry Warden, my lord, or of John Knox—I am but a wild counsellor in woman’s matters.” “Forward to Saint Mary’s,” said the Earl ; “pass the word on—Glendinning, give the infant to this same female cavalier, and let it be taken charge of. Let no dishonor be done to the dead bodies, and call on the country to bury or remove them.— Forward, I say, my masters!” CUAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH, Gone to be married ?—Gone to swear a peace! Kinc JOHN. THE news of the lost battle, so quickly carried by the fugitives to the village and convent, had spread the greatest alarm among the inhabitants. The Sacristan and other monks counselled flight ; the Treasurer recommended that the church plate should be offered as a tribute to bribe the English officer ; the Abbot alone was unmoved and undaunted. “My brethren,” he said, “since God has not given ourTHE MONASTERY. people victory in the combat, it must be because he requires of us, his spiritual soldiers, to fight the good fight of inartyrdom, a conflict in which nothing but our own faint hearted cowardice can make us fail of victory. Let us assume, then, the armor of faith, and prepare, if it be necessary, to die under the ruin of these shrines, to the service of which we have devoted ourselves. Highly honored are we all in this distinguished summons, from our dear brother Nicholas, whose gray hairs have been preserved until they should be surrounded by the crown of martyrdom, down to my beloved son Edward, who, arriving at the vineyard at the latest hour of the day, is yet permitted to share its toils with those who have labored from the morning, Be of good courage, my children. I dare not, like my sainted predecessors, promise to you that you shall be preserved by miracle—I and you are alike unworthy of that especial inter- position, which in earlier times turned the sword of sacrilege against the bosom of tyrants by whom it was wielded, daunted the hardened hearts of heretics with prodigies, and called down hosts of angels to defend the shrine of God and of the Virgin. Yet, by heavenly aid, you shall this day see that your Father and Abbot will not disgrace the mitre which sits upon his brow. Go to your cells, my children, and exercise your private devotions. Array yourselves also in alb and cope, as for our most solemn festivals, and be ready, when the tolling of the largest bell announces the approach of the enemy, to march forth to meet them in solemn procession. Let the church be opened to afford such refuge as may be to those of our vassals, who, from their exertion in this day’s unhappy battle, or other cause, are particularly apprehensive of the rage of the enemy. Tell Sir Piercie Shafton, if he has escaped the fight H “Iam here, most venerable Abbot,” replied Sir Piercie ; “and if it so seemeth meet to you, I will presently assemble such of the men as haveescaped this escaramouche, and will re- new the resistance, even unto the death. Certes, you will learn from all that I did my part in this unhappy matter. Had it pleased Julian Avenel to have attended to my counsel, espe- cially in somewhat withdrawing of his main battle, even as you may have marked the heron eschew the stoop of the falcon, receiving him rather upon his beak than upon his wing, affairs, as I do conceive, might have had a different face, and we might then, in a more bellicose manner, have maintained that atfray: Nevertheless, I would not be understood to speak anything in disregard of Julian Avenel, whom I saw fall fighting manfully with his face to his enemy, which hath banished from my 24370 THE MONASTERY. memory the unseemly term of ‘meddling coxcomb ’ with which it pleased him something rashly to qualify my advice, and for which, had it pleased Heaven and the saints to have prolonged the life of that excellent person, I had it bound upon my soul to have put him to death with my own hand.” . “ Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot, at length interrupting him, “our time allows brief leisure to speak what might have been.” “ You are right, most venerable Lord and Father,” replied the incorrigible Euphuist ; “ the preterite, as grammarians have it, concerns frail mortality less than the future mood, and indeed our cogitations respect chiefly the present. In a word, I am willing to head all who will follow me, and offer such opposition as manhood and mortality may permit, to the advance of the English, though they be my own countrymen ; and be assured Piercie Shafton will measure his length, being five feet ten inches, on the ground as he stands, rather than give two yards in retreat, according to the usual motion in which we retrograde.” “T thank you, Sir Knight,” said the Abbot, “and I doubt not that you would make your words good ; but itis not the will of Heaven that carnal weapons should rescue us. We are called to endure, not to resist, and may not waste the blood of our innocent commons in vain—Fruitless opposition becomes not men of our profession ; they have my commands to resign the sword and the spear—God and Our Lady have not blessed our banner.” “ Bethink you, reverend lord,” said Piercie Shafton, very eagerly, “ere you resign the defence that is in your power— there are many posts near the entry of this village where brave men might live or die to the advantage ; and I have this addi- tional motive to make defence—the safety, namely, of a fair friend, who, I hope, hath escaped the hands of the heretics.” Sweanderstand you, Sir /Piércie;’’ said the A bbot—*‘ you mean the daughter of our Convent’s miller?” “Reverend my lord,” said Sir Piercie, not without hesita- tion, “ the’fair Mysinda is, as may be in some sort alleged, the daughter of one who mechanically prepareth corn to be man- ipulated into bread, without which we could not exist, and which is therefore an employment in itself honorable, nay, necessary. Nevertheless, if the purest sentiments of a generous mind, streaming forth like the rays of the sun reflected by a diamond, may ennoble one, who is in some sort the daughter of a molendinary mechanic “‘T have no time for all this, Sir Knight,” said the Abbot ; “be it enough to answer, that with our will we war no longerTHE MONASTER vs by 37m teach you of our hands not clencl hed with carnal weapons. We of the Spirituality wil] the temporality how to die i 1n cold blood, for resistance, but folded f r prayer—our minds not fille d with jealous h atred. but with C echoes in meekness and forgiveness— our ears not deafened, nor our sey 1ses confused, by the sound of clamorous instruments of War ; but, on the contrary, Our Voiccs composed to Halleluiah, Kyrie-Eleison, and Salve Regina, and our blood temperate and cold, as those who think upon recon- one Rea Ons with God, not of av enging themselves of their ‘Lord Abbot,” said Sir Piercie, “ this is nothing to the tate of my Molinara, whom. I beseech you to ol bsetve, I will not abandon while golden hilt and steel blade bide tovethe er on my falchion. I commanded her not to follow us to the field. and yet methought I saw her in her page’s attire amongst the rear of the combatants.” ‘You must seek elsewhere for the person in whose fate you are so deeply interested,” said the Abbot ; “and at present I will pray of your knighthood to inquire concerning her at the church, in which all our more defenceless vassals have taken refuge. It is my advice to you, that you also abide by the horns of the altar ; and, Sir Piercie Shafton,” he added, “be of one thing secure, that if you come to harm it will involve the whole of this brotherhood ; for never, I trust, will the meanest of us buy safety at the ex xpense of surrendering a friend or a guest. Leave us, my son, = may God be your aid!” When Sir Piercie Shafton had departed, and the Abbot was about to betake himself of his own cell, he was surprised by an unknown person anxiously requiring a conference, who, being admitted, proved to be no otherthan He enry Warden. The Abbot loaicd as he entered, and exclaimed angrily—“* Ea! are the few hours that fate allows him who may last wear the mitre of this house not to be excused from the intrusion of heresy? Dost thou come,” he said, “to enjoy the hopes which fate holds out to thy demented and accursed sect, to see the besom of destruction sweep away the pride of old religion—to deface our shrines—to mutilate and lay waste the bodies of our benefactors, as well sepulchres—to destroy the pinnacles and carved work of God’s house and our Lady’s?” ‘Peace, William Alla an!” said the pibiestanteeke al with dignified composure ; “ for none of these purposes do I come I would have these stately shrines deprived of the idols which, no longer simply regarded ag the effigies of the good and of the wise, have become the objects of foul ido latry. I would other272 THE MONASTERY: wise have its ornaments subsist, unless as they are or may be a snare to the souls of men; and especially do I condemn those ravages which have been made by the heady fury of the people, stung into zeal against will-worship by bloody persecution. Against such wanton devastations I lift my testimony. “ Tdle distinguisher that thou art ! ” said the Abbot Eustace, interrupting him ; “ what signifies the pretext under which thou dost despoil the house of God? and why at this present emergence wilt thou insult the master of it by thy ill-omened presence ? ” “Thou art unjust, William Allan,” said Warden ; “but |] am not the less settled in my resolution. ‘Thou hast protected me some time since at the hazard of thy rank, and what I know thou holdest still dearer, at the risk of thy reputation with thine ownsect. Our party is now uppermost, and, believe me, I have come down the valley, in which thou didst quarter me for sequestration’s sake, simply with the wish to keep my engage- ments to thee.” “ Ay,” answered the Abbot, “ and it may be that my listen- ing to that worldly and infirm compassion which pleaded with me for thy life, is now avenged by this impending judgment. Heaven hath smitten, it may be, the erring shepherd, and scattered the flock.” “Think better of the Divine judgments,” said Warden. “Not for thy sins, which are those of thy blinded education and circumstances ; not for thine own sins, William Allan, art thou stricken, but for the accumulated guilt which thy mis- named Church hath accumulated on her head, and those of her votaries, by the errors and corruptions of ages.” “Now, by my sure belief in the Rock of Peter,’ said the Abbot, “ thou dost rekindle the last spark of human indigna- tion for which my bosom has fuel—I thought I might not again have felt the impulse of earthly passion, and it is thy voice which once more calls me to the expression of human anger ; yes, itis thy voice that comest to insult me in my hour of sorrow with these blasphemous accusations of that church which hath kept the light of Christianity alive from the times of the Apostles till now.” “From the timesof the Apostles?’ said the preacher eagerly. “ Wegatur, Gulielme Allan —the primitive church differed as much from that of Rome, as did light from darkness, which, did time permit, I should speedily prove. And worse dost thou judge, in saying I come to insult thee in thy hour of affliction, being here, God wot, with the Christian wish of ful-THE MONASTERY. Ww Sf filling an engagement I had mack my self to thy will while it had yet me, and if it might so be to mit igate in thy behalf the rao xe of the victors whom God l hath sent as a scourge to thy obstinacy, i “I will none of thy intercession,” said the Abbot, sternly “the dignity to which the Church has exalted me, never shale have swelled my bosom more proudly in the time of the highest prosperity, than it doth at this crisis—I ask nothing of thee, but the assurance that my lenity to thee hath been the means of perverting no soul to Satan, that ] have not given to the wolf any of the stray mambs whom the Great Shepherd of souls had intrusted to my charge.” “William Allan,” answel ed the Protestant, “I will be sin- cere with thee. What I promised [ have kept—I have withheld my voice from speaking even good things. But it has pleased Heaven to call the mai len Mary Avenel to a better sense of faith than thou and all the disciples of Rome can teach. Her I have aided with my humble power—I have extricated her from the machinations of evil spirits to which she and her house were exposed during the blindness of their Romish superstition, and, praise be to my Master, I have not reason to fear she will again be caught in thy snares.” “Wretched man!” said the Abbot, unable to suppress his rising indignation, “is it to the Abbot of Saint Mary’s that you boast having misled the soul of a dweller in Our Lady’s Halli- dome into the paths of foul error and damning heresy ?—Thou dost urge me, Wellwood, beyor 1d what it becomes me to hear, and movest me to employ the few moments of power I may yet possess, in removing from the face of the earth one, whose qualities, given by God, have been so utterly perverted as thine to the service of Satan.” “Do thy pleasure,” said the preacher ; “ thy vain wrath shall not prevent my doing my duty to advantage thee, where it may be done without neg rect ting my higher call. I go to the Earl of Murray.’ Their conference, which was adv ancing fast into bitter dispu- tation, was here interrupted by the deep and sullen toll of the largest and heaviest bell of the Convent, a sound famous in the chronicles of the Community, for dispelling of tempests, and putting to flight demons, but which now only announced danger, without affording any means of warding against it. Hastily repeating his orders, that all the brethren should attend in the choir, arrayed for solemn procession, the Abbot ascended to the battlements of the lofty Monastery, by his own private > to my host, and of rendering t power to exercise aught upon3/4 THE MONASTERY. staircase, and there met the Sacristan, who had been in the act of directing the tolling of the huge bell, which fell under his charge. “Tt is the last time I shall discharge mine office, most venerable Father and Lord,” said he to the Abbot, ‘‘ for yonder come the Philistines ; but I would not that the large bell of Saint Mary’s should sound for the last time, otherwise than in true and full tone—I have been a sinful man for one of our holy profession,” added he, looking upward, “yet may I pre- sume to say, not a bell hath sounded out of tune from the tower of the house, while Father Philip had the superintendence of the chime and the belfry.” The Abbot, without reply, cast his eyes towards the path, which, winding around the mountain, descends upon Kenna- quhair, from the south-east. He beheld at a distance a cloud of dust, and heard the neighing of many horses, while the oc- casional sparkle of the long line of spears, as they came down- wards into the valley, announced that the band came thither in arms. “ Shame on my weakness!” said Abbot Eustace, dashing the tears from his eyes ; “my sight is too much dimmed to ob- serve their motions—look, my son Edward,” for his favorite novice had again joined him, “and tell me what ensigns they bear.’ “They are Scottish men, when all is done,” exclaimed Ed- ward—“ I see the white crosses—it may be the Western Bor- derers, or Fernieherst and his clan.” “Took at the banner,” said the Abbot; “tell me, what are the blazonries ? ” “The arms of Scotland,” said Edward, ‘the lion and its tressure, quartered, as I think, with three cushions—Can it be the royal standard?” wWiae ime, Said. the Abbot, “it is “that of the Harlot Murray. He hath assumed with his new conquest the badge of the valiant Randolph, and hath dropt from his hereditary coat the bend which indicates his own base birth—would to God he may not have blotted it also from his memory, and aim as well at possessing the name, as the power, of a king.” “At least, my father,” said Edward, “ he will secure us from the violence of the Southron.” aye my son, as the shepherd secures a silly lamb from the wolf, which he destines in due time to his own banquet. Oh, my son, evil days are onus! A breach has been made in the walls of our sanctuary—thy brother hath fallen from the faith.THE MONASTERY. 375 Such news brought my last secret intelligence—Murray hath already spoken of rew arding | his services with the hand of Mary Avenel” “ Of Mary Avenel!” said the novice, tottering towards and grasping hold of one of the carve ed pinnacles which adorned the proud battlement. “Ay, of Mary Avenel, my son, who has also abjured the faith of her fathers. Weep not, my Edward, weep not, my beloved son! or weep for their apostasy, and not for their union—Bless God, who hath called thee to himself, out of the tents of wickedness ; but for the grace of Our Lady and Saint Benedict, thou also hadst been a castaw ay.” “T endeavor, my =o ‘said Edward, “I endeavor to forget ; but what I would now blot from my memory has been the thought of all my former pein dare not forward a match so unequal in birth.” ‘ He dares do what suits his purpose—The Castle of Avenel is strong, and needs a good castellan, devoted to his serv ice yeas for the difference of their birth, he will mind it no more than he would mind defacing the natural regularity of the ground, were it necessary he should erect upon it military lines and en- trenchments. But do not droop for that—awaken thy soul within thee, my son. ‘Think you part with a vain vision, an idle dream, nursed in solitude and inaction—I weep not, yet what am I now like to lose >—Look at these towers, where saints dwelt, and where heroes have be en buried—Think that I, so briefly called to presi over the pious flock, which has dwelt here since the first light of C hristianity, may be this day written down the last fatiher of this holy community—Come, let us descend, and meet our fate. I see them approach near to the village. The Abbot descende: |, the novice cast a glance around him ; yet the sense of the danger impending over the stately struc- ture, with which he was now united, was unable to bane the recollection of Mary Avenel. — “ His brother’s bride!” he pulled the cowl over his face, and followed his Superior. The whole bells of the Abbey now added their peal to the death-toll of the largest which had so long sounded. The monks wept and prayed as they got themselves into the order of their procession for the last time, as seemed but too probable. “Tt is well our Father Boniface hath retired to the inland,” said Father Phili ip ¢?°he could never have put over this d would have broken his heart!” “ God be with the soul of Abbot Ingelram!” said old Father376 THE MONASTERY. Nicholas, “there were no such doings in his days.——They say we are to be put forth of the cloisters ; and how I am to live anywhere else than where I have lived for these seventy years, I wot not—the best is, that I have not long to live anywhere.” A few moments after this the great gate of the Abbey was flung open, and the procession moved slowly forward from be- neath its huge and richly-adorned gateway. Cross and banner, pix and chalice, shrines containing relics, and censers steaming with incense, preceded, and were intermingled with the long and solemn array of the brotherhood, in their long black gowns and cowls, with their white scapularies hanging over them, the vari- ous officers of the convent each displaying his proper badge of office. In the centre of the procession came the Abbot, sur- rounded and supported by his chiet assistants. He was dressed in his habit of high solemnity, and appeared as much uncon- cerned as if he had been taking his usual part in some ordinary ceremony. After him came the inferior persons of the convent ; the novices in their albs or white dresses, and the lay brethren distinguished by their beards, which were seldom worn by the Fathers. Women and children, mixed with a few men, came in the rear, bewailing the apprehended desolation of their an- cient sanctuary. They moved, however, in order, and restrained the marks of their sorrow to a low wailing sound, which rathet mingled with than interrupted the measured chant of the monks. In this order the procession entered the market-place of the village of Kennaquhair, which was then, as now, distinguished by an ancient cross of curious workmanship, the gift of some former monarch of Scotland. Close by the cross, of much ereater antiquity, and scarcely less honored, was an immensely large oak-tree, which perhaps had witnessed the worship of the Druids, ere the stately Monastery to which it adjoined had raised its spires in honor of the Christian faith. Like the Ben- tange-tree of the African villages, or the Plaistow-oak mentioned in White’s Natural History of Selborne, this tree was the ren- dezvous of the villagers, and regarded with peculiar veneration ; a feeling common to most nations, and which perhaps may be traced up to the remote period when the patriarch feasted the angels under the oak at Mamre.* The monks formed themselves each in their due place around the cross, while under the ruins of the aged tree crowded the old and the feeble, with others who felt the common alarm. When they had thus arranged themselves, there was a deep * It is scarcely necessary to say, that in Melrose, the prototype of Kennaquhair, no such oak ever existed,THE MONASTER}\ ~F StL and solemn pause. The monks stilled their cha.t, the lay populace hushed their lamentations. and all awaited ae : and silence the arrival of those heretical forces, whom tl 1ey had been so long taught to regard with fear and trembling, A distant trampling was at length heard, and the “glance of spears was seen to shine through the trees above the village. The sounds increased, and became more thick, one close con- tinuous rushing sound, in which the tread of hoofs was mingled with the ringing of armor. The horsemen soon appeared at the principal entrance which leads into the irregular square or market-place which forms the centre of the villace. The c Gy @n- tered two by two, s slowly, and in the ereatest order. The van continued to move on, riding round the open space, until they had attained the utmost point, and then tu irning their horses’ heads to the street, stood fast: their companions the same order, until the whole ee place was closely sur- rounded with soldiers ; and the files who followed. m: iking the same manceuvre, formed an inner line within those whee had first arrived, until the place was begirt with a quadruple file of ip Me closely drawn up. Therewas now a pause, of which the Abbot availed himself, by commanding the brotherhood to raise the solemn chant De f» ‘ofund ws clamavt. He lookedaround the armed ranks, to see what impression the solemn sounds made on them. All were silent, but the brows of some had an expression of contempt, and almost all the rest bore a look of indifference ; their course had been too long decided to permit past feelings of enthusiasm to be anew awakened by a procession or by a hymn. ‘Their hearts are hardened,” said the Abbot to himself in dejection, but not in despair ; “it remains to see whether those of their leaders are equally obdurate.” The leaders, in the meanwhile, were advancing slowly, and Murray, with Morton, rode in deep conversation before a chosen band of their most distinguished followers, amongst whom came Halbert Glendinning. But the preacher Henry Warden, who, upon leaving the Monastery, had instantly joined them, was the only person admitted to their conference. “You are determined, then,” said Morton to Murray, “to give the heiress of Avenel, with all her pretensions, to this nameless and obscure young man?” ““Hiath not Warden told you,” said Mu urray, “that they have been bred together, and are lovers from their youth upward ?” “ And that they are both,” said Warden, “ by means which may be almost termed miraculous, rescued from the delusions followed in378 THE MONASTER ¥. of Rome, and brought within the pale of the true Church. My residence at Glendearg hath made me well acquainted with these things. Ill would it beseem my habit and my calling, to thrust myself into match-making and giving In marriage, but worse were it in me to see your lordships do needless wrong to the feelings which are proper to our nature, and which, being indulged honestly and under the restraints of religion, become a pledge of domestic quiet here, and future happiness in a better world. I say, that you will do ill to rend those ties asunder, and to give this maiden to the kinsman of Lord Mor- ton, though Lord Morton’s kinsman he be.” “These are fair reasons, my Lord of Murray,” said Morton, ‘“‘why you should refuse me so simple a boon as to bestow this silly damsel upon young Bennygask. Speak out plainly, my lord ; say you would rather see the castle of Avenel in the hands of one who owes his name and existence solely to your favor, than in the power of a Douglas, and of my kinsman.” “My Lord of Morton,” said Murray, “ I have done nothing in this matter which should aggrieve you. This young man Glendinning has done me good service, and may do me more. My promise was in some degree passed to him, and that while Julian Avenel was alive, when aught beside the maiden’s lily hand would have been hard to come by ; whereas, you never thought of such an alliance for your kinsman, till you saw Julian lie dead yonder on the field, and knew his land to be a wait free to the first who could seize it. Come, come, my lord, you do less than justice to your gallant kinsman, in wishing him a bride bred up under the milk-pail ; for this girl is a peasant wench inall but the accident of birth. Ithought you had more deep respect for the honor of the Douglases.” “The honor of the Douglases is safe in my keeping,” answered Morton, haughtily ; “that of other ancient families may suffer as well as the name of Avenel, if rustics are to be matched with the blood of our ancient barons.” “This is but idle talking,’ answered Lord Murray ; “in times like these, we must look to men and not to pedigrees. Hay was but a rustic before the battle of Luncarty—the bloody yoke actually dragged the plough ere it was blazoned on a crest by the herald. Times of action make princes into peasants, and boors into barons. All families have sprung from one mean man; and itis well if they have never degenerated from his virtue who raised them first from obscurity.” “ My Lord of Murray will please to except the house of Douglas,”’ said Morton, baughtily ; “‘men have seen it in the ce «THE MONASTERY. 37g tree, but never in the sapling—have seen it in the stream, but never in the fountain.* In the earliest of our Scottish annals the Black Douglas was powerful and distinguished as now.” ** I bend to the honors of the house of Douglas,” said Mur- Tay, somewhat ironically ; “I am conscious we of the Royal House have little right to compete with them in dienity—— What though we have worn crowns and carried sceptres for a few generations if our genealogy moves no farther back than to the humble Alanus Dapifer'/” + Morton’s cheek reddened as he was about to reply ; but Henry Warden availed himself of the liberty which the Protescant clergy long possessed, and exerted it to interrupt a discussion which was becoming too eager and personal to be friendly. ‘“ My lords,” he said, “I must be bold in discharginz the duty of my Master. It is a shame and scandal to hear two nobles, whose hands have been so forward in the work of reformation, fall into discord about such vain follies as now occupy your thoughts. Bethink you how long you have thought with one mind, seen with one eye, heard with one ear, con- firmed by your union the congregation of the Church, appalled by your joint authority the congregation of Antichrist; and will you now fall into discord about an old decayed castle and a few barren hills, about the loves and likings of an humble spearman, and a damsel bred in the same obscurity, or about the still vainer questions of idle genealogy ?” “The good man hath spoken right, noble Douglas,” said Murray, reaching him his hand, “our union is too essential to the good cause to be broken off upon idle terms of dissension. Iam fixed to gratify Glendinning in this matter—my promise is passed. The wars, in which I have had my share, have made many a family miserable ; I will at least try if I may not make one happy. There are maids and manors enow in Scotland. [ promise you, my noble ally, that young Bennygask shall be richly wived.” “My lord,” said Warden, “ you speak nobly, and like a Christian. Alas! this is a land of hatred and bloodshed—let us not chase from thence the few traces that remain of gentle and domestic love.—And be not too eager for wealth to thy noble kinsman, my Lord of Morton, seeing contentment in the marriage state no way depends on it.” “Tf you allude to my family misfortune,” said Morton, whose Countess, wedded by him for her estate and honors, was insane 9 * Note L. Genealogy of the Douglas family. t Note M. Pedigree of the Stewarts.380 THE MONASTERY. in her mind, “the habit you wear, and the liberty, or rather license, of your profession, protect you from my resentmeat. — “ Alas! my lord,” replied Warden, “how quick and sens} tive is our self-love! When, pressing forward in our high call- ing, we point out the errors of the Sovereign, who praises oul boldness more than the noble Morton? But touch we upon his own sore, which most needs lancing, and he shrinks from the faithful chirurgeon in fear and impatient anger ee “Enough of this, good and reverend sir,” said Murray ; “vou transgress the prudence yourself recommended even now. —"We are now close upon the village, and the proud Abbot is eome forth at the head of his hive. Thou hast pleaded well for him, Warden, otherwise I had taken this occasion to pull down the nest, and chase away the rooks.” “Nay, but do not so,” said Warden ; “this William Allan, whom they call the Abbot Eustatius, is a man whose misfor- tunes would more prejudice our cause than his prosperity. You cannot inflict more than he will endure ; and the more that he is made to bear, the higher will be the influence of his talents and his courage. In his conventual throne he will be but coldly looked on—disliked, it may be, and envied. But turn his crucifix of gold into a crucifix of wood—let him travel through the land, an oppressed and impoverished man, and his patience, his eloquence, and learning, will win more hearts from the good cause, than all the mitred abbots of Scotland have been able to make prey of during the last hundred years.” “Tush! tush! man,” said Morton, “the revenues of the falidome will bring more men, spears, and horses, into the field in one day, than his preaching in a whole lifetime. apese are not the days of Peter the Hermit, when monks could march armies from England to Jerusalem ; but gold and good deeds will still do as much or more than ever. Had Julian Avenel had but a score or two more men this morning, Sir John Foster had not missed a worse welcome. I say, confiscating the monk’s revenues is drawing his fang-teeth.” “ We will surely lay him under contribution,” said Murray ; «and, moreover, if he desires to remain in his Abbey, he will do well to produce Piercie Shafton.” As he thus spoke, they entered the market-place distin- guished by their complete armor and their lofty plumes, as well as by the number of followers bearing their colors and badges. Both these powerful nobles, but more especially Murray, so nearly allied to the crown, had at that time a retinue and household not much inferior to that of ScottishTHE MONASTERY. 331 royalty. Asthey advanced into the market-pl pressing forward from their train, ad words :—“ The Abbot of Saint before the Earl of Murray.” ‘The Abbot of Saint Mary’s,” said Eustace, “is, in the patri- mony of his Convent, superior to every temporal lord. Let the Earl of Murray, if he seeks him, come himself to his presence.” On receiving this answer, Murray smiled scornfully, and, dis- mounting from his lofty saddle, he advanced, accompanied by Morton, and followed by others, to the body of monks as- sembled around the cross. There was an appearance of shrink- ing among them at the approach of the heretie lord, so dreaded and so powerful. But the Abbot, casting on them a glance of rebuke and encouragement, stepped forth from their ranks like a courageous leader, when he sees that his personal valor must be displayed to revive the drooping courage of his followers. “Lord James Stewart,” he said, “or Earl of Murray, if that be thy title, I, Eustatius, Abbot of Saint Mary’s, demand by what right you have filled our peaceful village, and surrounded our brethren, with these bands of armed men? If hospitality is sought, we have never refused it to courteous asking—if violence be meant against peaceful churchmen, let us know at once the pretext and the object.” “Sir Abbot,” said Murray, “your language would better have become another age, anda presence inferior toours. We come not here to reply to your interrogations, but to demand of you why you have broken th> peace, collecting your vassals in arms, and conyocating the Queen’s lieges, whereby many men have been slain, and much trouble, perchance breach of amity with England, is likely to arise?” “ Lupus in fabula,” answered the Abbot, scornfully. ‘The wolf accused the sheep of muddying the stream when he drank in it above her—but it served as a pretext for devouring her, Convocate the Queen’s Jieges! I did so to defend the Queen’s Jand against foreigners. I did but my duty; and I regret I had not the means to do it more effectually.” ‘And was it also a part of your duty to receive and harbor the Queen of England’s rebel and traitor ; and to inflame a war betwixt England and Scotland!” said Murray. “In my younger days, my lord,” anwered the Abbot, with the same intrepidity, “ a war with England was no such dreaded matter ; and not merely a mitred abbot, bound by his rule to show hospitality and afford sanctuary to all, but the poorest Scottish peasant, would have been ashamed to have pleaded ace, a pursuivant, dressed the monks in these Mary’s is commanded to appear382 THE MONASTERY. or shutting his door against 4 Iden days, the English seldom hough the bars of fear of England as the reason f persecuted exile. But in those o gaw the face of a Scottish nobleman, save t his visor.” “ Monk!” said the Earl of Morton, sternly, “this insolence will little avail thee ; the days are gone by when Rome’s priests were permitted to brave noblemen with impunity. Give us up this Piercie Shafton, or by my father’s crest I will set thy Abbey in a bright flame!” | “ And if thou dost, Lord of Morton, its ruins will tumble above the tombs of thine own ancestors. Be the issue as God wills, the Abbot of Saint Mary’s gives up no one whom he hath promised to protect.” “ Abbot !”’ said Murray, “ bethink thee ere we are driven to deal roughly—the hands of these men,” he said, pointing to the soldiers, “ will make wild work ainong shrines and cells, if we are compelled to undertake a search for this Englishman.” “Ve shall not need,” said a voice from the crowd ; and, advancing gracefully before the Earls, the Euphuist flung from him ihe mantle in which he was muffled. “Via the cloud that shadowed Shafton!” said he ; “ behold, my lords, the Knight of Wilverton, who spares you the guilt of violence and sacrilege.” “T protest before God and man against any infraction of the privileges of this house,” said the Abbot, ‘‘ by an attempt to impose violent hands upon the person of this noble knight. If there be yet spirit in a Scottish Parliament, we will make you hear of this elsewhere, my lord: !” “ Spare your threats,” said Murray ; “it may be my purpose with Sir Piercie Shafton is not such as thou dost suppose— Attach him, pursuivant, as our prisoner, rescue or no rescue.” “yield myself,” said the Euphuist, “ reserving my right to defy my Lord of Murray and my Lord of Morton to single duel, even as one gentleman may demand satisfaction of another.” “Vou shall not want those who will answer your challenge, Sir Knight,” replied Morton, “ without aspiring to men above thine own degree.” ‘“ And where am I to find these superlative champions,” said the English knight, “ whose blood runs more pure than that of Piercie Shafton? ” i, Here is a flight for you, my lord!” said Murray. As ever was flown by a wild-goose,” said Stawarth Bolton, who had now approached to the front of the party. “Who dared to say that word?” said the Euphuist, his face crimson with rage.= s. eli MURRAY LT EARL OF THE THTS ME Y's OF SAINT MAR OT TBRAGy SOM ———— » > ABI x HE =e TF io ’ 3 ny RR en ‘ Sa = SAN See ae 2 SAT EY jinn 1sTHE MONASTERY “Tut ! man,” said Bolton, “ make the best of it, thy mother’s father was but a tailor, old Overstitch of Holderness—Why what! because thou art a misproud bird and despiseth thine own natural lineage, and rufflest in unpaid silks and velvets, and keepest company with gallants and cutters, must we lose our memory for that? Thy mother, Moll Overstitch, was the prettiest wench in those parts—she was wedded by wild Shafton of Wilverton, who, men say, was akin to the Piercie on the wrong side of the blanket.” | ‘“ Help the knight to some strong w hath fallen from such a | tumble.” In fact, Sir Piercie Shafton looked like am a thunderbolt, while, notwithstanding the sericusness of the scene hitherto, no one of those present, not even the Abbot himself, could refain from laughing at the rueful and mortified expression of his face. “Laugh on,” he said at length, “ laugh on, my masters,” shrugging his shoulders ; “it is not forme to be offended—yet would I know full fain from that Squire who is laughing with tne loudest, how he had discovered this unhappy blot in an otherwise spotless lineage, and for what purpose he hath made it known?” “/ make it known ?”’ said Halbert Glendinning, in astonish- ment,—for to him this pathetic appeal was made,—“I never heard the thine till this moment.” * “Why, did not that old rude soldier learn it from thee 2" said the knight, in increasing amazement. * Not I, by Heaven !” said Bolton ; “I never saw the youth in my life before.” “But you ave seen him ere now, my worthy master,” said Dame Glendinning, bursting in herturn fromthe crowd. ‘“M son, this is Stawarth Bolton, he to whom we owe life, and the means of preserving it—If he be a prisoner, as seems most likely, use thine interest with these noble lords to be kind to the widow’s friend.” “What, my Dame of the Glen !” said Bolton ; “ thy brow is more withered, as well as mine, since we met last, but thy tongue holds the touch better than my arm, ‘This boy of thine gave me the foil sorely this morning. The Brown Varlet has turned as stout a trooper as I prophesied ; and where is White Head?” aters,” said Morton, “he 1eight, that he is stunned with the an stricken by *Note N. The White Spirit.334 THE MONASTERY. “ Alas!” said the mother, looking down, “ Edward has taken orders, and become a monk ofthis Abbey.” “ A monk and a soldier !—Evil trades both, my good dame. Better have made one a good master fashioner, like old Over- stitch of Holderness. I sighed when I envied you the two bonny children, but I sigh not now to call either the monk or the soldier mine own. ‘The soldier dies in the field, the monk scarce lives in the cloister.” “My dearest mother,” said Halbert, “ where 1s Edward— can I not speak with him ?” “ Hehas just left us for the present,” said Father Philip, ‘upon a message from the Lord the Abbot.” ‘“ And Mary, my dearest mother?” said Halbert——Mary Avenel was not far distant, and the three were soon withdrawn from the crowd, to hear and relate their various chances of fortune. While the subordinate personages thus disposed of them- selves, the Abbot held serious discussion with the two Earls, and, partly yielding to their demands, partly defending himself with skill and eloquence, was enabled to make a composition for his Convent, which left it provisionally in no worse situation than. before. The Earls were the more reluctant to drive matters to extremity, since he protested that if urged beyond what his conscience would comply with, he would throw the whole lands of the Monastery into the Queen of Scotland’s hands, to be disposed of at her pleasure. This would not have answered the views of the Earls, who were contented, for the time, with a moderate sacrifice of money and lands. Matters being so far settled, the Abbot became anxious for the fate of Sir Piercie Shafton, and implored mercy in his behalf. “ He is a coxcomb,” he said, “my lords, but he is a gener- ous, though a vain fool ; and it is my firm belief you have this day done him more pain than if you had run a poniard into him.” “ Run a needle into him you mean, Abbot,” said the Earl of Morton ; “by mine honor, I thought this grandson of a fash- soner of doublets was descended from a crowned head at least! e “JT hold with the Abbot,” said Murray; “ there were little honor in surrendering him to Elizabeth, but he shall be sent where he can do her no injury. Our pursuivant and Bolton shall escort him to Dunbar, and ship him off for Flanders.— But soft, here he comes, and leading a female as I think.” “Lords and others,” said the English knight with great solemnity, “make way for the lady of Piercie Shafton—a secret which I listed not to make known till fate which hath betrayedTHE MONASTERY. what I vainly strove to conceal, makes me less desirous to hide that which I now announce to you.” “It is Mysie Happer, the Mill said Tibb Tacket. “ ] thoug! would have a fa’,” “It is indeed the lovely Mysinda,” merits towards her devoted servant de he had to bestow.” *“*I suspect, though,” said Murray, “that we should not have heard of the Miller’s daughter being made a lady, had not the knight proved to be the grandson of a tailor,” ““ My Lord,” said Piercie Shafton, “it is poor valor to strike him that cannot smite again ; and I hope you will consider what is due to a prisoner by the law of arms, and say nothing more on this odious subject. When I am once more mine own man, I will find a new road to dignity.” “ Shape one, I presume,” said the Earl of Morton. “Nay, Douglas, you will drive him mad,” said Murray ; “besides, we have other matter in hand—I must see Warden wed Glendinning with Mary Avenel, and put him in possession of his wife’s castle without delay. It will be best done ere our forces leave these parts.” “And I,” said the Miller, “have the like grist to grind; for I hope some one of the good fathers will wed my wench with her gay bridegroom.” “It needs not,” said Shafton ; “the ceremonial hath been solemnly performed.” “ It will not be the worse of another bolting,” said the Miller ; “itis always best to be sure, as Isay when I chance to take multure twice from the same meal-sack.” “Stave the Miller off him,” said Murray, “or he will worry him dead. The Abbot, my lord, offers us the hospitality of the Convent ; I move we should repair hither, Sir Piercie and all of us. I must learn to know the Maid of Avenel—to-morrow I must act as her father—All Scotland shall see how Murray can reward a faithful servant.” Mary Avenel and her lover avoided meeting the Abbot, and took up their temporary abode in a house of the village, where next day their hands were united by the Protestant preacher in presence of the two Earls. On the same day Piercie Shafton and his bride departed, under an escort which was to conduct him to the sea-side, and see him embark for the Low Countries, Early on the following morning the bands of the Earls were under march to the Castle of Avenel. to invest the young bride- 25 er’s daughter, on my life!” it the pride of those Piercies said the knight, “ whose served higher rank than386 THE MONASTERY. groom with the property of his wife, which was surrendered to them without opposition. But not without those omens which seemed to mark every remarkable event which befell the fated family did Mary take possession of the ancient castle of her forefathers. “The same warlike form which had appeared more than once at Glendearg, was seen by Tibb Tacket and Martin, who returned with their young mistress to partake her altered fortunes. It glided before the cavalcade as they advanced upon the long causeway, paused at each drawbridge, and flourished its hand, as in triumph, as it disappeared under the gloomy archway, which was surmounted by the insignia of the house of Avenék" The two trusty servants made their vision only known to Dame Glendinning, who, with much pride of heart, had accompanied her son to see him take bis rank among the barons of the land. ‘¢Oh, my dear bairn!” she exclaimed, when she heard the tale, “the castle is a grand place to be sure, but I wish ye dinna a’ desire to be back in the quiet braes of Glendearg before the play be played out.” But this natural reflection, springing from maternal anxiety, was soon forgotten amid the busy and pleasing task of examining and admiring the new habitation of her son. While these affairs were passing, Edward had hidden him- self and his sorrows in the paternal Tower of Glendearg, where every object was full of matter for bitter reflection. The Abbot’s kindness had despatched him thither upon pretence of placing some papers belonging to the Abbey in safety and secrecy ; but in reality to prevent his witnessing the triumph of his brother. Through the deserted apartments, the scene of so many bitter reflections, the unhappy youth stalked like a discontented ghost, conjuring up around him at every step new subjects for sorrow and for self-torment. Impatient, at length, of the state of irrita- tion and agonized recollection in which he found himself, he rushed out and walked hastily up the glen, as if to shake off the load which hung upon his mind. The sun was setting when he reached the entrance of Corri-nan-shian, and the recollection of what he had seen when he last visited that haunted ravine, burst on his mind. He was in a humor, however, rather to se2k out danger than to avoid it. “J will face this mystic being,” he said ; “she foretold the fate which has wrapt me in this dress,—I will know whether she has aught else to tell me of a life which cannot but be miserable.” He failed not to see the White Spirit seated by her accus-THE MONASTERY. tomed haunt, and singing in her usual low and sweet tone, While she sung, she seemed to look with sorrow on her golden zone, which was now diminished to the fineness of a silken thread. “ Fare thee well, thou Holly green! Thou shalt seldom now be seen, With all thy glittering garlands bending, As to greet my slow descending, Startling the bewildered hind, Who sees thee wave without a wind. “ Farewell, Fountain ! now not long Shalt thou murmur to my song. While thy crystal bubbles glancing, Keep the time in mystic dancing, Rise and swell, are burst and lost, Like mortal schemes by fortune crost. : “The knot of fate at length is tied, The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride, Vainly did my magic sleight Send the lover from her sight ; Wither bush and perish well, Fall’n is lofty Avenel !” The vision seemed to weep while she sung ; and the words impressed on Edward a melancholy belief, that the alliance of Mary with his brother might be fatal to them both, flere terminates the First Part of the Benedictine’s Manuscript. L have in vain endeavored to ascertain the precise period of the story, as the dates cannot be exactly reconciled with those of the most accredited histories. But it ts astonishing how careless the writers of Utopia are upon these important subjects. TI observe that the fearned Mr. Laurence Templeton, in his late publication entitled IVANHOE, has not only blessed the bed of Edward the Confessor with an offspring unknown to history, with sundry other solecisms of the same kind, but has inverted the order of nature, and feasted his swine with acorns in the midst of summer. All that can be alleged by the warmest admirer of this author amounts to this,— that the circumstances objected to are just as true as the rest of the Story; which appears to me (more especially in the matter of the acorns ) to be a very imperfect defence, and that the author will do well to profit by Captain Absolute’s advice to his servant, and never tell him more lies than are indispensable NECESSATY.NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. NoTE A, p. §.—HILLSLAP AND COLMSLIE, (Mr. John Borthwick of Crookston, in a note to the publisher (June 14, 1843) says that Sir Walter has reversed the proprietorship of these towers—that Colmstie belonged to Mr. Innes of Stow, while A/i//s/ap forms part of his estate of Crookston He adds—“ In proof that the tower of Hillslap, which I have taken measures to pre- serve from injury, was chiefly in his head, as the tower of Glendearg, when writing the Monastery, I may mention that. on one of the occasions when I had the honor of being a visitor at A bbotsford, the stakles then being full, I sent a pony to be put up at our tenant’s at Hillslap :—‘ Well,’ said Sir Walter, ‘if you do that, you must trust for its not being /ifed before to-morrow, to the protection of Halbert Glendin- ning against Christie of the Clinthill.’ At page 5, vol. iii. first edition, the ‘ wind- ing stair’ which the monk ascended is described. The winding stone stair is still to be seen in Hillslap, but not in either of the other two towers.” It is, however. probable, from the Goat’s-Head crest on Colmslie, that that tower also had been of old a possession of the Borthwicks.] NoTE B, p. 10.—THE WHITE LADY, AND EUPHUISM. {Referring to the “ Monastery,’ Mr. Lockhart, in his Memoirs of Scott, says he has little to add to the information afforded by the Author himself in his Introduce tion to the novel. “ The Monastery was considered a failure—the first of the series on which any such sentence was pronounced ;—nor have I much to allege in favor of the White Lady of Avenel, generally criticised as the primary blot—or of Sir Piercie Shafton, who was loudly, though not quite so generally, condemned. In either case, consid- ered separately, Sir Walter seems to have erred from dwelling (in the German taste) on materials that might have done very well for a rapid sketch. The phantom with whom we have leisure to become familiar, is sure to fail—even the witch of Endor is contented with a momentary appearance and five syllables of the shade she evokes. ”’ “ The beautiful natural scenery, and the sterling Scotch characters and manners introduced in the Monastery, are, however, sufficient to redeem even these mistakes.” —J. G. LoCKHART.] NotTE C, p. 47.—GALLANTRY, As gallantry of all times and nations has the same mode of thinking and acting $0 it often expresses itself by the same symbols. In the civil war 1745-6, a party of Highlanders, under a Chieftain of rank, came to Rose Castle, the seat of the Bishop of Carlisle, but then occupied by the family of Squire Dacre of Cumberland. They demanded quarters, which of course were not to be refused to armed men of a strange attire and unknown language. But the domestic represented to the captain of the mountaincers, that the lady of the mansion had been just delivered of a daugh- ter, and expressed her hope, that, under these circumstances, his party would give as little trouble as possible. “God forbid,” said the gallant chief, “that I or mine should be the means of adding to a lady’s inconvenience at sucha time. May I res quest to see the infant?” The child was brought, and the SL ae tap 399.390 NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. cockade out of his bonnet, and pinning it on the child’s breast, ‘‘ That will be a token,” he said, “to any of our people who may come hither, that Donald M:Donald of Kinloch-Moidart has taken the family of Rose Castle under his protection.” The lady who received in infancy this gage of Highland protection, 1s now Mary, Lady Clerk of Pennycuick; and on the roth of June still wears the cockade which was pinned on her breast, with a white rose as a kindred decoration. [Lady Mary Clerk died in Edinburgh in 1834 in her 89th year] 5 Note D, p. 5 3.—F AIRIES. This superstition continues to prevail, though one would suppose it must now be antiquated. It is only a year or two since an itinerant puppet showman, who, diss dcining to acknowledge the profession of Gines de Passamonté, called himself an artist from Vauxhall, brought a complaint of a singular nature before the author, as Sheriff of Selkirkshire. The singilir dexterity with which the showman had ex: hibited the machinery of his little stage, had, upon a Selkirk fair-day, excited the eager curiosity of some mechanics of Galashiels. These men, from no worse motive that could be discovered than a thirst after knowledge beyond their sphere, com- mitted a burglary upon the barn in which the puppets had been consigned to repose, and carried them off in the nook of their plaids, when returning from Selkirk to their own village. ‘¢ But with the morning cool reflection came.” The party found, however, they could not make Punch dance, and that the whole troop were equally intractable; they had also, perhaps, some apprehensions of the Rhadamanth of the district; and, willing to be quit of their booty, they left the pup- pets seated in a grove by the side of the Ettrick, where they were sure to be touched by the first beams of the rising sun. Herea shepherd, who was on foot with sunrise to pen his master’s sheep on a field of turnips, to his utter astonishment, saw this train, profusely gay, sitting in the little grotto. His examination proceeded thus :-— Sheriff —Y ou saw these gay-looking things? what did you think they were? Shepherd.—Ou, I am no that free to say what I might think they were Sheriff—Come, lad, I must have a direct answer—who did you think they were? Shepherd.—Ou, sir, troth I am no that free to say that I mind wha I might think they were. Sheriff. —Come, come, sir! I ask you distinctly, did you think they were the fairies you saw? Shepherd.—Indeed, sir, and I winna say but I might think it was the Good Neighbors. Thus unwillingly was he brought to allude to the irritable and captious inhabitants of fairy. land. NotTE E, p. 85.—DRAWBRIDGE AT BRIDGE-END. A bridge of the very peculiar construction described in the text, actually existed at a small hamlet about a mile and a half above Melrose, called from the circum- stance Bridge-end. It is thus noticed in Gordon’s /tinerarium Septentrionale :— “In another journey through the south parts of Scotland, about a mile and a half from Melrose, in the shire of Teviotdale, I saw the remains of a curious bridge over the river Tweed, consisting of three octangular pillars, or rather towers, stand- ing within the water, without any arches to join them, The middle one, which is the most entire, has a door towards the north, and I suppose, another opposite one ‘toward the south, which I could not see without crossing the water. In the middle of this tower is a projection or cornice surrounding it: the whole is hollow from the door upwards, and now open at the top, near which is a small window. I was in- formed that not long ago a countryman and his family lived in this tower—and got his livelihood by laying out planks from pillar to pillar, and conveying passengers over the river. Whether this be ancient or modern, I know not; but as it is singue lar in its kind, I have thought fit to exhibit it”?NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 391 The vestiges of this uncommon species of bridge still exist, and the aut h often seen the foundations of the columns when drifting down the Tweed ta ce for the purpose of killing salmon by torch-light, Mr, John Mercer pe ee , recollects, that about fifty years ago the pillars were visible above water ; ae late Mr. David Kyle of the George Inn, Melrose, told the author that he sa: / t ; taken from the river bearing this inscription :— Toso 6 ; ; I, Sir John Pringle of Palmer stede, Give an hundred markis of gowd sae reid, To help to bigg my brigg ower Tweed.”? Pringle of Galashiels, afterwards of Whytbank, w 2 ek ;. y , was the Baron to whom the Note F, p. 180.—QuAINT EPITHETS. There are many instances to be met with in the ancient dramas of this whimsical and conceited custom of persons who formed an intimacy distinguishing each other by some quaint epithet. In Every Man out of his Humor, there is a humorous de- bate upon names most fit to bind the relation betwixt Sogliardo and Cavahiero Shift which ends by adopting those of Countenance and Resolution, What is more to the point is in the speech of Hedon,a voluptuary and a courtier in Cyzthia’s Revels. “You know that I call Madam Plilantia my Honor, and she calls me her AMBITION. Now, when I meet her in the presence anon, I will come to her and say, ‘ Sweet Honor, | have hitherto contented my sense with the lilies of your hand and now | will taste the roses of your lip.’ To which she cannot but blushing an- swer, ‘ Nay, now you are too ambitious ;” and then do I reply, ‘I cannot be too am- bitious of Honor, sweet lady. Wilt not be good?’ ’’—1 think there is some remnant of this foppery preserved in Masonic Lodges, where each brother is distinguished by aname in the Lodge, signifying sOme abstract quality, as Discretion, or the like: See the Masonic Songs of Gavin Wilson, Poet Laureate to the Lodge of St. David’s. Edin. 1788, Note G, p. 197.— ROWLAND YORKE AND STUKELY. “ Yorke,’’ says Camden, “ was a Londoner, a man of loose and dissolute bee havior, and desperately audacious—famous in his time amongst the comnion bullies and swaggerers, as being the first that, to the great admiration of many at his bold- ness, brought into England the bold and dangerous way of fencing with the rapier in duelling. Whereas, till that time, the English used to fight with long swords and bucklers, striking with the edge, and thought it no part of man either to push or strike beneath the girdle.” Having a command in the Low Countries, Yorke revolted to the Spaniards, and died miserably, poisoned, as was supposed, by his new allies. ‘Three years afters wards his bones were dug up and gibbeted by the command of the States of Hol- land. Thomas Stukely, another distinguished gallant of the time, was bred a merchant, being the son of a rich clothier in the west. He weddef the daughter and heiress of a wealthy alderman of London named Curtis, after whose death he squandered the riches he thus acquired in all manner of extravagance. His wife, whose fortune supplied his waste, represented to him that he ought to make more of her. Stukely replied, “ I will make as much of thee, bel eve me, as it is possible for any to do;” and he kept his word in one sense, having stripped her even of her wearing apparet before he finally ran away from her. Having fled to Italy, he contrived to impose upon the Pope with a plan of in vading Ireland, for which he levied soldiers, and made some preparations, but ended by engaging himself and his troops in_ the service of King Sebastian of Portugal. He sailed with that prince on his fatal voyage to Barbary, and fell with him at the battle of Alcazar.392 NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. Stukely, as one of the first gallants of the time, has had the honor to be chron- feled in song, in Evans’s Old Ballads, vol. iil, editioa 1810. His fate is also intro- duced in a tragedy by George Peel, as has been supposed, called the Battle of Alcazar, from which play Dryden is alleged to have taken the idea of Don Sebas- tian ; if so, it is surprising he omitted a character so congenial to King Charles the Second’s time, as the witty, brave, and profligate Thomas Stukely. Nore H, p. 279.—JULIAN AVENEL. If it were necessary to name a prototype for this brutal, liceritious, and crue] Bors der chief, in an age which showed but too many such, the Laird of Black Ormiston might be selected for that purpose. He was a friend and confident of Bothwell, and an agent in Henry Darnley’s murder. At his last stage he was, like other great offenders, a seeming penitent; and, as his confession bears, divers gentlemen and servants being in the chamber, he said, “ For God’s sake, sit down and pray for me, for I have been a great sinner otherwise” (that is, besides his share in Darnley’s death), “ for the which God is this day punishing me: for of all men on the earth, I have been one of the proudest, and most high-minded, and most unclean of my body. But specially I have shed the innocent blood of one Michael Hunter with my own hands. Alas, therefore! because the said Michael, having me lying on my back, hav- ing a fork in his hand, might have slain me if he had pleased, and did it not, which of all things grieves me most in conscience. Also, in a rage | hanged a poor man for a horse ;—with many other wicked deeds, for whilk I ask my God mercy. It is not marvel | have been wicked, considering the wicked company that ever I have been in, but specially within the seven years by-past, in which J never saw two good men or one good deed, but all kind of wickedness, and yet God would not suffer me to be lost.”—See the whole confession in the State Trials. Another worthy of the Borders, called Geordy Bourne, of somewhat subordinate rank, was a similar picture of profligacy. He had fallen into the hands of Sir Robert Carey, then Warden of the English East Marthes, who gives the following account of his prisoner’s confession :— “ When all things were quiet, and the watch set at night, after supper, about ten * of the clock, I took one of my men’s liveries, and put it about me, and took two other of my servants with me in their liveries ; and we three, as the Warden’s men, came to the Provost Marshal’s, where Bourne was, and were let into his chamber. We sate down by him, and told him that we were desirous to see him, because we heard he was stout and valiant, and true to his friend, and that we were sorry our master could not be moved to save his life. He, voluntarily of himself, said that he had lived long enough to do so many villanies as he had done; and withal, told us that he had lain with above forty men’s wives—what in England, what in Scotland ; and that he had killed seven Englishmen with his own hands, cruelly murdering them ; and that he had spent his whole time in whoring, drinking, stealing, and taking deep revenge for slight offences. He seemed to be very penitent, and much desired a minister for the comfort of his soul. We promised him to let our master know his desire, who, we knew, would promptly grant it. We took leave of him; and presently I took order that Mr. Selby, a very honest preacher, should go to him, and net stir from him until his execution the next morning; for after I had heard his own confcss.on, I was re- solved no conditions should save his life, and so took order, that at the gates opening the next morning, he shoutd be carried to execution, which accordingly was pers formed.” —Memoirs of Sir Robert Carey, Earl of Monmouth. [ This incident is also referred to in one of the notes to d Legend of Montrose, page 455-] NoTE I, p. 306. ForprpERY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY, _Sir Piercie Shafton’s extreme love ‘of dress was an attribute of the coxcombs of this period. The display made by their forefathers was in the numbers of their re> tinue but as the actual influence of the nobility began to be restrained both in France and England by the increasing power of the Crown, the indulgence of vanity in pesNOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 393 j lay 5 ; i . sonal disp'ay became more inordinate. There are many allusions to this change of => ) } r > e ae A . 2 aac a a Shakspeare and other dramatic writers, where the reader may find mention made o “‘ Bonds enter’d into For gay apparel against the triumph day.” bao informs us, that for the first entrance of a gallant, “’twere good you turned our or five hundred acres of your best land into two or three trunks of apparel,’’— Every Man out of his Humor. ; In the Memorie of the Somerville family, a curious instance occurs of this fash- ionable species of extravagance. In the year 1537, when James V. brought over his short-lived bride from France, the Lord Somerville of the day was so profuse in the expense of his apparel, that the money which he borrowed on the occasion was com- pensated by a perpetual annuity of threescore pounds Scottish, payable out of the barony of Carnwath till doomsday, which was assigned by the creditor to Saint Mag- dalen’s Chapel. By this deep expense the Lord Somerville had rendered himself so glorious in apparel, that the king, who saw so brave a gallant enter the gate of Holyrood, followed by only two pages, called upon several of the courtiers to ascertain who it could be who was so richly dressed and so slightly attended, and he was not recognized until he entered the presence-chamber. ‘“ You are very brave, my lord,” said the King as he received his homage; “but where are all your men and attend- ants?’? The Lord Somerville readily answered, “If it please your Majesty, here they are,” pointing to the lace that was on his own and his pages clothes; whereat the King laughed heartily, and having surveyed the finery more nearly, bade him have away with it all, and let him have his stout band of spears again. There is a scene in Jonson’s Avery Man out of his Humor (Act IV. Scene 6), in which ~ Euphuist of the time gives an account of the effects of a duel on the clothes of l-mself and his opponent, and never departs a syllable from the catalogue of his wa.drobe. We shall insert it in evidence that the foppery of our ancestors was not inferior to that of our own time. “ Fastidius. Good faith, signior, now you speak of a quarrel, I’ll acquaint you with a difference that happened between a gallant and myself, Sir Puntarvolo. You know him if I should name him—Signior Luculento. “ Punt. Luculento! What inauspicious chance interposed itself to your two loves ? “ Fast. Faith, sir, the same that sundered Agamemnon, and great Thetis’ son; but let the cause escape, sir. He sent rne a challenge, mixt with some few braves, which I restored; and, in fine, we m Now indeed, sir, I must tell you, he did offer at first very desperately, but without judgment; for, look you, sir, I cast myself into this figure; now he came violently on, and withal, advancing his rapier to strike, I thought +o have took his arm, for he had left his body to my election, and I was sure he could not recover his guard. Sir, 1 mist my purpose in his arm, rashed his doublet sleeves, ran him close by the left cheek and through his hair. He, again, light me here—I had ona gold cable hat-band, then new come up, about a murrey French hat I had; cuts my hat-band, and yet it was massy goldsmith’s work, cuts my brain, which, by good fortune, being thick embroidered with gold twist and spangles, disappointed the force of the blow; nevertheless it grazed on my shoulder, takes me away six purls of an Italian cut-work band I wore, cost me three pounds in the Ex- change but three days before —— “ Punt. This was a strange encounter. ““ Fast. Nay, you shall hear, sir. With this, we both fell out and breathed. Now, upon the second sion of his assault, I betook me to my former manner of defence ; he, on the other side, abandoned his body to the same danger as before, and follows me still with blows; but I, being loth to take the deadly advantage that lay before me of his left side. made a kind of stremazoun, ran him up to the hilt through the doublet, through the shirt, and yet missed the skin. He, making a reverse blow, falls upon my embossed girdle—I had thrown off the hangers a little before—strikes off a skirt of a thick-laced satin doublet I had, lined with four taffetas, cuts off two panes em- broidered with pearl, rends through the drawings-out of tissue, enters the linings, and skips the flesh. : “ Car. I wonder he speaks not of his wrought shirt.394 NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. “ Fast. Here, in the opinion of mutual damage, we paused. Bug, ere:] proceed, ¥ must tell you, signior, that in the last encounter, not having leisure to put off my sib ver spurs, one of the rowels catched hold of the ruffles of my boot, and being Spanish leather, and subject to tear, overthrows me, rends me two pair of silk stockings that I put on, being somewhat of a raw morning, a peach color and another, and strikes me some half inch deep into the sice of the calf: He, seeing the blood come, presently takes horse and away; I] having bound up my wound with a piece of my wrought shirt—-— “ Car. O, comes it in there? “ Fast. Ride aiter him, and, lighting at the court-gate both together, embraced, and marched hand in hand up into the presence. Was not this business well car- ried ? “ Ma-i. Well! yes ; and by this we can guess what apparel the gentleman woree “ Pynt, Fore valor! it was a designment begun with much resolution, mau tained with as much prowess, and ended with more humanity.” NoTE J, p. 369.—Goop FAITH OF THE BORDERERS, As some atonement for their laxity of morals on most occasions, the Borderers were severe observers of the faith which they had pledged, even to an enemy. If any person bioke his word so plighted, the individual to whom faith had not been ob- served, used to bring to the next border-meeting a glove hung on the point of a spear, and proclaim to Scots and English the name of the defaulter. ‘This was accounted su great a disgrace to all connected with him, that his own clansmen sometimes de- stroyed him, to escape: the infamy he had brought on them. Constable, a spy engaged by Sir Ralph Sadler, talks of two Border thieves, whom he used as his guides: “That they would not care to steal,and yet that they would not betray any man that trusts in them, for al] the gold in Scotland or in France. They are my guides and outlaws. If they would betray me they might get their pare dons, and cause me to be hanged; but I have tried them ere this.”—Sadler’s Letters During the Northern Insurrection. NoTE K, p. 372.—INDULGENCES TO THE MONKS. The diberes, caritas, and boiled almonds, of which Abbot Boniface speaks, were special occasions for enjoying luxuries, afforded to the monks by grants from different sovereigns, or from other benefactors to the convent. There is one of these charters called De Pitancia Centum Librarum. By this charter, which is very curious, our Robert Bruce, on the roth January, and in the twelfth year of his reign, assigns, out of the customs of Berwick, and failing them, out of the customs of Edinburgh or Haddington, the sum of one hundred pounds, at the half-yearly terms of Pentecost and Saint Martin’s in winter, to the Abbot and community of the monks of Melrose. The precise purpose of this annuity is to furnish to each of the monks of the said monastery, while placed at food in the refectory, an extra mess of rice boiled with milk, or of almonds, or peas, or other pulse of that kind which could be procured in the country. This addition to their commons is to be entitled the King’s Mess. And it is declared, that although any monk should, from some honest apology, want appe- tite or inclination to eat of the king’s mess, his share should, nevertheless, be placed on the table with those of his brethren, and afterwards carried to the gate and given to the poor. ‘“ Neither is it our pleasure,” continues the bountiful sovereign, “that the dinner, which is or ought to be served up to the said monks according to their an- cient rule, should be diminished in quantity, or rendered inferior in quality, on account of this our mess, so furnished as aforesaid.” It is, moreover, provided, that the ab- bot, with the consent of the most sage of his brethren, shall name a prudent and decent monk for receiving, directing, and expending, all matters concerning this ans nuity for the benefit of the con m inity, agreeably to the royal desire and intention rendering a faithful account thereof to the abbot and superiors of the same convent And the same charter declares the king’s farther pleasure, that the said men of relig- ton should be bound yearly and forever, in acknowledgment of the above donation,NOTES. FO THE MONASTERY. 395 to clothe fifteen poor men at the feast of Saint Martin in winter, and to feed them on the same day, delivering to each of them four ells of large or broad, or six ells of nars row cloth, and to each also a new pair of shves or sandals, according to their order ; and if the said monks shall fail in their engagements, or any of them. it is the king’s will that the fault shall be redeemed by a double performance of what has been omit- ted, to be executed at the sieht of the chief forester of Ettrick for the time being, and before the return of Saint Martin’s day succeeding that on which the omission has taken place. Of this charter, respecting the pittance of £100 ass Melrose with a daily mess of boiled rice, almonds, igned to furnish the monks of | ) or other pulse, to mend their come mons, the antiquarian reader will be pleased, doubtless, to see the original, CARTA REcIs Rosertr I. ABBATI ET CONVENTUI DE MELROSS, Carta de Pitancia Centum Librarum. “ Robertus Dei gracia Rex Scottorum omnibus probis hominibus tocius terre sue Salutem. Sciatis nos pro salute anime nostre et pro salute animarum antecessorum et successorum nostrorum Regum Scocie Dedisse Concessisse et hac presenti Carta nostra confirmasse Deo et Beate Marie virgini et Religiosis viris Abbati et Conventui de Melross et eorum successoribus in perpetuum Centum Libras Sterlingorum Annui Redditus singulis annis percipiendas de firmis nostris Burgi Berwici super Twedam ad terminos Pentecostis et Sancti Martini in hyeme pro equali portione vel de nova Custuma nostra Burgi predicti si firme nostre predicte ad dictam summam pecunie sufficere non poterunt vel de nova Custuma nostra Burgorum nostrorum de Eden- burg et de Hadington Si firme nostre et Custuma nostra ville Berwici aliquo casu contingente ad hoc forte non sufficiant, Ita quod dicta summa pecunie Centum Librarum eis annuatim integre et absque contradictione aliqua plenarie persolvatur precunctis aliis quibuscunque assignacionibus per nos factis seu faciendis ad inven= 1endum in perpetuum singulis diebus cuilibet monacho monasterii predicti ccmedenti in Refectorio unum sufficiens ferculum risarum factarum cum lacte, amigdalarum vel pisarum sive aliorum ciborum consimilis condicionis inventorum in patria et illud fer- culum ferculum Regis vocabitur in eternum. Et si aliquis monachus ex aliqua causa honesta de dicto ferculo comedere noluerit vel refici non poterit non minus attamen sibi de dicto ferculo ministretur et ad portam pro pauperibus deportetur. Nec vol- umus quod occasione ferculi nostri predicti prandium dicti Conventus de quo anti- quitus communiter eis deserviri sive ministrari solebat in aliquo pejoretur seu dimin- uatur, Volumus insuper et ordinamus quod Abbas ejusdem monasterii qui pro tempore fuerit de consensu saniorum de Conventu specialiter constituat unum mon- achum providum et discretum ad recipiendum ordinandum et expendendum totam summam pecunie memorate pro utilitate conventus secundum votum et intencionem mentis nostre superius annotatum et ad reddendum fidele compotum coram Abbate et Maioribus de Conventu singulis annis de pecunie sic recepta, Et volumus quod dicti religiosi teneantur annuatim in perpetuum pro predicta donacione nostra ad pers etuam nostri memoriam vestire quindecim pauperes ad festum Sancti Martini in ecie et eosdem cibare eodem die liberando eorum cuilibet quatuor ulnas panni grossi et lati vel sex ulnas panni stricti et eorum cuilibet unum novum par sotularium de ordine suo. Et si dicti religiosi in premissis vel aliquo premissorum aliquo anno defecerint volumus quod illud quod minus perimpletum fuerit duppli- cetur diebus magis necessariis per visum capitalis forestarii nostri de Selkirk, qui pro tempore fuerit. Et quod dicta dupplicatio fiat ante natale domini proximo sequens festum Sancti Martini predictum. In cujus rei testimonium presenti Carte nostre sigillum nostrum precipimus apponi. Testibus venerabilibus in Christo patribus Willielmo, Johanne, Willielmo et David Sancti Andree, Glasguensis, Dunkeldensis et Moraviensis ecclesiarum dei gracia episcopis Bernardo Abbate de Abirbrothock Cancellario, Duncano, Malisio, et Hugone de Fyf de Strathin et de Ross, Comitibus Waltero Senescallo Scocie. Jacobo domino de Duglas et Alexandro Fraser Cam- erario nostro Scocie militibus. Apud Abirbrothock, decimo die Januarij. Anne Regni nostri vicesimo,”396 NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. Note L, p. 414.—GENEALOGY OF THE DovuGLAS FAMILY. The late excellent and laborious antiquary, Mr. George Chalmers, has rebuked the vaunt of the House of Douglas, or rather of Hume of Godscroft, their historian, but with less than his wonted accuracy. In the first volume of his Caledonia, he quotes the passage in Godscroft for the purpose of confuting it. The historian (of the Douglases) cries out, “ We do not know them in the foun- tain, but in the stream; not in the root, but in the stem; for we know not which is the mean man that did rise above the vulgar.” This assumption Mr. Chalmers con- ceives ill-timed, and alleges, that if the historian had attended more to research than to declamation, he might easily have seen the first mean man of this renowned fam- ily. This he alleges to have been one Theobaldus Flammaticus, or Theobald the Fleming, to whom Arnold, Abbot of Kelso, between the years 1147 and 1160, granted certain lands on Douglas water, by a deed which Mr. Chalmers conceives to be the first link of the chain of title-deeds to Douglasdale. Hence, he says, the family must renounce their family domain, or acknowledge this obscure Fleming as their ancestor. Theobald the Fleming, it is acknowledged, did not himself assume the name of Douglas ; “but,” says the antiquary, “his son William, who inherited his estate, called himself, and was named by others, De Douglas,” and he refers to the deeds in which he is so designed. Mr. Chalmers’ full argument may be found in the first solume of his Caledonia, p. 579. This proposition is one which a Scotsman will admit unwillingly, and only upon undeniable testimony ; and as it is liable to strong grounds of challenge, the present author, with all the respect to Mr. Chalmers which his zealous and effectual re- searches merit, is not unwilling to take this opportunity to state some plausible rounds for doubting that Theobaldus Flammaticus was either the father of the first Villiam de Douglas, or in the slightest degree connected with the Douglas family, It must first be observed, that there is no reason whatever for concluding Theo- haldus Flammaticus to be the father of William de Douglas, except that they both held Jands upon the small river of Douglas ; and that there are two strong presump- tions to the contrary. For, first, the father being named Fleming, there seems no good reason why the son should have assumed a different designation: secondly, there does not occur a single instance of the name of Theobald during the long line of the Douglas pedigree, an omission very unlikely to take place had the original father of the race been so called. These are secondary considerations indeed ; but they are important, in so far as they exclude any support of Mr. Chalmers’ system, except from the point which he has rather assumed than proved, namely, that the lands granted to Theobald the Fleming were the same which were granted to William de Douglas, and which constituted the original domain of which we find this power- ful family lords. Now, it happens, singularly enough, that the lands granted by the Abbot of Kelso to Theobaldus Flammaticus are not the same of which William de Douglas was in peor Nay, it would appear, from comparing the charter granted to Theo- aldus Flammaticus, that, though situated on the water of Douglas, they never made a part of the barony of that name, and therefore cannot be the same with those held by William de Douglas in the succeeding generation. But if William de Douglas did not succeed Theobaldus Flammaticus, there is no more reason for holding these two persons to be father and son than if they had lived in different provinces ; and we are still as far from having discovered the first mean man of the Douglas family as Hume of Godscroft was in the 16th century, We leave the question to antiquaries and genealogists. NotsE M, p. 414.—PEDIGREE OF THE STEWARTS. To atone to the memory of the learned and indefatigable Chalmers for having ventured to impeach his genealogical proposition concerning the descent of the Douglases, we are bound to render him our grateful thanks for the felicitous light which he has thrown on that of the House of Stewart, still more important to Scot: tists history. She acute pen of Lord Hailes, which, like the spear of Ithuriel, conjured s manyNOTES FO THE MONASTERY. 397 shadows from Scottish history, had dismissed among the rest those of B Fleance, the rejection of which fables left the illustrious family of Stewart without an ancestor beyond Walter the son of Allan, who is alluded to in the text. The ree Searches of our late learned antiquary detected in this Walter, the descendant of Allan, the son of Flaald, who obtained from William the Conqueror the Castle of Oswestry in Shropshire, and was the father of an illustrious line of English nobles by his first son William, and by his second son Walter, the progenitor of the royal family of Stewart. anquo and Note N, p. 419.—THE WHITE Sprrir., The contrivance of provoking the irritable vanity of Sir Piercie Shafton, by pre senting him witha bodkin, indicative of his descent from a tailor, is borrowed from a German romance, by the celebrated Tieck, called Das Peter Mannchen, #. ¢. The Dwarf Peter. The being who gives name to the tale, is the Burg-geist, or castle spectre, of a German family, whom he aids with his counsel, as he defends their castle by his supernatural power. But the Dwarf Peter is so unfortunate an ad- viser, that all his counsels, though producing success in the immediate results, are in the issue attended with mishap and with guilt. The youthful baron, the owner of the haunted castle, falls in love with a maiden, the daughter of a neighboring count, a man of great pride, who refuses him the hand of the young lady, on account of his own superiority of descent. The lover, repulsed and affronted, returns to take counsel with the Dwarf Peter, how he may silence the count. and obtain the victory in the argument, the next time they enter on the topic of pedigree. The dwarf gives his patron or pupil a horse-shoe, instructing him to give it to the count when he is next giving himself superior airs on the subject of his family. It has the effect ac- cordingly. The count, understanding it as an allusion to a misalliance of one of his ancestors with the daughter of a blacksmith, is thrown into a dreadful passion with the young lover, the consequences of which are the seduction of the young lady, and the slaughter of her father. If we suppose the dwarf to represent the corrupt part of human nature,—that “law in our members which wars against the law of our minds,”—the work forms ag ingenious allegory,GLOSSARY TO THE MONASTERY. (ier A, all. Derr, devil. Ag, one. DIGHT YOUR GABS, wipe your mouth, beid AEFAULD, honest. your tongue. AIN, own. Doucsg, quiet. Aver, draught-horse. Barxig, a magistrate. Barrn, a child. BepRAL, a sexton. Brer-Brewis, beef-soup. Bun, far ben, well on, successful, very inti- mate. Brsxp, shelter. Birn, a burn. Bop zg, a small copper coin. Bow, a boll measure. BowzrR-woMAN, lady’s-maid. BRAw, brave, fine. BROACH, a roasting spit. BrRocuan, a sort of thick gruel. Broce, to prick or stick with a goad or lance. Bourn, a brook. Busk, to deck. Ca.uet, the head. CaAnrTRIP, a frolic. Canty, cheerful. CaR.g, a fellow. CARLIN, a witch. Cawxesr, the sharpened heels of a horse- shoe. CHIMLEY, chimney. CLAP AND HAPPER, signs of investiture into mill property. CLECKING, hatching. Cieucn, a ravine or dell. CLooT, a rag. Cock-LAIRD, a small squire who tills his own land. Corrs, merchant. CoGGING KNAVE, greedy fellow. CoLtops, minced meat. CRACKS, gossip, yarnse Cummer, neighbor. CusHar, the ring-dove. Darrin, larking. Daze, a task, work. (398) EARDED, buried. Ex, eye. ERNE, the eagle, FAsu, trouble. FEND, to provide. FIRLOT, quarter of a boll measure. FLEIGHTER, to flicker. FORBEARS, ancestors. Forsy, besides. FORGATHER, take up with, become int mate. Fou, full, drunk. Frag, from. GALLIGASKIN, 2 wide sort of trouser. GATE, way, direction. GAzg-HOUND, a dog that hunts by the eye, a greyhound. GEAR, property. GER OR GAR, to cause, make, or force. GLEp, the kite. GLEG, smart. Gry THICK, pretty thick. GLIFF, a glance. Gop sain, God bless. GREET, to cry or weepe GrisT, grain sentto a millin payment for grinding. Gupeman, the husband or head of the house. GyR&-CARLINE, hag, hobgoblin. Hag, have. Haiti, whole. Hacois, a pudding of minced meat, oat meal, and spice. HA.rpomg, the sanctuary or land held under an abbey or convent. Hap, to cover up. ae to hold. EATHER-BLEATER, the mire-sni Hempia, a lad. : oaHiuxser, a flock or drove. Hoxsx-couprr, horse-dealer. HowrFrr, a retreat, place of meeting. Howk, to dig. Ix, each, INGYRE, to introduce one’s-self cunningly. OB, a sweetheart. OUK, tc shift or incline. KAIL worm, cabbage worm. KAIN FOWLS, poultry due to the landlord as part of the rent. KEEKING-GLASS, a looking-glass. Kxnpna, knew not. KRNSPECKLE, Conspicuous, odd-like. KESTREL, a species of hawk. Kipper, dried salmon. Kirn, a churn. KIRN MILK, butter milk. KiTTLg, ticklish, sly. Knows, a knoll. Kyrts, the belly. LAMPING, taking long strides. LawingG, the account or bill. Lzg, lie. LENTEN KAIL, Lent or thin broth. Lrx1T, liked. LIMMRER, a scoundrel. Lino, long dry grass. Lippy, quarter of a peck measure. LiTHER, lazy. Long, lonely. Lunt, a match. LuRDANB, worthless. MEAL-GIRNEL, meal-chest, Me pkgr, the portion of meal sent for grind- ing to the mill at one time. MEsSAN, a Cur. MISLEARED, ill-bred. Moss-HaG, a bog-pit. Muc-eweE, a long-woolled sheep. My certzs! my faith! NEIsT, next. OwkR, over. Our o’ GATE, out of the way. PANTOUFLE, a slipper. PEARLINS, a kind of lace. PEDDER-COFFE, travelling merchant. PInNERS, a lady’s head-dress with lappets. PLEUCH-PETTLB, the plough stick for clear- ing the earth, sometimes the plough stilt. PLoy, an entertainment, a gaudeamus. GLOSSARY. 399 Pock-puppIne, an epithet applied to Eng lishmen. YET WORDS, ornate language. RAP, a rope. REDD, to clear, Repk, counsel, advice. RICKLg, a heap. RoKELAY, a art cloak, Rowan-Treg, the mountain-ash. Runa, a cudgel. SAIN, to bless, SAUNT, saint. SAUT-FAT, a salt-cellar, SELL, self. Sey, woollen cloth. SHOON, shoes. SKELP, gallop. SouGH, calm sough, quiet tongue, Span-wirg, a fortune-teller, SPEER, to inquire. SPENCE, the pantry, SPRINGALD, a smart youth. STAMMBL, reddish, STERK, a stitch STEER, disturb. SWANKIRg, a smart fellow. SYNE, since, ago, TALE-PYET, tell-tale. THRAW, to twist. THRBEEP, to aver or contend for, TIRL, to turn or twist. TILLYVALLY, trifling, impertinent. TocuEr, dowry. Top, a fox. Toppy, whisky with hot water and sugar, TRANGAM, a trinket, TROTTERS, sheep’s feet singed. Tuivzig, a scuffle or embroglio. TWAL, twelve. Umguutteg, the deceased, UsQuEBAGH, whisky. VivERs, victuals, Wanna, would not. W ANION, misfortune. W AUR, worse. WAN, an infant or child. WEFT, a signal, W zisB, to guide, direct, or turn. W eM, a mark, WHILK, which. W HINGER, a heavy sort of sword. WHIRRIKD, whirled, WINNA, will not. W YLIE-COA%, an under coat-or vest. YAMMER, tu whimper or whine. YOLDRING, the yellow-hammar,INDEX TO THE MONASTERY. Ansot.. See Boniface. Allen Glen, Author’s explanations, 2. Amours, time of tale, 291. Antiquarian study, uses of, 5. Army, march of, like aserpent, 350 Avene] Castle, 234. Avenel, Lady, seeks refuge at Glendearg, 51; studying the Book, 59; death of, 94 (see also Mary and Julian). BaTT ez at Kennaquhair, 360. Beeches, lateness of foliage, 89. Bible, consolations of, 32: Ds Bible, Lady Avenel’s, 59 } mysterious return of, 91 3 snatched from the fairy fire, 130; discovered by Mary, 307. Bible as used by Satan, 86- Bodkin scene, 200. Bolton, Stawarth, visits Glendearg, 463 dis- armed by Halbert, 363. Boniface the Abbot, 663 troubled, 76 $ in reverie, 79; reconciled to Eustace, 116; visit to Sir Piercie at Glendearg, 165}; at dinner, 187; alarm about the inv aders, 3375 resigns in favor of Eustace, 343. Bonnet pieces, 232. Book, Lady Avenel’s. See Bible. Border creed of vengeance, 274. Border peel-towers, 39. Borderers’ good faith, note, 3945 Bourne, Geordie, note on, 3926 Bridge- end drawbridg re, 715 20LEy 3900 Brown Man of the Moors, 44. Buts and Ifs, 67. Carey, Sir Robert’s visit to his prisoner, note, 392. Catherine, Avenel’s mistress, 241 3 spurned from her master, 250 3 found on the battle- field, 3613; her infant rescued by Halbert, 305. Christie of the Clinthill, 918; fettered in the Monastery, 109; freed by Eustace, 1123 conversation with Sir Piercie, 150; con- ducts Halbert and Warden into Avenel Castle, 237}; brings Warden prisoner to Glendearg, 308 , makes terms for his mas- ter, 3343 death on the battle-field, 362. Church vassals, 38. Clutterbuck, introductory epistle from, 15 ; interview with the Benedictine respecting Melrose Abbey, 23. 26 Clutterbuck, Author’s answer to, $9. Colmslie Tower, note, 389. Corri-nan-shian fountain, 125. Cross, signing of the, 321. Davin I. founder of Melrose Abbey, 37. Domestics, time of tale, 58. Douglas family genealogy, note on, 396. Dry nurses, d like to, 78. Duel between Halbert and Sir Piercie, 2226 Duty, different calls of, 314. EpiTors’ peculiarities, 42. Education among the church vassals, 4o. Edward Glendinning, reception of the Eng lish captain, 47; at his studies, 1223; exe postulates with his brother, 213 ; wants to avenge his brother, 263 } his startling cons fession, 323 3} becomes an inmate of the Monastery, 337: Elspeth Glendinning, 463 visited by Fathers Philip, 67, and Eustace, go; sorrow for her son, 278. Epithets, quaint, sofe, 391- Euphuism, Author’s explanation, 93 critis cism on, ofes, 389, 393¢ Eustace, Father, declines the cup, 803 visit to Glendearg, 903 carries off the Book, 102 3 and encounter with the White Lady, 104; confesses to the Abbot, 116; reasons for keeping Sir Piercie at Glendearg, 1773 scruples about the venison, 189; return to the Tower, 260; meeting with Henry Ware den, 3143; liberates him, 3313 elected Abbot, 3443 refuses the intercession of Warden, 3713 meeting with Murray and Morton, 380. Farrrus, SCOTCH, 443 note on, 390. Fairy superstition, Author’s explanation, 6 Fare- thee-well, thou holly green! 387. Fencing in duelling, 221. Feus in Scotland, 38. Foppery of the sixteenth century, ofe, 392. Fops past and present, 140- Pontes, Sir John, 341 3 meeting with Murray and Morton, 365. Freebooters useful to the monks, 114. Friday scruples, 189. GALLANTRY in time of war, #022, 389. (401)4o2 George Inn at Melrose, 19. Ghost of Avenel, 59. 2 : Glendearg, Author’s explanation, 2 $ descrip- tion, 42. Glendinning, Simon, 453 ghost of, 63 (see also Edward, Elspeth, and Halbert). Good evening, Sir Priest—song, 104. HatsertT GLENDINNING, reception of the English captain, 47 ; flies from his books, 123 3 exorcises the White Lady, 128; and descends with her, 129; introduced to Sir Piercie, 153 ; objects to his addresses to Mary, 160; seeks advice from the White Lady, 182; description of him, 1943 re- fuses the Abbot’s appointment of bow- bearer, 198; and presents Sir Piercie with the bodkin, 200; challenged by him, 205; troubled thoughts, 210; the duel, 217; fall of his antagonist, 223; flight, and meets Warden, 226; conducts him to Avenel Castle, 230; escape, 257; falls in with the pedler, 348; and interview with Murray, 352; meets the English force at Kennaquhair, 362; picks up Catherine’s infant, 365; is granted the hand of Mary Avenel and the Castle, 378. Half-pay, delights of, 15. Handfasting, 240. Heresy, Father Philip’s admonition, 67. Hillslap Tower, zoZe, 380. Hob Miller’s visit to Glendearg, 134. Honor among the Borderers, noZe, 394. INDULGENCEs to the monks, zofe, 394. ACK-MEN, 08. udgment that detects faults only, 318. ulian Avenel, 56 ; in his tower, 239; throws Warden into the dungeon, 253 ; death of, 361; note on, 392. Kennagunarr (Melrose), Clutterbuck’s amusements at, 18; description, 37. Locustpe Tower, 225. Long bow of England, 53. Love waits not for the sanction of heraldry, Lover when lost preferred to the surviving rival, 304. Lyly, John, the wit, 149. MACFARLANT’S GEESE, 14f. Maiden, whose sorrows wail the living dead, 305. March, march, Ettrick-and Teviotdale, 253. Martin the shepherd, 5:. Mary Avenel, 523; sees her father’s ghost, 61; with the two brothers, 1223; descrip- tion of, 1423 expostulates with Halbert, 2153; accuses Sir Piercie of murder, 261 5 visited by the White Lady, 304; her care for the Book, 3303 wedding, 38s. Melrose (Kennaquhair), scene of the novel, INDEX. Author’s explanation, 13 Clutterbuck’s amusements at, 18; description, 37. Melrose Abbey, 373 search in, by Cluttere buck and the Benedictine, 32. Merrily swin: we, the moon shines bright, 75. Military zeal, 16. Mill multures, 134. Miller. See Hob. Monastery of St. Mary (Melrose), 37. Monastic ambition, 108. Monks’ indulgences, #ofe, 394. Mortal warp and mortal woof, 131. Murray, Lord James, 351. Mysie of the Mill, 135; admiration of Sir Piercie, 145; makes herself useful in the kitchen, 164; resolves to rescue Sir Piercie, 2813 is presented with his gold chain, 2913 changes her dress and becomes his page, 299; second rescue of Sir Piercie, 366. NATURAL MANNERS of an uncivilized peo ple, to. November melancholy, 89. O ay! the monks, they did the mischief, 3y, PEDLER met by Halbert, 348. Peel-towers, 39. Philip, Father, visits Glendearg, 66 3 carries off the Book, 69; adventure with the White Lady, 743 arrival at the Monastery, 82. Piercie, Sir, Author’s explanations, 123 are rival at Glendearg, 147; fine speeches, 151; soliloquy en his situation, 1623 res lates his mission to the Abbot,.170; his dress admired by Mysie, 196; presented with the bodkin, 200; challenges Halbert, 205 ; the duel, 217; falls, 223 ; return’ to the Tower, and accused of murder, 261 ; relates the circumstances of the duel, 267; escape from the Tower, 286; sets off for Edinburgh with Mysie, 299; annoys the Abbot with his fine speeches, 369 ; made prisoner, and exposure of, 382; notes on, 389, 392. Pinkie Cleuch battle, so. Prayer, blessedness of, 3293 consolations, 304. Preachers at the Reformation, 254. Pride and reason, 211. Procession from the Abbey, 375. Rep coat, love of, 16. Reformation preachers, 254. Reformers, early, scruples of, 95. Romish Church, errors of, 3073 discussion on, 3173; in Scotland, state of, time of tale, 311. St. Mary’s MonastTEry, 37¢ Saints, invocation of, 321. Servants, time of tale, 58. Sidney’s A strophel, 207. Sorners in Scotland, ro4. Stewart family, pedigree of, sofe, 396. Still small voice, 308.LNDE X, Stukely, Thomas, note on, 30%. THOU WHO SEEK’ST MY FOUNTAIN 328. Tibb Tacket, 62. Twapenny Faith, 231. Tweed at Melrose, 37. LONE, VassALs of the Church, 38. 5 Vengeance, the Borderers’ creed, 274. Warven, Henry, meets Halbert. 226: » 2263; and is guided to Avenel Castle, 230; objects to Avenel’s mode of life, 248; brought pris- oner to the Sub-Prior, 313; ordered to be 403 beund, 318; liberated on parole, 330; visits the convent, 371. Watt, James, his scientific achievements, 39. White Lady, Author’s explanation, 7; ap- pears to Mary, 54; ibb’s account of, 643 encounter with Father Philip, 74; and with Eustace, 104 ; unhorses Christie, 1113 meeting with Halbert, 1263; gives him tha bodkin, 1873 appears in Haibert’s bed- mom, 211; reveais the Book to Mary, 3955 appears to Edward, 327 ; last appears ance, 386; criticism on, m0tes, 380, 397. Women, naturally compassionate, 280. Word, the, slayeth, 69. YorKE, Row.anp, note On, 393SA eae ES SSO SS SSS SG NSS S S SSS WN CR ES SSS SSS SSS SSS eS ws SSS SS SSS SS ex Ss : = SRS NSS SSSSSSSSSEN SS SNS = SSS =Ssssss = SSS SS = = eS SS SS = SS = 3 a SS SS SS Sy Ws iy 7) Wy) > T A Uf YY x A) oy SAY RN ry gs gS ON Sz SS ~~, = SS Ss > = > SSSSsss SS SS S SS S a Ss, : SS e SS Cee SC EBe oe. Pa SE x SSS ‘" rad) SASS St SSRVaws Seat. SSS SS ‘ SSN ea SS b SS SR SITS Sa RR RSS5 = SRA MWS ed SQN ANNAN; 3s Seo SRE Se Fee SAE SSE CSS ats SS SS SAA ENSCSSEERE RES SS ERSSSRSESSS SESE SSS Sas RES SSS SS SSE SSS Se ‘ ESS WES SS SS eS = ASS SSeS SN RS ‘ : SSSR SRR SS SESS 235 SSS AASV SERS SSSR SS S WN SS Ss SS SS SS ANS SN THE QUEEN AT LOCHLEVEN. We fear we have detained you, my Lord of Lindes willingly receive her visitors without some minutes spent at the toilette, iny lord, are less dependent on such ceremonies, ay, but a female does not Men,Tree ABPOT BEING A SEQUEL TO THE MONASTERY By SIR WALTER SCOTT, Barr. LOCHLEVEN CASTLE BOSTON : . EOLA ROP AND COMPANY, FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS.\ eerNGROBUCT GION wee ROM what ts said in the Introduction to the Monas- tery, it must necessarily be inferred that the Author con- sidered that romance as something like a failure. Tt is \ \ 2rue, the booksellers did not complain of the sale, because, vn unless on very felicitous occasions, or on those which are RN equally the reverse, literary popularity is not gained or N A\) lost by a single publication. Leisure must be allowe ed for the tide both to flow and ebb. But I was conscious that, in my situation, not to advance was in some degree to recede, and being naturally unwilling to think that the principle of decay lay in myself, L was at least desirous to know of a cer tainty, whether the degree of discountenance which I had incurred was not owing toan wl-monaged story, or an ill-chosen subject. / was never, I confess, one of those who are willing to suppose the brains of an author to be a kind of milk, which will not stand above a single creaming, and who are eternally harping to young authors to husband their eHorts, and to be chary of their reputation, lest it grow hackneyed in the eyes of men. Perhaps I was, and have always been, the more indifferent to the degree of estimation in4 INTRODUCTION TO THE ABBOT. which I might be held as an author, because L did not put so high a value as many others upon what is termed literary reputation in the abstract, or at least upon the species of popularity whith had fallen to my share; for though it were worse than affectation to deny that my vanity was satisfied at my success in the department in which chance had in some measure enlisted me, [ was, neverthe- less, far from thinking that the novelist or romance-writer stands high in the ranks of literature. But I spare the reader farther egotism on this subject, as [ have expressed my opinion very Sully in the Introductory Epistle to the Fortunes of Nigel, first edition ; and, although it be composed in an imaginary character, Ut 18 as sincere and candid as if it had been written “ without my gown and band.” In a word, when I considered myself as having been unsuccess- ful in the Monastery, I was tempted to try whether L could not re- store, even at the risk of totally losing, my so-called reputation, bya new hazard—TI looked round my library, and could not but ob- serve, that, from the time of Chaucer to that of Byron, the most popular authors had been the most prolific. Leven the aristarch Fohnson allowed that the quality of readiness and profusion hada merit in itself, independent of the intrinsic value of the composition. Talking of Churchill, I believe, who had little merit in his preju- diced eyes, he allowed him that of fertility, with some such qualift- cation as this, “ A crab-apple can but bear crabs after all; but there is a great difference in favor of that which bears a large guanitity of fruit, however indifferent, and that which produces only a Jew.” Looking mare attentively at the patriarchs of literature, whose career was as long as it was brilliant, [ thought I perceived that in the busy and prolonged course of exertion, there were no doubt occa- sional failures, but that still those who were favorites of their age triumphed over these miscarriages. By the new efforts which they made, their errors were obliterated, they became identified with the literature of their country, and after having long received law from the critics, came in some degree to impose tt, And when such a writer was at length called from the scene, his death first made the public sensible what a large share he had occupied in their atien-INTRODUCTION TO THE ABBOT. 5 tion. L recollected a passage in Grimm's Correspondence, that while the unexhausted Voltaire sent Jorth tract after tract to the very close of a long life, the first impression made by each as it appeared, was, that it was inferior to its predecessors ; an opinion adopted from the general idea that the Patriarch of Ferney must at last Jind the pont from whith he was to decline. But the opinion of the public Jinally ranked in succession the last of Voltaire’s Essays on the same footing with those which had Jormerly charmed the French nation, Lhe inference from this and similar Jacts seemed to me to be, that new works were often judged of by the public, not so much from their own intrinsic merit, as from extrinsic ideas which readers had pre- viously formed with regard to them, and over which a writer might hope to triumph by patience and b ry exertion. There isa risk in the attempt - “Lfhe fall in, good-night, or sink or swim.” But this ts a chance incident to every literary attempt, and by which men of a sanguine temper are little moved. L may illustrate what I mean, by the feelings of most men in travelling. If we have found any stage particularly tedious, or in an especial degree interesting, particularly short, or much longer than we expected, our imaginations are so apt to exaggerate the orig- inal impression, that, on repeating the journey, we usually find that we have considerably overrated the predominating quality, and the road appears to be duller or more pleasant, shorter or more tedious, than what we expected, and, consequently, than what is the actual case. Lt requires a third or fourth journey to enable us to form an accurate judgment of its beauty, its length, or its other attributes. Ln the same manner, the public judging of a new work, which tt receives perhaps with little expectation, if surprised into applause, becomes very often ecstatic, gives a great deal more approbation than 2s due, and elevates the child of its inmediate favor to a rank which, as it affects the author, it ts equally difficult to keep, and painful to lose. Lf, on this occasion, the author trembles at the height to which he is raised, anid becomes afraid of the shadow of his owt re- nown, he may indeed retire from the lottery with the prize which he§ INTRODUCTION TO THE ABBOT. has drawn, but, in future ages, his honor will be only in propors tion to his labors. Lf, on the contrary, he rushes again into the lists, he is sure to bejuaged with severity proportioned to the former favor of the public. If he be daunied by a bad reception on thts second occasion, he may again become a stranger to the arena, Lf; on the contrary, he can keep his ground, and stand the shuttlecock’s fate, of being struck up and down, he will probably, at length, hold with some certainty the level in public opinion which he may be found to deserve; and he may perhaps boast of arresting the gen- eral attention, in the same manner as the Bachelor Samson Care rasco, of fixing the weathercock La Giralda of Seville for weeks, months, or years, that is, for as long as the wind shall uniformly blow from one quarter. To this degree of popularity the Author had the hardihood to aspire, while, in order to attain tt, he assumed the daring resulution to keep himself in the view of the public by frequent appearances before them. Ht must be added. that the Author's incognito gave him the greater courage to renew his attempts to please the public, and an advantage similar to that which Fack the Giant-killer received Jrom his coat of darkness. In sending the Abbot forth so soon after the Monastery, he had used the well-known practice recommended by Bassanio :— “In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same firght, The self-same way, with more advised watch, To find the other forth.” And, to continue the simile, his shafts, like those of the lesser Ajax, were discharged more readily that the archer was as inaccesstble to criticism, personally speaking, as the Grecian archer under his brother’s sevenfold shield. Should the reader desire to know upon what principles the Abbot was expected to amend the fortune of the Monastery, I have first to request his attention to the Introductory Epistle addressed to the imaginary Captain Clutterbuck ; a mode by which, like Ars predecessors in this walk of fiction the real Author makes one ofhis dramatis personee the means of communicating ments to the public, somewhat more ap ‘tepjcially dress to the readers. INTRODUCTION TO THE ABBOT, 7 his own sentt: than by a direct ad- A pleasing French writer of fairy tales, Mow steur Eenri Pajon, author of the Flistory of Prince Soly, has set a diverting example of the same machiner ‘y, where he introduces the presiding Genius of the land of Romance conversing with one of the personages of the tale. Ln this Lntroductory Epistle ? the Author communicates, in con- fidence, to Captain Clutterbuck, his sense that the White Laty had not met the taste of the times, and his reason Jor withdrawing her Srom ‘the Scene. Lhe Author did not ¢ be candid respecting another alteration. ° signed, at first, to have contained some SUPEr? cem it equally necessary to Lhe Monastery was de- atural agency, arising out of the fact, that SNORE had been the place of Ceposit of the great Robert Bruce’ Lhe writer shrunk, however, from Jilling up, in this partic ee the sketch as itwas originally traced ; nor did he venture to resume, in the continuation, the subject which he had left unattempted in the original work. Thus, the incident of the discovery of the heart, which occupies the greater part of the Lntroduction to the Monastery, is a myster y unnecessarily introduced, and which remains at last very imper ectly explained. Ln this par- ticular, Lwas happy to shroud myself by the example of the author of Caleb Williams, who m er condescends ta inform us of the ac- tual contents of that Iron Chest whicn makes such a figure in his interesting work, and gives the name to Mr. Colman’s drama. Lhe public had some claim to inquire into this matter, but it seemed indifferent policy in the Author to give the explanation. For, whatever praise may be due to the ingenuity which brings to a gen- eral combination all the loose threads of a narrative, like the knitter at the finishing of her stocking, [ am greatly deceived if in many Cases a superior advantag re 1s not attained, by the air of reality which the deficiency of explanation attaches to a work written on a different system. Ln life itself many things befall every mortal, of which the individual never knows the real cause or origin ; and were we to point out the most marked distinction between a real and a fictitious narrative, we would say that the former, in reference8 INTRODUCTION TO THE ABBOT. to the remote causes of the events it relates, 1s obscure, doubtful, and mysterious ; whereas, tt the latter case, tt 1s a part of the author's duty to afford satisfactory details upon the causes of the separate events he has recoried, and, in a word, to account for everything. The reader, like Mungo in the Padlock, will not be satisfied with hearing what he is not made fully to comprehend. T omitted, therefore, in the éntroduction to the Abbot, any at- tempt 10 explain the previvus story, or to apologize for unintelligt- bility. Neither would it have been prudent to have endeavored to pro- claim, in the Introduction to the Abbot, the real spring by which i hoped it might attract a greater degree of interest than its zmmedt- ate predecessor. A taking title or the announcement of a popular subject, is a recipe for success much in favor with booksellers, but which authors will not always find efiacious, The cause is worth a moment’s examination. There occur in every country some peculiar historical charac- ters, which are, like a spell or charm, sovereign to excite curiosity and attract attention, since every one in the slightest degree mter- ested in the land which they belong to, has heard much of them, and Jongs to hear more. A tale turning on the fortunes of Alfred or Elizabeth in England, or of Wallace or Bruce in Scotland, ts sure by the yery announcement to excite public curvosity to a considerable degree, and ensure the publishers being relieved of the greater part of an impression, even before the contents of the work are known, This is of the last importance to the bookseller, who 7s at once, to use a technical phrase, “ brouzht home,” all his outlay being repaid. But it is a different case with the author, since it cannot be denied that we are apt to feel least satisfied with the works of which we have been induced, by titles and laudatory advertisements, to enter- tain exaggerated expectations. The intention of the work has been anticipated, and misconceived or misrepresented ; and although the dificulty of executing the work again reminds us of Hotspur’s task of “ o'er-walking a current roaring loud,” yet the adventurer must loak for more ridicule if he fails, than applause if he executes, his undertaking.INTRODUCTION TO THE ABBOT. 9 Notwithstanding a risk, which should make authors pause ere they adopt a theme which, exciting general interest and curvosity, is often the preparative for disappointment, yet it would be an injudi- cious regulation which should deter the poet or painter from attempt- eng to introduce historical portraits, merely from the difficulty of ex ecuting the task in a satisfactory manner. Something must be trusted to the generous impulse, which often thrusts an artist upon Seats of which he knows the difficulty, while he trusts courage and exertion may afford the means of surmounting it. Lt is especially when he is sensible of losing ground with the public, that an author may be justified in using with address such selection of subject or title as 1s most likely to procure a rehearsing, Lt was with these feelings of hope and apprehension, that I venture to awaken, in a work of fiction, the memory of Queen Mary, so in- teresting by her wit, her beauty, her misfortunes, and the mystery which still docs, and probably always will, overhang her history. In doing so, I was aware that failure would bea conclusive dis aster, so that my task was something like that of an enchanter who raises a spirit over whom he is uncertain of possessing an effectual control; and I naturally paid attention to such principles of compo- sition, as L concetved were best suited to the historical novel.* Enough has been already said to explain the purpose of compos- ing the Abbot. The historical references are, as usual, explained in the notes. That which relates to Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle is a more minute account of that romantic adven- sure than is to be found in the histories of the period, ABBOTSFORD, Ist FYanuary 1831. Note A. Portraitur2 of Mary Stuart,INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE FROM THE AUTHOR OF “WAVERLEY,” TO CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK LATE OF HIS MAJESTY’S——REGIMENT OF INFANTRY. DEAR CAPTAIN—TI am sorry to observe, by your last favor, that you disapprove of the numerous retrenchments and alterations which LI have been under the necessity of making on the Manu- script of your friend, the Benedictine, and I willingly make you the medium of apology to many, who have honored me more than J de- SErVE. Lf admit that my retrenchments have been numerous, and leave gaps in the story, which, in your original manuscript, would have run well-nigh toa fourth volume, as my printer assures me. Lam senstble, besides, that, in consequence of the liberty of curtailment you have allowed me, some parts of the story have been huddled up without the necessary details.* But, after all, it is better that the travellers should have to step over a ditch, than to wade through a morass—that the reader should have to suppose what may easily be inferred, than be obliged to creep through pages of dull explana- tion. JL have struck out, for example, the whole machinery of the White Lady, and the poetry by which it ts so ably supported in the original manuscript. But you must allow that the public taste gives little encouragement to those legendary superstitions, which Jormed alternately the delight and the terror of our predecessors. * [It would seem (says Mr. Laing) as if, from the exuberance of his imagination, the Author was led to wind up his stories and dismiss his characters rather hastily, that he might indulge in some new creations: in the words of Milton— ‘** To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new.” ** A remark made by Sir Walter to myself on this head may be worth recording. How the conversation originated I cannot say, but at the time (having good reason to be satise isfied regarding the authorship of the Waverley Novels) I was much struck with his words, when he joculariy said, fever I should write a novel, 1 would like well enough to write the first two volumes, and leave any one who pleased to finish the third?’-—-D. L.jINTRODUCTION TO rttl; ABBOT. tr In like manner, much is omitted tWlustrative of the impulse of en- thusiasm in favor of the ancient religion in Mother Magdalen and the Abbot. But we do not feel deep sympathy at this period with what was once the most powerful and animafjing principle in Europe, with the exception of that of the Reformation, by which wt was suc cessfully opposed. You rightly observe, that these retrenchments have rendered the title no longer applicable to the subject, and that some other would have been more suitable to the Work, in its present state, than that of THE ABBOT, who made so much greater figure in the original, and for whom your friend, the Benedictine, seems to have inspired you with a sympathetic respect. I must plead guilty to this accusa- tion, observing, at the same time, in manner of extenuation, that though the objection might have been easily removed, by giving anew title to the Work, yet, in doing so, I should have destroyed the neces- sary cohesion between the present history and its predecessor THE Monastery, which IT was unwilling to do, as the period and sev- eral of the personages were the same. After all, my good friend, it ts of little consequence what the work és called, or on what interest it turns, provided it catches the public attention ; for the quality of the wine (could we but ensure it) may, according to the old proverb, render the bush unnecessary, or of little consequence. I congratulate you upon your having found it consistent with prudence to establish your Tilbury, and approve of the color, and of your boy's livery (subdued green and pink),—As you talk of com: pleting your descriptive poem on the “ Ruins of Kennaguhair, wiih Notes by an Antiquary,” I hope you have procured a steady horse.—I remain, with compliments to all Jriends, gear Captain, very much Yours ete. ett. ett., Tue AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY,mys A} AMR {ii wo ACRE ABBOT a poll »= 4 Domum mansit—lanami fecit ANCIENT ROMAN EPITAPH. She keepit close the hous, and birlit at the quhele. GAWAIN DOUGLAS. THE time which passes over our heads so imperceptibly, makes the same gradual change in habits, manners, and char- acter, as in personal appearance. At the revolution of every five years we find ourselves another, and yet the same-—there is a change of views, and no less of the light in which we re- gard them ; a change of motives as well as of actions. Nearly twice that space had glided away over the head of Halbert Glendinning and his lady, betwixt the period of our former narrative, in which they played a distinguished part, and the date at which our present tale commences. Two circumstances only had imbittered their union, which was otherwise as happy as mutual affection could render it. The first of these was indeed the common calamity of Scotland, being the distracted state of that unhappy country, where every man’s sword was directed against his neighbor’s bosom. Glen- dinning had proved what Murray expected of him, a steady friend, strong in battle, and wise in counsel, adhering to him, from motives of gratitude, in situations where by his own un.14 THE ABBOT. biassed will he would either have stood neuter, or have joined the opposite party. Hence, when danger was near—and it was seldom far distant—Sir Halbert Glendinning, for he now bore the rank of knighthood, was perpetually summoned to at- tend his patron on distant expeditions, or on perilous enter- prises, or to assist him with his counselin the doubtful intrigues of a half-barbarous court. He was thus frequently, and for a long space, absent from his castle and from his lady; and to this ground of regret we must add, that their union had not been blessed with children, to occupy the attention of the Lady of Avenel while she was thus deprived ofher husband’s domestic society. On such occasions she lived almost entirely secluded from the world, within the walls of her paternal mansion. Visiting amongst neighbors was a matter entirely out of the question, unless on occasions of solemn festival, and then it was chiefly confined to near kindred. Of these the Lady of Avenel had none who survived, and the dames of the neighboring barons affected to regard her less as the heiress of the House of Avenel than as the wife of a peasant, the son of a church vassal, raised up to mushroom eminence by the capricious favor of Murray. The pride of ancestry, which rankled in the bosom of the ancient gentry, was more openly expressed by their ladies, and was, moreover, imbittered not a little by the political feuds of the time, for most of the Southron chiefs were friends to the authority of the Queen, and very jealous of the power of Mur- ray. The Castle of Avenel was, therefore, on all these accounts, as melancholy and solitary a residence for its lady as could well be imagined. Still it had the essential recommendation of great security. The reader is already aware that the fortress was built upon an islet on a small lake, and was only accessi- ble by a causeway, intersected by a double ditch, defended by two drawbridges, so that without artillery, it might in those days be considered as impregnable. It was only necessary, therefore, to secure against surprise, and the service of six able men within the castle was sufficient for that purpose. If more serious danger threatened, an ample garrison was supplied by the male inhabitants of a little hamlet, which, under the au- spices of Halbert Glendinning, had arisen ona small piece of level ground, betwixt the lake and the hill, nearly adjoining to the spot where the causeway joined the mainland. The Lord of Avenel had found it an easy matter to procure inhabitants, as he was not only akind and beneficent overlord, but well qualified, both by his experience in arms, his high character forTHE ABBOT. 16 wisdom and integrity, and his favor with the powerful Earl of Murray, to protect and defend those who dwelt under his ban- ner. In leaving his castle for any length of time, he had, there- fore, the consolation to reflect, that this village afforded, on the slightest notice, a band of thirty stout men, which was more than sufficient for its defence ; while the families of the villagers, as was usual on such occasions, fled to the recesses of the mountains, drove their cattle to the same places of shel- ter, and left the enemy to work their will on their miserable cottages. One guest only resided generally, if not constantly, at the Castle of Avenel. This was Henry Warden, who now felt himself less able for the stormy task imposed on the reforming clergy ; and having by his zeal given personal offence to many ‘of the leading nobles and chiefs, did not consider himself as perfectly safe, unless when within the walls of the strong man- sion of some assured friend. Heceased not, however, to serve his cause as eagerly with his pen as he had formerly done with his tongue, and had engaged in a furious and acrimonious contest, concerning the sacrifice of the mass, as it was termed, with the Abbot Eustatius, formerly the Sub-Prior of Kenna- quhair. Answers, replies, duplies, triplies, quadruplies, followed thick upon each other, and displayed, as is not unusual in con- troversy, fully as much zeal as Christian charity. ‘The dispu- tation very soon became as celebrated as that of John Knox and the Abbot of Crosraguel, raged nearly as fiercely, and, for aught I know, the publications to which it gave rise may be as precious in the eyes of bibliographers.* But the engrossing nature of his occupation rendered the theologian not the most interesting companion for a solitary female ; and his grave, stern, and absorbed deportment, which seldom showed any interest except in that which concerned his religious profession, made his presence rather add to than diminish the gloom which hung over the castle of Avenel. To superintend the task of numerous female domestics was the principal part of the Lady’s daily employment; her spindle and distaff, her Bible, and a solitary walk upon the battlements of the castle, or upon the causeway, or occasionally, but more seldom, upon the banks of the little lake, consumed the rest of the day. But so great was the insecurity of the period, that when she ventured to extend tation between the Scottish Reformer and are among the scarcest in Scottish Bibli- which related to the mass, and again in Knox’s * The tracts which appeared in the Dispu Quentin Kennedy, the last Abbot of mee Seu ee ee M ‘Crie’ ‘fe of Knox, P+ 258; iis discussion, ography. See M‘Crie’s Life of » P- 2 lis was published by Knox in 1563. and reprinted by Boswell in 1812, Works, vol. vi. 1864]16 THE ABBOT. her walk beyond the hamlet, the warder on the watch-tower was directed to keep a sharp look-out in every direction, and four or five men held themselves in readiness to mount and sally forth from the castle on the slightest appearance of alarm. Thus stood affairs at the castle, when, after an absence of several weeks, the Knight of Avenel, which was now the title most frequently given to Sir Halbert Glendinning, was daily expected to return home. Day after day, however, passed away, and he returned not. Letters in those days were rarely written, and the Knight must have resorted to a secretary to express his intentions in that manner; besides, intercourse of all kinds was precarious and unsafe, and no man cared to give any public intimation of the time and direction of a journey, since, if his route were publicly known, it was always likely he might in that case meet with more enemies than friends upon the road. The precise day, therefore, of Sir Halbert’s return was not fixed, but that which his lady’s fond expectation had calculated upon in her own mind had long since passed, and hope delayed began to make the heart sick, It was upon the evening of a sultry summer’s day when the sun was half-sunk behind the distant western mountains of Liddesdale, that the Lady took her solitary walk on the battle- ments of a range of buildings, which formed the front of the castle, where a flat roof of flag-stones presented a broad and convenient promenade. The level surface of the lake, undis- turbed except by the occasional dipping of ateal-duck, or coot, was gilded with the beams of the setting luminary, and reflected, as ifin a golden mirror, the hills amongst which it lay em- bosomed. The scene, otherwise so lonely, was occasionally enlivened by the voices of the children in the village, which, softened by distance, reached the ear of the Lady, in her soli- tary walk, or by the distant call of the herdsman, as he guided his cattle from the glen in which they had pastured all day, to place them in greater security for the night, in the immediate vicinity of the village. The deep lowing of the cows seémed to demand the attendance of the milk-maidens, who, singing shrilly and merrily, strolled forth, each with her pail on her head, to attend to the duty of the evening. The Lady of Avenel looked and listened ; the sounds which she heard reminded her of former days, when her most important employment, as well as her greatest delight, was to assist Dame Glendinning and Tibb Tacket in milking the cows at Glendearg. The thought was fraught with melancholy.LHL ABBOT. 14 ‘ Why was I not,” she said, “the peasant girl which in all men’s eyes I seemed to be? Halbert and I had then spent our life peacefully in his native glen, undisturbed by the phan- toms either of fear or of ambition. His greatest pride had then been to show the fairest herd in the Halidome ; his greatest danger to repel some pilfering snatcher from the Border ; and the utmost distance which would have divided us, would have been the chase of some outlying deer. But, alas! what avails the blood which Halbert has shed, and the dangers which he encounters, to support a name and rank, dear to him because he has it from me, but which we shall never transmit to our posterity ! with me the name of Avenel must expire,9 She sighed as these reflections arose, and, looking towards the shore of the lake, her eye was attracted by a group of chil- dren of various ages, assembled to see a little ship, constructed by some village artist, perform its first voyage on the water. It was launched amid the shouts of tiny voices and the clapping of little hands, and shot bravely forth on its voyage with a favoring wind, which promised to carry it to the other side of the lake. Some of the bigger boys ran round to receive and secure it on the farther shore, trying their speed against each other as they sprang like young fawns along the shingly verge of the lake. ‘The rest, for whom such a journey seemed too arduous, remained watching the motions of the fairy vessel from the spot where it had been launched. ‘The sight of their sports pressed on the mind of the childless Lady of Avenel. ‘“Why are none of these prattlers mine?” she continued, pursuing the tenor of her melancholy reflections. “Their parents can scarce find them the coarsest food—and I, who could nurse them in plenty, I am doomed never to hear a child call me mother!” The thought sunk on her heart with a bitterness which resembled envy, so deeply is the desire of offspring implanted in the female breast. She pressed her hands together as if she were wringing them in the extremity of her desolate feeling, as one whom Heaven had written childless. A large staghound of the grayhound species approached at this moment, and, attracted perhaps by the gesture, licked her hands and pressed his large head against them. He obtained the desired caress in return, but still the sad impression remained. “Wolf,” she said, as if the animal could have understood her complaints, “thou art a noble and beautiful animal ; but, alas ! the love and affection that I long to bestow, is of a quality higher than can fall to thy share, though I love thee much.” 218 THE ABBOT. And, as if she were apologizing to Wolf for withholding from him any part of her regard, she caressed his proud head and crest, while, looking in her eyes, he seemed to ask her what she wanted, or what he could do to show his attachment. At this moment a shriek of distress was heard on the shore, from the playful group which had -been lately so jovial. The Lady looked, and saw the cause with great agony. The little ship, the object of the children’s delighted atten- tion, had stuck among some tufts of the plant which bears the water-lily, that marked a shoal in the lake about an arrow- flight from the shore. A hardy little boy, who had taken the lead in the race round the margin of the lake, did not hesitate a moment a strip off his wy/ze-coat, plunge into the water, and swim towards the object of their common solicitude. The first movement of the Lady was to call for help ; but she observed that the boy swam strongly and fearlessly, and as she saw that one or two villagers, who were distant spectators of the incident, seemed to give themselves no uneasiness on his account, she supposed that he was accustomed to the exercise, and that there was no danger. But whether, in swimming, the boy had struck his breast against a sunken rock, or whether he was suddenly taken with cramp, or whether he had over-calculated his own strength, it so happened, that when he had disembarrassed the little plaything from the flags in which it was entangled, and sent it forward on its course, he had scarce swam a few yards in his way to the shore, than he raised himself suddenly from the water, and screamed aloud, clapping his hands at the same time with an expression of fear and pain. The Lady of Avenel, instantly taking the alarm, called hastily to the attendants to get the boat ready. But this was an affair of some time. The only boat permitted to be used on the lake, was moored within the second cut which intersected the canal, and it was several minutes ere it could be unmoored and got under way. Meantime, the Lady of Avenel, with agoniz- ing anxiety, saw that the efforts that the poor boy made to keep himself afloat, were now exchanged for a faint struggling, which would soon have been over, but for aid equally prompt and unhoped for. Wolf, who, like some of that large species of grayhound, was a practised water-dog, had marked the object of her anxiety, and, quitting his mistress’s side, had sought the nearest point from which he could with safety plunge into thé lake. With the wonderful instinct which these noble animals have so often displayed in the like circumstances, he swam Straight to the spot where his assistance was so much wanted,THE ABBOT. 19 and seizing the child’s under-dress in his mouth, he not only kept him afloat, but towed him towards the causeway. The boat having put off with a couple of men, met the dog halfway, and relieved him of his burden. They landed on the causeway, close by the gates of the castle, with their yet lifeless charge, and were there met by the Lady of Avenel, attended by one or two of her maidens, eagerly waiting to administer assistance to the sufferer. He was borne into the castle, deposited upon a bed, and every mode of recovery resorted to, which the knowledge of the times, and the skill of Henry Warden, who professed some medical science, could dictate. For some time it was all in vain, and the Lady watched, with unspeakable earnestness, the pallid countenance of the beautiful child. He seemed about ten years old. His dress was of the meanest sort, but his long curled hair, and the noble cast of his features, partook not of that poverty of appearance. The proudest noble in Scotland might have been yet prouder could he have called that child his heir. While, with breathless anxiety, the Lady of Avenel gazed on his well-formed and expressive features, a slight shade of color returned gradually to the cheek ; suspended animation became restored by degrees, the child sighed deeply, opened his eyes, which to the human countenance produces the effect of light upon the natural landscape, stretched his arms towards the Lady, and muttered the word ‘“* Mother,” that epithet, of all others, which is dearest to the female ear. “God, madam,” said the preacher, “has restored the child to your wishes; it must be yours so to bring him up, that he may not one day wish that he had perished in his innocence.” “Tt shall be my charge,” said the Lady ; and again throw- ing her arms around the boy, she overwhelmed him with kisses and caresses, so much was she agitated by the terror arising from the danger in which he had been just placed, and by joy at his unexpected deliverance. >“ But you are not my mother,” said the boy, recovering his recollection, and endeavoring, though faintly, to escape from the caresses of the Lady of Avenel; “you are not my mother,— alas! I have no mother—only I have dreamt that I had one. ‘I will read the dream for you, my love,” answered the Lady of Avenel ; “and I will be myself your mother. Surely God has heard my wishes, and, in his own marvellous manner, hath sent me an object on which my affections may expand them- selves.’ She looked towards Warden as she spoke. The preacher hesitated what he should reply to a burst of passionate20 THE ABBOT. feeling, which, perhaps, seemed to him more enthusiastic than the occasion demanded. Inthe meanwhile, the large staghound, Wolf, which, dripping wet as he was, had followed his mistress into the apartment, and had sat by the bedside, a patient and quiet spectator of all the means used for resuscitation of the being whom he had preserved, now became impatient of remaining any longer unnoticed, and began to whine and fawn upon the Lady with his great rough paws. “Yes,” she said, ‘ good Wolf, and you shall be remembered also for your day’s work ; and I will think the more of you for having preserved the life of a creature so beautiful.” But Wolf was not quite satisfied with the share of attention which he thus attracted ; he persisted in whining and pawing upon his mistress, his caresses rendered still more troublesome by his long shaggy hair being so much and thoroughly wetted, till she desired one of the domestics, with whom he was familiar, to call the animal out of the apartment. Wolf resisted every invitation to this purpose, until his mistress positively com- manded him to be gone, in an angry tone; when, turning towards the bed on which the boy still lay, half awake to sensation, half drowned in the meanders of fluctuating delirium, he uttered a deep and savage growl, curled up his nose and lips, showing his full range of white and sharpened teeth, which might have matched those of an actual wolf, and then, turning round, sullenly followed the domestic out of the apartment. “It is singular,” said the Lady, addressing Warden ; “the animal is not only so good-natured to all, but so particularly fond of children. What can ail him at the little fellow whose life he has saved ?” “ Dogs,” replied the preacher, “are but too like the human race in their foibles, though their instinct be less erring than the reason of poor mortal man when relying upon his own unassisted powers. Jealousy, my good lady, is a passion not unknown to them, and they often evince it, not only with respect to the preferences which they see given by their masters to individuals of their own species, but even when their rivals are children. You have caressed that child much and eagerly, and the dog considers himself as a discarded favorite.” “It is a strange instinct,” said the Lady ; ‘‘and from the gfavity with which you mention it, my reverend friend, I would almost say that you supposed this singular jealousy of vay favorite Wolf, was not only well founded, but justifiable. But perhaps you speak in jest?” “I seldom jest,” answered the preacher ; “ life was not lentTHE ABBOT. 21 to us to be expended in that idle mirth which resembles the crackling of thorns under the pot. I would only have you derive, if itso please you, this lesson from what I have said that the best of our feelings, when indulged to EXCESS, may give pain to others. There is but one in which we may indulge to the utmost limit of vehemence of which our bosom is capable, secure that excess cannot exist in the greatest intensity to which it can be excited—I mean the love of our Maker.” Surely,” said the Lady of Avenel, “ we are commanded by the same authority to love our neighbor? ” ‘“ Ay, madam,” said Warden, “but our love to God is to be unbounded—vwe are to love him with our whole heart, our whole soul, and our whole strength. The love which the precept commands us to bear to our neighbor, has affixed to it a direct limit and qualification—we are to love our neighbor as ourself ; as it is elsewhere explained by the great command- ment, that we must do unto him as we would that he should do unto us. Here there is a limit, and a bound, even to the most praiseworthy of our affections, so far as they are turned upon sublunary and terrestrial objects. We are to render to our neighbor, whatever be his rank or degree, that correspond- ing portion of affection with which we could rationally expect we should ourselves be regarded by those standing in the same relation to us. Hence, neither husband nor wife, neither son nor daughter, neither friend nor relation, are lawfully to be made the objects of our idolatry. ‘The Lord our God is a jealous God, and will not endure that we bestow on the creature that extremity of devotion which He who made us demands as his own share. I say to you, Lady, that even in the fairest, and purest, and most honorable feelings of our nature, there is that original taint of sin which ought to make us pause and hesitate, ere we indulge them to excess.” ‘T understand not this, reverend sir,” said the Lady ; “ nor do I guess what I can have now said or done, to draw down on me an admonition which has something a taste of reproof.” “Lady,” said Warden, “I crave your pardon, if I have urged aught beyond the limits of my duty. But consider, whether in the sacred promise to be not only a protectress, but a mother, to this poor child, your purpose may meet the wishes of the noble knight your husband. The fondness which you have lavished on the unfortunate, and, I own, most lovely child, has met something like a reproof in the bearing of your household dog. Displease not your noble husband. Men, as well as animals, are jealous of the affections of those they love.LHE AB BOD, “This is too much, reverend sir,” said the Lady of Avenel, greatly offended. ‘ You have been long our guest, and have received from the Knight of Avenel and myself that honor and regard which your character and profession so justly demand. But I am yet to learn that we have at any- time authorized your interference in our family arrangements, or placed you as a judge of our conduct towards each other.. I pray this may be forborne in future.” ‘‘ Lady,” replied the preacher, with the boldness peculiar to the clergy of his persuasion at that time, “when you weary of my admonitions—when I see that my services are no longer acceptable to you, and the noble knigiit your husband, I shall know that my Master wiils me no longer to abide here ; and, praying for a continuance of his best blessings on your family, I will then, were the season the depth of winter, and the hour midnight, walk out on yonder waste, and travel forth through these wild mountains, as lonely and unaided, though far more helpless, than when I first met your husband in the valley of Glendearg. But while I remain here, I will not see you err from the true path, no, not a hair’s-breadth, without making the old man’s voice and remonstrance heard.” “ Nay, but,” said the Lady, who both loved and respected the good man, though sometimes a little offended at what she conceived to be an exuberant degree of zeal, “we will not part this way, my good friend. Women are quick and hasty in their feelings ; but, believe me, my wishes and my purposes towards this child are such as both my husband and you will approve of.” The clergyman bowed, and retreated to his own apart- ment, CHAPTER’ SECOND: How steadfastly he fix’d his eyes on me— His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears— Then stretch’d his little arms, and call’d me mother! What could I do? I took the bantling home— I could not tell the imp he had no mother. Count Bastt. WHEN Warden had left the apartment, the Lady of Avenel gave way to the feelings of tenderness which the sight of the boy, his sudden danger, and his recent escape, had inspired ; and, no longer awed by the sternness, as she deemed it, of theTHE ABBOT. 23 preacher, heaped with caresses the lovely and interesting child. He was now, in some measure, recovered from the consequences of his accident, and received passively, though not without wonder, the tokens of kindness with which he was thus loaded. The face of the Lady was strange to him, and her dress different and far more sumptuous than any he remembered. But the boy was naturally of undaunted temper ; and indeed children are generally acute physiognomists, and not only pleased by that which is beautiful in itself, but peculiarly quick in distin- guishing and replying to the attentions of those who really love them. If they see a person in company, though a perfect stranger, who is by nature fond of children, the little imps seem to discover it by a sort of freemasonry, while the awkward attempts of those who make advances to them for the purpose of recommending themselves to the parents, usually fail in attracting their reciprocal attention. The little boy, therefore, appeared in some degree sensible of the lady’s caresses, and it was with difficulty she withdrew herself from his pillow, to afford him leisure for necessary repose. “’To whom belongs our little rescued varlet ?”’ was the first question which the Lady of Avenel put to her handmaiden Lilias, when they had retired to the hall. ‘To an old woman in the hamlet,” said Lilias, ‘“‘ who is even now come so far as the pestenis lodge to inquire concerning his safety. Is it your pleasure that she be admitted ?” ‘Ts it my pleasure?” said the Lady of Avenel, echoing the question with a strong accent of displeasure and surprise ; “can you make any doubt of it? What woman but must pity the agony of the mother, whose heart is throbbing for the safety of a child so lovely! ” “Nay, but, madam,” said Lilias, “ this woman is too old to be the mother of the child; I rather think she must be his grandmother, or some more distant relation.” ‘* Be: she who she will, Lilias,” replied the Lady, “ she must have an aching heart while the s catty of a creature so lovely is uncertain. Go instantly and bring her hither. Besides I would willingly learn something concerning his birth. Lilias left the hall, and presently afterwards, returned, usher- ing in a tall female very poorly dressed, yet with more pretension to decency and cleanliness than was usually combined with such coarse garments. The Lady of Avenel knew her figure the instant she presented herself. It was the fashion of the family, that upon every Sabbath, and on two evenings In the week besides, Henry Warden preached or lectured in the chapel24 RHE CAB BOL. at the castle. The extension of the Protestant faith was, upon principle, as well as in good policy, a primary object with the Knight of Avenel. The inhabitants of the village were there- fore invited to attend upon the instructions of Henry Warden, and many of them were speedily won to the doctrine which their master and protector approved. ‘These sermons, hom- ies, and lectures, had made a great impression on the mind of the Abbot Eustace, or Eustatius, and were a sufficient spur to the severity and sharpness of his controversy with his old fellow- collegiate ; and, ere Queen Mary was dethroned, and while the Catholics still had considerable authority in the Border pro- vinces, he more than once threatened to levy his vassals, and assail and level with the earth that stronghold of heresy the Castle of Avenel. But notwithstanding the Abbot’s impotent resentment, and notwithstanding also the disinclination of the country to favor the new religion, Henry Warden proceeded without remission in his labors, and made weekly converts from the faith of Rome to that of the reformed church. Amongst those who gave most earnest and constant attendance on his ministry, was the aged woman, whose form, tall, and otherwise too remarkable to be forgotten, the Lady had of late observed frequently as being conspicuous amongst the little audience. She had indeed more than once desired to know who that stately-looking woman was, whose appearance was so much above the poverty of her vestments. But the reply had always been, that she was an Englishwoman, who was tarrying for a season at the hamlet, and that no one knew more concerning her. She now asked her after her name and birth, “Magdalen Greeme is my name,” said the woman; “ I come of the Grames of Heathergill, in Nicol Forest,* a people of ancient blood.” ‘ And what make you,” continued the Lady, “so far distant from your home?” ‘‘I have no home,” said Magdalen Graeme, “it was burnt by your Border-riders—my husband and my son were slain— there is not a drop’s blood left in the veins of any one which is of kin to mine.” “That is no uncommon fate in these wild times, and in this unsettled land,” said the Lady; “the English hands have been as deeply dyed in our blood as ever those of Scotsmen have been in yours.” “You have right to say it, Lady,” answered Magdalen Greme ; “for men tell of a time when this castle was not * A district of Cumberland, lying close to the Scottish Border,THE ABBOT. 26 strong enough to save your father’s life, or to afford your mother and her infant a place of refuge. And why ask ye me, then, wherefore I dwell not in mine own home, and with mine own people?” “Tt was indeed an idle question,” answered the Lady, “ where misery so often makes wanderers ; but wherefore take refuge in a hostile country ?”’ “My neighbors were Popish and mass-mongers,” said the old woman ; “it has pleased Heaven to give me a clearer sight of the gospel, and I have tarried here to enjoy the ministry of that worthy man Henry Warden, who, to the praise and com- fort of many, teacheth the Evangel in truth and in sincerity.” “ Are you poor?” again demanded the Lady of Avenel. “ You hear me ask alms of no one,” answered the English- woman. Here there was a pause. The manner of the woman was, if not disrespectful, at least much less than gracious ; and she appeared to give no encouragement to farther communication. The Lady of Avenel renewed the conversation on a different topic. “You have heard of the danger in which your boy has been placed ?”’ “I have, Lady, and how by an especial providence he was rescued from death. May Heaven make him thankful, and | i? “ What relation do you bear to him?” “T am his grandmother, Lady, if it so please you ; the only me a relation he had left upon earth to take charge of him.” “ The burden of his maintenance must necessarily be eTiev- ous to you in your deserted situation ? ” pursued the Lady. “JT have complained of it to no one,” said Magdalen Graeme, with the same unmoved, dry, and unconcerned tone of voice, in which she had answered all the former questions. “Tf? said the Lady of Avenel, “ your grandchild could be received into a noble family, would it not advantage both him and you?” ‘nto a noble family!” said the old woman, “Received 1 drawing herself up, and bending her brows until her forehead was wrinkled into a frown of unusual severity ; “and for what purpose, I pray you ?—to be my lady’s page, or my lord’s jack- man, to eat broken victuals, and contend with other menials for the remnants of the master’s meal? Would you have him lady’s face while she sleeps, to carry to fan the flies from my !aq) her train while she walks, to hand her trencher when she feeds,26 THE ABBOT. to ride before her on horseback, to walk after her on foot, to sing when she lists, and to be silent when she bids bey VETS. weathercock, which, though furnished in appearance with wings and plumage, cannot soar into the air—cannot fly from the spot where it is perched, but receives all its impulse, and per- forms all its revolutions, obedient to the changeful breath of a vain woman? When the eagle of Helvell’n perches on the tower of Lanercost, and turns and changes his place to show how the wind sits, Roland Graeme shall be what you would make him.” The woman spoke with a rapidity and vehemence which seemed to have in it a touch of insanity ; and a sudden sense of the danger to which the child must necessarily be exposed in the charge of such a keeper, increased the Lady’s desire to keep him in the castle if possible. “You mistake me, dame,” she said, addressing the old woman in a soothing manner ; “I do not wish your boy to be in attendance on myself, but upon the good knight, my hus- band. Were he himself the son of a belted Earl, he could not better be trained to arms, and all that befits a gentleman, than by the instructions and discipline of Sir Halbert Glen- dinning.” “ Ay,” answered the old woman, in the same style of bitter irony, “I know the wages of that service ;—a curse when the corselet is not sufficiently brightened—a blow when the girth is not tightly drawn—to be beaten because the hounds are at fault—to be reviled because the foray is unsuccessful—to stain his hands for the master’s bidding in the blood alike of beast and of man—to be a butcher of harmless deer, a murderer and defacer of God’s own image, not at his own pleasure, but at that of his lord—to live a brawling ruffian, and a common stabber—exposed to heat, to cold, to want of food, to all the privations of an anchoret, not for the love of God, but for the service of Satan—to die by the gibbet, or in some obscure skirmish—to sleep out his brief life in carnal security, and to awake in the eternal fire, which is never quenched.” “ Nay,” said the Lady of Avenel, “but to such unhallowed course of life your grandson will not be here exposed. My hus- band is just and kind to those who live under his banner ; and you yourself well know, that youth have here a strict as well as a good preceptor in the person of our chaplain.” The old woman appeared to pause, “You have named,” she said, “the only circumstance which can move me. I must soon onward, the vision has said it—ITHE ABBOT. 27 must not tarry in the same spot—I must on—I must on, it is my weird.—Swear, then, that you will protect the boy as if he were your own, until I return hither and claim him, and I will consent for a space to part with him. But especially swear, he shall not lack the instruction of the godly man who hath placed the gospel-truth high above those idolatrous shavelings, the monks and friars.”’ “Be satisfied, dame,” said the Lady of Avenel; “the boy shall have as much care as if he were born of my own blood. Will you see him now?” “No,” answered the old woman, sternly; “to part is enough. I go forth on my own mission. I will not soften my heart by useless tears and wailings, as one that is not called to a duty.” “Will you not accept of something to aid you in your pil- grimage?”’ said the Lady of Avenel, putting into her hands two crowns of the sun. The old woman flung them down on the table. “Am I of the race of Cain,” she said, “proud Lady, that you offer me gold in exchange for my own flesh and blood?” ‘““T had no such m: ining,” said the Lady, gently; “ nor am I the proud woman you term me. Alas! my own fortunes might have taught me humility, even had it not been born with me.” The old woman seemed somewhat to relax her tone of severity. “You are of gentle blood,” she said, “else we had not par- leyed thus long together—yYou are of gentle blood, and to such,” she added, drawing up her tall form as she spoke, “pride is as graceful as is the plume upon the bonnet. But for these pieces of gold, Lady, you must needs resume them. I need not money. Iam well provided ; and I may not care for myself, nor think how, or by whom, I shall be sustained. Farewell, and keep your word. Cause your gates to be opened, and your bridges to be lowered. I will set forward this very night. When I come again, I will demand from you a strict account, for I have left with you the jewel of my life! Sleep will visit me but in snatches, food will not refresh me, rest will not restore my strength, until I see Roland Greme. Once more, farewell.” “Make vour obeisance, dame,” said Lilias to Magdalen Graeme, as she retired, ‘‘ make your obeisance to her ladyship, and thank her for her goodness, as is but fitting and right. The old woman turned short around on the officious wait bP]28 THE ABBOT. ingmaid. ‘Let her make her obeisance to me, then, and [I will return it. Why should I bend to her?—is it because her kirtle is of silk, and mine of blue lockeram ?—Go to, my lady’s waiting-woman. Know that the rank of the man rates that of the wife, and that she who marries a churl’s son, were she a king’s daughter, is but a peasant’s bride.” ; Lilias was about to reply in great indignation, but her mis- tress imposed silence on her, and commanded that the old woman should be safely conducted to the mainland. Bs “Conduct her safe!” exclaimed the incensed waiting woman, while Magdalen Graeme left the apartment ; “I say, duck her the loch, and then we will see whether she is witch or not, as everybody in the village of Lockside will say and swear. I marvel your ladyship could bear so long with her in- solence.” But the commands of the Lady were obeyed, and the old dame, dismissed from the castle, was committed to her for- tune. She kept her word, and did not long abide in that place, leaving the hamlet on the very night succeeding the interview, and wandering no one asked whither. The Lady of Avenel inquired under what circumstances she had appeared among them, but could only learn that she was believed to be the widow of some man of consequence among the Gremes who then inhabited the Debateable Land, a name given to a certain portion of territory which was the frequent subject of dispute betwixt Scotland and England—that she had suffered great Wrong in some of the frequent forays by which that unfortunate district was wasted, and had been driven from her dwelling- place. She had arrived in the hamlet no one knew for what purpose, and was held by some to be a witch, by others a zeal- ous Protestant, and by others again a Catholic devotee. Her language was mysterious, and her manners repulsive ; and all that could be collected.from her conversation seemed to imply that she was under the influence either of a spell or of a vow— there was no saying which, since she talked as one who acted under a powerful and external agency. Such were the particulars which the Lady’s inquiries were able to collect concerning Magdalen Graeme, being far too meagre and contradictory to authorize any satisfactory deduc- tion. In truth, the miseries of the time, and tl of fate incidental to a frontier country, were per from their habitations those who had not the means of defence or protection. These wanderers in the land were too often seen to excite much attention or sympathy. They received the cold telief which was extorted by general feelings of humanity ; a le various turns petually chasingSHE ABBOT. 29 little excited in some breasts, and perhaps rather chilled in others, by the recollection that ‘they who gave the charity to-day might themselv es want it to-morrow. Magdalen Greme, there- fore, came and departed like a shadow from the neig hborhood of Avenel Castle Tne boy whom providence, as she thought, had thus strangely placed under her care, was at once established a favorite with the Lady of the castle. How could it be otherwise? He be- came the object of those affectionate feelings, which, finding formerly no object on which to expand themselves, ‘had ine creased the gloom of the castle, and imbittered the sélitude of its mistress. ‘l’o teach him reading and writing as far as her skill went, to attend to his childish comforts, to Watch his boy- ish sports, became the Lady’s favorite amusement. In her cir- cumstances, where the ear “only heard the lowing of the cattle from the distant hills, or the heavy step of the warder as he walked upon his post, or the half- envied laugh of her maiden as she turned her wheel, the appearance of the blooming and beautiful boy gave an interest which can hardly be conceived by those who live amid gayer or busier scenes. Young Roland was to the Lady of Avenel what the flower, which viaie the window of some solitary captive, is to the poor wight by whom it is nursed and cultivated—something which at once excited and repaid her care ; and in giving the boy her affection, she felt, as it were, grateful to him for releasing her from the state of dull apathy in which she had usually found herself during the absence of Sir Halbert Glendinning. 3ut even the charms of this blooming favorite were unable to chase the recurring apprehensions which arose from her husband’s procrastinated return. Soon after Roland Graeme became a resident at the castle, a groom, despatched by Sir Halbert, brought tidings that business still delayed the Knight at the Court of Holy rood. The more distant period ae the messenger had assigned for his master’s arrival at length glided away, summer melted into autumn, and autumn was about to give place to winter, and yet he came not,THE ABBOT CHAPTER THIRD: The waning harvest-moon shone broad and bright, The warder’s horn was heard at dead of night, And while the folding portals wide were flung, With trampling hoofs the rocky pavement rung. L&YDEN. “AND you, too, would be a soldier, Roland?” said the Lady of Avenel to her young charge, while, seated on a stone chair at one end of the battlements, she saw the boy attempt, with a long stick, to mimic the motions of the warder, as he alternately shouldered, or ported, or sloped pike. Pes, deadly, /. said the boy—for he was now familiar, and replied to her questions with readiness and alacrity,—‘“‘ a soldier will I be ; for there ne’er was gentleman but who belted him with the brand.” “Thou a gentleman!” said Lilias, who, as usual, was in attendance ; “such a gentleman as I would make of a bean-cod with a ‘rusty knife.” “ Nay, chide him not, Lilias,” said the Lady of Ave vel, “for, beshrew me, but I think he comes of gentle blood—see how it musters in his face at your injurious reproof,” ‘Had I my will, madam,” answered Lilias, “a good birchen wand should make his color muster to better purpose still.” “On my word, Lilias,” said the Lady, “one would think you had received harm from the poor boy—or is he so far on the frosty side of your favors because he enjoys the sunny side of mine?” “Over heavens forbode, my Lady!” answered Lilias ; “TI have lived too long with gentles, I praise my stars for it, to fight with either follies or fantasies, whether they relate to beast, bird, or boy.” ? Lilias was a favorite in her own cl and often accustomed to take more | was atall times willing to encourage, the Iady of Avenel, she did not choose to hear, and thus it was on the present occasion. She resolved to look more close and sharply after the boy, who had hitherto been committed chiefly to the management of Lilias. He must, she thought, be born of gentle blood ; it were shame to think otherwise of a form so noble, and features so fair ;—the very wildness in which he ass, a spoiled domestic, icense than her mistress But what did not pleaseTHE ABBOT. 31 occasionally indulged, his contempt of darger, and impatience of restraint, had in them something noble ;—assuredly the child was born of high rank. Such was her conclusion, and she acted upon it accordingly. The domestics around her, less jealous, or less scrupulous than Lilias, acted as servants usually do, following the bias, and flattering, for their own purposes, the humor of the Lady; and the boy soon took on him those airs of superiority which the sight of habitual deference seldom fails to inspire. It seemed, in truth, as if to command were his natural sphere, so easily did he use himself to exact and receive compliance with his humors. The chaplain, indeed, might have interposed to check the air of assumption which Roland Graeme so readily indulged, and most probably would have willingly rendered him that favor; but the necessity of adjusting with his brethren some disputed points of church discipline had withdrawn him for some time from the castle, and detained him ina distant part of the kingdom. Matters stood thus in the castle of Avenel, when a winded bugle sent its shrill and prolonged notes from the shore of the lake, and was replied to cheerily by the signal of the warder. The Lady of Avenel knew the sounds of her husband, and rushed to the window of the apartment in which she was sitting. A band of about thirty spearmen, with a pennon displayed be- fore them, winded along the indented shores of the lake, and approached the causeway. A single horseman rode at the head of the party, his bright arms catching a glance of the October sun as he moved steadily along. Even at that distance, the lady recognized the lofty plume, bearing the mingled colors of her own liveries and those of Glendonwyne, blended with the holly-branch ; and the firm seat and dignified demeanor of the rider, joined to the stately motion of the dark-brown steed, sufficiently announced Halbert Glendinning. The Lady’s first thought was that of rapturous joy at her husband’s return—her second was connected with a fear which had sometimes intruded itself, that he might not altogether approve the peculiar distinction with which she had treated her orphan ward. In this fear there was implied a consciousness, that the favor she had shown him was excessive ; for Halbert Glendinning was at least as gentle and indulgent, as he was firm and rational in the intercourse of his household ; and to her in particular, his conduct had ever been most affectionately tender. Yet she did fear, that, on the present occasion, her conduct might incur Sir Halbert’s censure ; and hastily resolving that32 THE ABBOT. she would not mention the anecdote of the boy until the next day she ordered him to be withdrawn from the apartment by Liltas. “T will not go with Lilias, madam,” answered the spoiled child, who had more than once carried his point by persever- ance, and who, like his betters, delighted in the exercise of such authority,— I will not go to Lilias’s gousty room—lI will stay and see that brave warrior, who comes riding so gallantly along the drawbridge.’’ “You must not stay, Roland,” said the Lady, more posi. tively than she usually spoke to her little favorite. “I will,” reiterated the boy, who had already felt his conse- quence, and the probable chance of success. “ You zz, Roland!” answered the Lady, “ what manner of word is that?” I tell you, you must go.” “ Will,” answered the forward boy, “is a word for a man, and must is no word for a lady.” “You are saucy, sirrah,” said the Lady—“ Lilias, take him with you instantly.” “I always thought,” said Lilias, smiling, as she seized the reluctant boy by the arm, “that my young master must give place to my old one.” ““And you, too, are malapert, mistress!” said the Lady ; “hath the moon changed, that ye all of you thus forget your- selves?” Lilias made no reply, but led off the boy, who, too proud to offer unavailing resistance, darted at his benefactress a glance, which intimated plainly how willingly he would have defied her authority, had he possessed the power to make good his point. The Lady of Avenel was vexed to find how much this trifling circumstance had discomposed her, at the moment when she ought naturally to have been entirely engrossed by her hus- band’s return. But do we not recover composure by the mere feeling that agitation is mistimed. The glow of displeasure had not left the Lady’s cheek, her ruffled deportment was not yet entirely composed, when her husband, unhelmeted, but still wearing the rest of his arms, entered the apartment. His ap- pearance banished the thoughts of everything else ; she rushed to him, clasped his iron-sheathed frame in her arms, and kissed his martial and manly face with an affection which was at once evident and sincere. The warrior returned her embrace and her caress with the same fondness ; for the time which had passed since their union had diminished its romantic ardor, dTHE ABDOT. 33 perhaps, but it had rather increased its rational tenderness, and Sir Halbert Glendinning’s long and frequent absences from his castle had prevented affection from degenerating by habit into indifference. When the first eager greetings were paid and received, the Lady gazed fondly on her husband’s face as she remarked, ‘“ You are altered, Halbert—you have ridden hard and far to- day, or you have been ill?”’ I have been well, Mary,” answered the knight, ‘“ passing well have I been ; and a long ride is to me, thou well knowest, but a thing of constant custom. Those who are born noble may slumber out their lives within the walls of their castles and manor-houses ; but he who hath achieved nobility by his own deeds must ever be in the saddle, to show that he merits his advancement.” While he spoke thus, the Lady gazed fondly on him, as if endeavoring to read his inmost soul ; for the tone in which he spoke was that of melancholy depression. Sir Halbert Glendinning was the same, yet a different per- son from what he had appeared in his early years. The fiery freedom of the aspiring youth had given place to the steady and stern composure of the approved soldier and skilful politician. There were deep traces of care on those noble features, over which each emotion used formerly to pass, like light clouds across a summer sky. ‘That sky was now, not perhaps clouded, but still and grave, like that of thesober autumn evening. The forehead was higher and more bare than in early youth, and the locks which still clustered thick and dark on the warrior’s head, were worn away at the temples, not by age, but by the constant pressure of the steel cap, or helmet. His beard, ac- cording to the fashion of the time, grew short and thick, and was turned into mustaches on the upper lip, and peaked at the extremity. The cheek, weather-beaten and embrowned, had lost the glow of youth, but showed the vigorous complexion of active and confirmed manhood. Halbert Glendinning was, in a word, a knight to ride at the king’s right hand, to bear his banner in war, and to be his counsellor in time ot peace ; for his looks expressed the considerate firmness which can resolve wisely and dare boldly. Still, over these noble features, there now spread an air of dejection, of which, perhaps, the owner was not conscious, but which did not escape the observation of his anxious and affectionate partner. ‘fe “Something has happened, or is about to happen,” said the Lady of Avenel ; ‘‘this sadness sits not on your brow without ¥ sé54 LHe ABBOT. cause—misfortune, national or particular, must needs be at hand.” “There is nothing new that I wot of,” said Halbert Glen- dinning ; “but there is little of evil which can befall a kingdom that may not be apprehended in this unhappy and divided realm.” “Nay, then,” said the Lady, “I see there hath really been some fatal work on foot. My Lord of Murray has not so long detained you at Holyrood, save that he wanted your help in some weighty purpose.” ‘“‘T have not been at Holyrood, Mary,” answered the Knight ; “ T have been several weeks abroad.” “ Abroad! and sent me no word ?” replied the lady. “What would the knowledge have availed, but to have rendered you unhappy, my love?” replied the kmight ; “ your thoughts would have converted the slightest breeze that curled your own lake into a tempest raging in the German ocean.” “And have you then really crossed the sea?” said the Lady, to whom the very idea of an element which she had never seen conveyed notions of terror and of wonder,—‘ really left your own native land, and trodden distant shores, where the Scottish tongue is unheard and unknown?” “‘ Really, and really,” said the Knight, taking her hand in affectionate playfulness, “I have done this marvellous deed— have rolled on the ocean for three days and three nights, with the deep green waves dashing by the side of my pillow, and but a thin plank to divide me from it.” ‘““ Indeed, my Halbert,” said the Lady, ‘‘ that was a tempt- ing of Divine Providence. I never bade you unbuckle the sword from your side, or lay the lance from your hand—I never bade you sit still when your honor called you to rise and ride ; but are not blade and spear dangers enough for one man’s life, and why would you trust rough waves and raging seas?” ‘“We have in Germany, and in the Low Countries, as they are called,” answered Glendinning, “men who are united with us in faith, and with whom it is fitting we should unite in alliance. ‘To some of these I was despatched on business as important as it was secret. I wentin safety, and I returned in security ; there is more danger to a man’s life betwixt this and Holyrood, than in all the seas that wash the lowlands of Hol- land.” | ‘“ And the country, my Halbert, and the people,” said the Lady, “are they like our kindly Scots? or what bearing have they to strangers ?”THE ABBOT. 35 mawey are’ people, Mary, strong in their wealth, which renders all other nations weak, and weak in those arts of war by which other nations are strong.” “I do not understand you,” said the Lady. “The Hoilander and the Fleming, Mary, pour forth their spirit in trade, and not in war ; their wealth purchases them the arms of foreign soldiers, by whose aid they defend it. They erect dikes on the sea-shore to protect the land which they have won, and they levy regiments of the stubborn Switzers and hardy Germans to protect the treasures which they have amassed. And thus they are strong in their weakness ; for the very wealth which tempts their masters to despoil them, arms strangers in their behalf.”’ “The slothful hinds !”’ exclaimed Mary, thinking and feel- ing like a Scotswoman of the period ; “have they hands, and fight not forthe land which bore them? They should be notched off at the elbow !”’ “Nay, that were but hard justice,” answered her husband : “for their hands serve their country, though not in battle, like ours. Look at these barren hills, Mary, and at that deep wind- ing vale by which the cattle are even now returning from their scanty browse. The hand of the industrious Fleming would cover these mountains with wood, and raise corn where we now see a starved and scanty sward of heath and ling. It grieves me, Mary, when I look on that land, and think what benefit it might receive from such men as I have lately seen—men who seek not the idle fame derived from dead ancestors, or the bloody renown won in modern broils, but tread along the land, as preservers and improvers, not as tyrants and destroyers.” “These amendments would here be but a vain fancy, my Halbert,” answered the Lady of Avenel ; ‘‘the trees would be burned by the English foemen, ere they ceased to be shrubs, and the grain that you raised would be gathered in by the first neighbor that possessed more riders than follow your train. Why should you repine at this? ‘The fate that made you Scotsman by birth, gave you head, and heart, and hand, to uphold the name as it must needs be upheld.” “Tt gave me no name to uphold,” said Halbert, pacing the floor slowly ; “my arm has been foremost in every strite—my voice has been heard in every council, nor have the wisest rebuked me. The crafty Lethington, the deep and dark Morton, have held secret council with me, and Grange and Lindsay have owned that in the field I did the devoir of a gallant knight—but let the emergence be passed when they need my36 THE ABBOT. head and hand, and they only know me as son of the obscure portioner of Glendearg.”’ This was a theme which the Lady always dreaded ; for the rank conferred on her husband, the favor in which he was held by the powerful Earl of Murray, and the high talents by which he vindicated his right to that rank and that favor. were qualities which rather increased than diminished the envy which was harbored against Sir Halbert Glendinning among a proud aristocracy, as a person originally of inferior and obscure birth, who had risen to his present eminence solely by his per- sonal merit. The natural firmness of his mind did not enable him to despise the ideal advantages of a higher pedigree, which were held in such universal esteem by all with whom he con- versed ; and so open are the noblest minds to jealous inconsisten- cies, that there were moments in which he felt mortified that his lady should possess those advantages of birth and high descent which he himself did not enjoy, and regretted that his importance as the proprietor of Avenel was qualified by his possessing it only as the husband of the heiress. He was not so unjust as to permit any unworthy feelings to retain permanent possession of his mind, but yet they recurred from time to time, and did not escape his lady’s anxious observation. ‘Had we been blessed with children,” she was wont on such occasions to say to herself, ‘had our blood been united in a son who might have joined my advantages of descent with my husband’s personal worth, these painful and irksome reflections had not disturbed our union even for a moment. But the existence of such an heir, in whom our affections, as well as our pretensions, might have centred, has been denied to us.” With such mutual feelings it cannot be wondered that it gave the lady pain to hear her husband verging towards this topic of mutual discontent. On the present as on other similar occasions, she endeavored to divert the knight’s thoughts from this painful channel. ‘How can you,” she said, suffer yourself to dwell upon things which profit nothing? Have you indeed no name to uphold? You, the good and the brave, the wise in council, and the strong in battle, have you not to support the reputation your own deeds have won, a reputation more honorable than mere ancestry can supply? Good men love and honor you, the wicked fear, and the turbulent obey you; and is it not necessary you should exert yourself to ensure the endurance of that love, that honor, that wholesome fear, and that necessary Obedience? ”’THE ABBOT. 37 As she thus spoke, the eye of her husband caught from hers courage and comfort, and it lightened as he took her hand and replied, “ It is most true, my Mary, and I deserve thy rebuke, who forget what I am, in repining because I am not what I cannot be. I am now what the most famed ancestors of those I envy were, the mean man raised into eminence by his own exertions ; and sure it is a boast as honorable to have those capacities which are Peay to the foundation of a family, as to be descended from one who possessed them some centuries before. The Hay of Luncarty, who bequeathed his bloody yoke to his lineage, —the ‘dark grey man,’ who first founded the house of Douglas, had yet less of ancestry to boast than I have. For thou knowest, Mary, tha my name derives itself from a line of ancient warriors, thoes my immediate forefathers preferred the humble station in which thou didst first find them ; and war and counsel are not less proper to the house of Glendonwy ne, even in its most remote descendants than to the proudest of their baronage.,”’? He strode across the hall as he spoke ; and the Lady smiled internally to observe how much his mind dwelt upon the pre- rogatives of birth, and endeavored to establish his claims, howev er remote, to a share in them, at the very moment when he affected to hold them in contempt. It will be easily guessed, however, that she permitted no symptom to escape her that could show she was sensible of the weakness of her husband, a perspicacity which perhaps his proud spirit could not very easily have brooked. As he returned from the extremity of the hall, to which he had stalked while in the act of vindicating the title of the House ot Glendonwyne in its most remote branches to the full privileges of aristocracy, ‘‘ Where,” he said, “is Wolf? I have not seen him since my return, and he was usually the first to welcome my home-coming.” “Wolf,” said the Lady, with a slight degree of embarrass- ment, for which, perhaps, s she would have found it difficult to assign any reason even to herself, “ Wolf is chained up for the present. He has been surly to my page.”’ “Wolf chained up—and Wolf surly to your page ! ’ answered Sir Halbert Glendinning ; “ Wolf never was surly to any one ; and the chain will either break his spirit or render him savage —So ho, there—set Wolf free directly.” He was obeyed : and the huge dog rushed into the hall dis * Note B. Glendonwyne ot Glendonwyne.38 THE ABBOT. turbing, by his unwieldy and boisterous gambols, the whole economy of reels, rocks, and distaffs, with which the maidens of the household were employed when the arrival of their lord was a signal to them to withdraw, and extracting from Lilias, who was summoned to put them again in order, the natural observation, ‘That the laird’s pet was as troublesome as the lady’s page.” “And who is this page, Mary?” said the Knight, his atten- tion again called:to the subject by the observation of the wait- ing woman,—‘‘ Who is this page, whom every one seems to weigh in the balance with my old friend and favorite, Wolf? —When did you aspire to the dignity of keeping a page, or who is the boy ?”’ “T trust, my Halbert,” said the Lady, not without a blush, “you will not think your wife entitled to less attendance than other ladies of her quality ?” “Nay, Dame Mary,” answered the Knight, “ It is enough you desire such an attendant.—Yet I have never loved to nurse such useless menials—a lady’s page—it may well suit the proud English dames to have a slender youth to bear their trains from bower to hall, fan them when they slumber, and touch the lute for them when they please to listen ; but our Scottish matrons were wont to be above such vanities, and our Scottish youth ought to be bred to the spear and the stirrup.” “Nay, but, my. husband,” said the lady, “I did but jest when I called this boy my page; he is in sooth a little orphan whom we saved from perishing in the lake, and whom I have since kept in the castle out of charity.—Lilias, bring little Roland hither.” Roland entered accordingly, and, flying to the Lady’s side, took hold of the plaits of her gown, and then turned round, and gazed with an attention not unmingled with fear, upon the stately form of the Knight.—‘ Roland,” said the Lady, “go kiss the hand of the noble Knight, and ask him to be thy protector.”—But Roland obeyed not, and, keeping his station, continued to gaze fixedly and timidly on Sir Halbert Glendin- ning.—‘‘Go to the Knight, boy,” said the Lady; ‘what dost thou fear, child? Go, kiss Sir Halbert’s hand.” “‘T will kiss no hand save yours, Lady,” answered the boy. ‘Nay, but do as you are commanded, child,” replied the Lady.—“ He is dashed by your presence,”’ she said, apologizing to her husband ; “‘ but is he not a handsome boy ?”’ “And so is Wolf,” said Sir Halbert, as he patted his huge four-footed favorite, ‘‘a handsome dog ; but he has this doubleIIE ABBOT. 39 advantage over your new fvaorite, that he does what he 1s commanded, and hears not when he is praised.” “‘ Nay, now you are displeased with me,” replied the Lady ; “and yet why should you be so? There js nothing wrong in relieving the distressed orphan, or in loving that which is in itself lovely and deserving of affection. But you have seen Mr Warden at Edinburgh, and he has set you against the poor boy.” “ My dear Mary,” answered her husband, “Mr. Warden better knows his place than to presume to interfere either in your affairs or in mine. I neither blame your relieving this boy, nor your kindness for him. But, I think, considering his birth and prospects, you ought not to treat him with injudicious fondness, which can only end in rendering him unfit for the humble situation to which Heaven has designed him,’ ‘Nay, but, my Halbert, do but look at the boy,” said the Lady, ‘‘ and see whether he has not the air of being intended by Heaven for something nobler than a mere peasant. May he not be designed, as others have been, to rise out of a humble situation into honor and eminence?” Thus far had she proceeded, when the consciousness that she was treading upon delicate ground at once occurred to her, and induced her to take the most natural, but the worst of all courses on such occasions, whether in conversation or in an actual bog, namely, that of stopping suddenly short in the illus- tration which she had commenced. Her brow:crimsoned, and that of Sir Halbert Glendinning was slightly overcast. But it was only for an instant ; for he was incapable of mistaking his lady’s meaning, or supposing that she meant intentional disre- spect to him. “Be it as you please, my love,” he replied ; “I owe you too much to contradict you in aught which may render your solitary mode of life more endurable. Make of this youth what you will, and you have my full authority for doing so. But remem- ber he is your charge, not mine—remember he hath limbs te do man’s service, a soul and a tongue to worship God ; breed him, therefore, to be true to his country and to Heaven; ane for the rest, dispose of him as you list—it 1s, and shall rest, ur own matter.” . This conversation decided the fate of Roland Greme, who from thenceforward was little noticed by the master ot the mansion of Avenel, but indulged and favored by its mistress. This situation led to many important consequences, and, il truth, tended to bring forth the character of the youth in a40 THE ABBOT. its broad lights and deep shadows. As the Knight himself seemed tacitly to disclaim alike interest and control over the immediate favorite of his lady, young Roland was, by circum- stances, exempted from the strict discipline to which, as the re- tainer of a Scottish man of rank, he would otherwise have been subjected, according to all the rigor of the age. But the stew- ard, or master of the household—such was the proud title as- sumed by the head domestic of each petty baron—deemed it not advisable to interfere with the favorite of the Lady, and especially since she had brought the estate into the present family. Master Jasper Wingate was a man experienced, as he often boasted, in the ways of great families, and knew how to keep the steerage even when wind and tide chanced to be in contradiction. aus This prudent personage winked at much, and avoided giving opportunity for farther offence, by requesting little of Roland Greme beyond the degree of attention which he was himself disposed to pay; rightly conjecturing, that however lowly the place which the youth might hold in the favor of the Knight of Avenel, still to make an evil report of him would make an enemy of the Lady, without securing the favor of her husband. With these prudential considerations, and doubtless not without an eye to his own ease and convenience, he taught the boy as much, and only as much, as he chose to learn, readily admitting whatever apology it pleased his pupil to allege in ex- cuse for idleness or negligence. As the other persons in the castle, to whom such tasks were delegated, readily imitated the prudential conduct of the major-domo, there was little control used towards Roland Graeme, who, of course, learned no more than what a very active mind, and a total impatience of abso- lute idleness, led him to acquire upon his own account, and by dint of his own exertions. The latter were especially earnest, when the Lady herself condescended to be his tutoress, or to examine his progress. It followed also from his quality as my Lady’s favorite, that Roland was viewed with no peculiar good-will by the followers of the Knight, many of whon, of the same age, and apparently similar origin, with the fortunate page, were subjected to severe observance of the ancient and rigorous discipline of a feudal re- tainer. To these Roland Graeme was of course an object of envy, and, in consequence, of dislike and detraction ; but the youth possessed qualities which it was impossible to depreciate. Pride, and a sense of early ambition, did for him what severity and constant instruction, did for others. In truth, the youthfulTHE ABBOT. 4) Roland displayed that early flexibility both of body and mind, which renders exercise, either mental or bodily, rather matter of sport than of study ; and it seemed as if he acquired acci- dentally, and by starts, those accomplishments, which earnest and constant instruction, enforced by frequent reproof and oc: casional chastisement, had taught to others. Such military exercises, such lessons of the period, as he found it agreeable or convenient to apply to, he learned so perfectly, as to con: found those who were ignorant how often the want of constant application is compensated by vivacity of talent and ardent en- thusiasm. The lads, therefore, who were more regularly trained to arms, to horsemanshtp, and to other necessary exer- cises of the period, while they envied Roland Greme the indul- gence or negligence with which he seemed to be treated, had little to boast of their own superior acquirements ; a few hours, with the powerful exertion of a most energetic will, seemed to do for him more than the regular instruction of weeks could ac- complish for others. Under these advantages, if indeed they were to be termed such, the character of young Roland began to develop itself. It was bold, peremptory, decisive, and overbearing ; generous, if neither withstood nor contradicted ; vehement and passionate, if censured or opposed. He seemed to consider himself as at- tached to no one, and responsible to no one, except his mis- tress, and even over her mind he had gradually acquired that species of ascendency which indulgence is so apt to occasion. And although the immediate followers and dependants of Sir Halbert Glendinning saw his ascendency with jealousy,and often took occasion to mortify his vanity, there wanted not those who were willing to acquire the favor of the Lady of Avenel by hu- moring and taking part with the youth whom she protected ; for although a favorite, as the poet assures us, has no friend, he seldom fails to have both followers and flatterers. The partisans of Roland Graeme were chiefly to be found amongst the inhabitants of the little hamlet on the shore of the lake. These villagers, who were sometimes tempted to com- pare their own situation with that of the immediate and constant followers of the Knight, who attended him on his frequent journeys to Edinburgh and elsewhere, delighted in considering and representing themselves as more properly the subjects of the Lady of Avenel than of her husband. It is true, her wis- dom and affection on all occasions discountenanced the distine- tion which was here implied; but the villagers persisted in thinking it must be agreeable to her to enjoy their peculiar and42 THE ABBOT. undivided homage, or at least in acting as if they thought so; and one chief mode by which they evinced their sentiments, was by the respect they paid to young Roland Graeme, the fa- vorite attendant of the descendant of their ancient lords. This was a mode of flattery too pleasing to encounter rebuke or cen- sure ; and the opportunity which it afforded the youth to form, as it were, a party of his own within the limits of the ancient barony of Avenel, added not a little to the audacity and decis- ive tone of a character, which was by nature bold, impetuous, and incontrollable. Of the two members of the household who had manifested an early jealousy of Roland Greme, the prejudices of Wolf were easily overcome ; and in process of time the noble dog slept with Bran, Luath, and the celebrated hounds of ancient days. But Mr. Warden, the chaplain, lived, and retained his dislike to the youth. That good man, single-minded and benev- olent as he really was, entertained rather more than a reason- able idea of the respect due to him as a minister, and exacted from the inhabitants of the castle more deference than the haughty young page, proud of his mistress’s favor, and petulant from youth and situation, was at all times willing to pay. His bold and free demeanor, his attachment to rich dress and deco- ration, his inaptitude to receive instruction, and his hardening himself against rebuke, were circumstances which induced the good old man with more haste than charity, to set the forward page down as a vessel of wrath, and to presage that the youth nursed that pride and haughtiness of spirit which goes before ruin and destruction. On the other hand, Roland evinced at times a marked dislike, and even something like contempt, of the chaplain. Most of the attendants and followers of Sir Halbert Glendinning entertained the same charitable thoughts as the Reverend Mr. Warden ; but while Roland was favored by their lady, and endured by their lord, they saw no policy in making their opinions public. Roland Graeme was sufficiently sensible of the unpleasant situation in which he stood; but in the haughtiness of his heart he retorted upon the other domestics the distant, cold, and sarcastic manner in which they treated him, assumed an air of superiority which compelled the most obstinate to obe- dience, and had the satisfaction at least to be dreaded, if he was heartily hated. The chaplain’s marked dislike had the effect of recommend- ing him to the attention of Sir Halbert’s brother, Edward, who now, under the conventual appellation of Father Ambrose,THE ABBOT. 43 continued to be one of the few monks who, with the Abbot ' Eustatius, had, notwithstanding the nearly total downfall of their faith under the regency of Murray, been still permitted to linger in the cloisters at Kennaquhair. Respect to Sir Halbert had prevented their being altogether driven out of the Abbey, though their order was now in a great measure sup- pressed, and they were interdicted the public exercise of their ritual, and only allowed for their support a small pension out of their once splendid revenues. Father Ambrose, thus situated, was an occasional, though very rare visitant, at the Castle of Avenel, and was at such times observed to pay particular at- tention to Roland Graeme, who seemed to return it with more depth of feeling than consisted with his usual habits. Thus situated, years glided on, during which the Knight of Avenel continued to act a frequent and important part in the convulsions of his distracted country ; while young Greeme anticipated, both in wishes and personal accomplishments, the age which should enable him to emerge from the obscurity of his present situation. CHAPTER FOURTH. Amid their cups that freely flow’d Their revelry and mirth, A youthful lord tax’d Valentine With base and doubtful birth. VALENTINE AND ORSON. WHEN Roland Grzeme was a youth about seventeen years of age, he chanced one summer morning to descend to the mew in which Sir Halbert Glendinning kept his hawks, in order to superintend the training of an eyas, or young hawk, which he himself, at the imminent risk of neck and limbs, had taken from a celebrated eyry in the neighborhood, called Gledscraig. As he was by no means satisfied with the attention which had been bestowed on his favorite bird, he was not slack in testify- ing his displeasure to the falconer’s lad, whose duty it was to have attended upon it. ’ het “What, ho! sir knave,” exclaimed Roland, is it thus you feed the eyas with unwashed meat, as if you were gorging the foul brancher of a worthless hoodie-crow? by the mass,Ad THE ABBOT. and thou hast neglected its castings also for these two days? Think’s thou I ventured my neck to bring the bird down from the crag, that thou shouldst spoil him by thy neglect ?”” And to add force to his remonstrances, he conferred a cuff or two on the negligent attendant of the hawks, who, shouting rather louder than was necessary under all the circumstances, brought the master falconer to his assistance. Adam Woodcock, the falconer of Avenel, was an Englishman by birth, but so long in the service of Glendinning, that he had lost much of his national attachment in that which he had formed to his master. He was a favorite in his department, jealous and conceited of his skill, as masters of the game usually are ; for the rest of his character he was a jester anda parcel poet (qualities which by no means abated his natural conceit), a jolly fellow, who, though a sound Protestant, loved a flagon of ale better than a long sermon, a stout man of his hands when need required, true to his master, and a little pre- suming on his interest with him. Adam Woodcock, such as we have described him, by no means relished the freedom used by young Graeme, in chastising his assistant. ‘“‘ Hey, hey, my Lady’s page,” said he, stepping between his own boy and Roland, “fair and softly, an it like your gilt jacket—hands off is fair play—if my boy has done amiss, I can beat him myself, and then you may keep your hands soft.” “T will beat him and thee too,” answered Roland, without hesitation, “an you look not better after your business. See how the bird is cast away between you. I found the careless lurdane feeding her with unwashed flesh, and she an eyas.” * ‘“Go to,” said the falconer, “thou art but an eyas thyself, child Roland.—What knowst thou of feeding? I say that the eyas should have her meat unwashed, until she becomes a brancher—’twere the ready way to give her the frounce, to wash her meat sooner, and so knows every one who knows a gled from a falcon.” ‘‘ It is thine own laziness, thou false English blood, that dost nothing but drink and sleep,” retorted the page, “and leaves that litner lad to do the work, which he minds as little as thou.” ‘And am I so idle then,” said the falconer, “ that have three cast of hawk to look after, at perch and mew, and to fly them in the fiela to boot ‘—and is my Lady’s page so busy a man that he must take me up short ?—and am I of false English ) _*There is a difference amongst authorities how long the nestling hawk should be fed with flesh which has previously been washed.tHE ABBOF. 45 blood ?—I marvel what blood thou art—neither Englander nor Scot—fish nor flesh—a bastard from the Debateable Land, without either kith, kin, or ally !—Marry, out upon thee, foul kite, that would fain be a tercel gentle! ” The reply to this sarcasm was a box on the ear, so well applied, that it overthrew the falconer into the cistern in which water was kept for the benefit of the hawks. Up started Adam Woodcock, his wrath no way appeased by the cold immersion, and seizing on a truncheon which stood by, would have soon requited the injury he had received, had not Roland laid his hand on his poniard, and sworn by all that was sacred, that if he offered a stroke towards him, he would sheath the blade in his bowels. ‘The noise was new so great, that more than one of the household came in, and amongst others the major-domo, a grave personage, already mentioned, whose gold chain and white wand intimated his authority. At the appearance of this dignitary, the strife was for the present appeased. He embraced, however, so favorable an opportunity to read Roland Graeme a shrewd lecture on the impropriety of his deportment to his fellow-menials, and to assure him, that should he communicate this fray to his master (who, though now on one of his frequent expeditions, was speedily expected to return), which but for respect to his Lady he would most certainly do, the residence of the culprit in the Castle of Avenel would be but of brief duration. ‘‘ But, however,” added the prudent master of the household, “ I will report the matter first to my Lady.” “Very just, very right, Master Wingate,” exclaimed several voices together ; “my Lady will consider if daggers are to be drawn on us for every idle word, and whether we are to live in a well-ordered household, where there is the fear of God, or amongst drawn dirks and sharp knives.” The object of this general resentment darted an angry glance around him, and suppressing with difficulty the desire which urged him to reply in furious or in contemptuous language, returned his dagger into the scabbard, looked disdainfully around upon the assembled menials, turned short upon his heel, and pushing aside those who stood betwixt him and the door, left the apartment. be “This will be no tree for my nest,” said the falconer, “if this cock-sparrow is to crow over us as he seems to dow ; “ He struck me with his switch yesterday,” said one of the grooms, ‘‘ because the tail of his worship’s gelding was not trimmed altogether so as suited his humor.”THE ABBOT. “ And I promise you,” said the laundress, “my young master will stick nothing to call an honest woman slut and quean, if there be but a speck of soot upon his band-collar.” “Tf Master Wingate do not his errand to my Lady,” was the general result, “there will be no tarrying in the same house with Roland Graeme.” The master of the household heard them all for some time, and then, motioning for universal silence, he addressed them with all the dignity of Malvolio himself.—‘‘ My masters,—not forgetting you, my mistresses,—do not think the worst of me that I proceed with as much care as haste in this matter. Our master is a gallant knight, and will have his sway at home and abroad, in wood.and field, in hall and bower, as the saying is. Our Lady, my benison upon her, is also a noble person of long descent, and rightful heir of this place and barony, and she also loves her will ; as for that matter, show me the woman who doth not. Now, she hath favored, doth favor, and will favor, this jackanape,—for what good part about him I know not, save that as one noble lady will love a messan dog, and another a screaming popinjay, and a third a Barbary ape, so doth it please our noble dame to set her affections upon this stray elf of a page, for nought that I can think of, save that she was the cause of his being saved (the more’s the pity) from drowning.” And here Master Wingate made a pause. “I would have been his caution for a gray groat against salt water or fresh,” said Roland’s adversary, the falconer ; “‘ marry, if he crack not a rope for stabbing or for snatching, I will be content never to hood hawk again.” ‘Peace, Adam Woodcock,” said Wingate, waving his hand ; “I prithee, peace, man—Now, my Lady liking this springald, as aforesaid, differs therein from my Lord, who loves never a bone in his skin. Now, is it for me to stir up strife betwixt them, and put as ’twere my finger betwixt the bark and the tree, on account of a pragmatical youngster, whom, nevertheless, I would willingly see whipped forth of the barony? Have patience, and this boil will break without our meddling. I have been in service since I wore a beard on my chin, till now that that beard is turned gray, and I have seldom known any one better themselves, even by taking the lady’s part against the lord’s ; but never one who did not dirk himself, if he took the lord’s against the lady’s.” “And so,” said Lilias, “we are to be crowed over, every one of us, men and women, cock and hen, by this little upstart ? I will try titles with him first, I promise you.—I fancy, MasterTHE ABBOT. 47 wees for as wise as you look, you will be pleased to tell what you have seen to-day, if my lady commands you?” “To speak the truth when my lady commands me,” an- swered the prudential major- domo, “is in some measure my duty, Mistress Lilias ; always providing for and excepting those cases in which it cannot be spoken without breeding mischief and inconvenience to myself or my fellow-servants ; for the tongue of a tale-bearer breaketh bones as well asa Jeddart- staff.” * “But this imp of Satan is none of your friends or fellow- servants,” said Lilias ; “‘ and I trust you mean not to stand up for him against the whole family besides ?”’ “Credit me, Mistress Lilias,’’ replied the senior, ‘‘ should I see the time fitting, I would with right good-will give him a lick with the rough side of my tongue. o Enough said, Master Win: gate,’ answered Lilias ; “then trust me his song shall soon be laid. If my mistress does not ask me what is the matter below stairs before she be ten min- utes of time older, she is no born woman, and my name is not Lilias Bradbourne.” In pursuance of her plan, Mistress Lilias failed not to pre- sent herself before her mistress with all the exterior of one who is possessed of an important secret,—that is, she had the cor- ners of her mouth turned down, her eyes raised up, her lips cae as fast together as if they had been sewed up, to pre- vent her blabbing, and an air of prim mystical importance diffused over her whole person and demeanor, which seemed to intimate, “I know something which I am resolved to not tell you!” Lilias had rightly read her mistress’s temper, who, wise and good as she was, was yet a daughter of g randame Eve, and could not witness this mysterious bearing ‘on the part of her waiting-woman without longing to ascertain the secret cause. For a space, Mrs. Lilias was obdurate to all inquiries, sighed, turned her eyes up higher yet to heaven, hoped for the best, but had nothing Dadar to paren pias All this, as was most natural and; proper, only stimulated the Lady’s curiosity ; neither was her importunity to be parried with,—“ Thank God, I am no makebate—no tale-bearer, —thank God, I never envied any one’s favor, or was anxious to propale their misdemeanor— only, sharilc God, there has been no bloodshed and murder in the house—that is all.” ai use in that ancient burgh, whose * A species of battle-axe, so cal led as being in es specis lishing such a weapon. armorial bearings still represent an arme :d horseman branc48 THE ABBOT. ‘Bloodshed and murder !” exclaimed the Lady, “‘ what does the quean mean ?—if you speak not plain out, you shall have something you will scarce be thankful for.”’ ‘Nay, my Lady,” answered Lilias, eager to disburden her mind, or, in Chaucer’s phrase, to “ unbuckle her mail,” “ if you bid me speak out the truth, you must not be moved with what might displease you—Roland Graeme has dirked Adam Wood- cock—that is all.” ‘“Good Heaven!” said the Lady, turning pale as ashes, “ is the man slain? ” ‘No, madam,” replied Lilias, ‘but slain he would have been, if there had not been ready help ; but maybe, it is your Ladyship’s pleasure that this young esquire shall poniard the servants as well as switch and baton them.” ‘Go to, minion,” said the Lady, “you are saucy—tell the master of the household to attend me instantly.” Lilias hastened to seek out Mr. Wingate, and hurry him to his lady’s presence, speaking as a word in season to him on the way, “I have set the stone a-trowling, look that you do not let it stand still.” The steward, too prudential a person to commit himself otherwise, answered by a sly look and a nod of intelligence, and presently after stood in the presence of the Lady of Avenel, with a look of great respect for his lady, partly real, partly affected, and an air of great sagacity, which inferred no ordinary conceit of himself. “ How is this, Wingate,” said the Lady, “and what rule do you keep in the castle, that the domestics of Sir Halbert Glen- dinning draw the dagger on each other, as in a cavern of thieves and murderers ?—is the wounded man much hurt ? and what— what hath become of the unhappy boy ?” “There is no one wounded as yet, madam,” replied he of the golden chain ; “it passes my poor skill to say how many may be wounded before Pasche * if some rule be not taken with this youth—not but the youth is a fair youth,” he added, cor- recting himself, ‘and able at his exercise ; but somewhat too ready with the ends of his fingers, the butt of his riding-switch, and the point of his dagger.” | ~ And whose fault is that,” said the Lady, “but yours, who should have taught him better discipline, than to brawl or to draw his dagger?” “If it please your Ladyship so to impose the blame on mic,” answered the steward, “it is my part, doubtiess, to bear it— * Easter.7H AR | 1H ABBOT. 49 only I submit to your consideration, that unless I nailed his weapon to the scabbard, I could no more keep it still, than I could fix quicksilver, which defied even the skill of Raymond ulus.” * : Tell me not of Raymond Lullius,” said the Lady, losing patience, ‘‘ but send me the chaplain hither. You grow all of you too wise for me, during your lord’s long and repeated absences. I would to God his affairs would permit him to remain at home and rule his own household, for it passes my wit and skill! ” “God forbid, my Lady!” said the old domestic, “‘tkat you should sincerely think. what you are now pleased to say: your old servants might well hope, that after so many years’ duty, you would do their service more justice than to distrust their gray hairs, because they cannot rule the peevish humor of a green head, which the owner carries, it may be, a brace of inches higner than becomes him.” ““Leave me,” said the Lady; “ Sir Halbert’s return must now be expected daily, and he will look into -these matters himself—leave me, I say, Wingate, without saying more of it. I know you are honest, and I believe the boy is petulant ; and yet I think it is my favor which hath set all of you against him.” The steward bowed and retired, after having been silenced in a second attempt to explain the motives on which he acted. The chaplain arrived ; but neither from him did the Lady receive much comfort. On the contrary, she found him dis- posed, in plain terms, to lay to the door of her indulgence all the disturbances which the fiery temper of Roland Graeme had already occasioned, or might hereafter occasion, in the family. “T would,” he said, “honored Lady, that you had deigned to be ruled by me in the outset of this matter, sith it is easy to stem evil in the fountain, but hard to struggle against it in the stream. You, honored madam (a word which I do not use according to the vain forms of this world, but because I have ever loved and honored you as an honorable and an elect lady),—you, I say, madam, have been pleased, contrary to my poor but earnest counsel, to raise this boy from his station into one approaching to your own.” ; ; ; euagee : “What mean you, reverend sir?” said the Lady 3) “Walawe * [Raymond Lully, surnamed Doctor Tiluminatus, a native of Majorca, was born in 1236, and died 1315 in the eightieth year of his age. His latest work, Arbor aa is divided into sixteen parts, each of which contaimed a special science, forming a kina 0} encyclopedia of the knowledge of the thirteenth century-] 450 THE ABBOT. made this youth a page—is there aught in my doing so that does not become my character and quality ? ” “‘T dispute not, madam,” said the pertinacious preacher, “your benevolent purpose in taking charge of this youth, or your title to give him this idle character of page, if such was your pleasure ; though what the education of a boy in the train of a female can tend to, save to engraft foppery and effeminacy on conceit and arrogance, it passes my knowledge to discover. But I blame you more directly for having taken little care to guard him against the perils of his condition, or to tame and humble a spirit naturally haughty, overbearing, and impatient. You have brought into your bower a lion’s cub ; delighted with the beauty of his fur, and the grace of his gambols, you have bound him with no fetters befitting the fierceness of his disposi- tion. You have let him grow up as unawed as if he had been still a tenant of the forest, and now you are surprised, and call out for assistance, when he begins to ramp, rend, and tear, according to his proper nature.” ‘““Mr. Warden,” said the Lady, considerably offended, ‘ you are my husband’s ancient friend, and I believe your love sincere to him and to his household. Yet let me say, that when I asked you for counsel, I expected not this asperity of rebuke. If I have done wrong in loving this poor orphan lad more than others of his class, I scarce think the error merited such severe censure ; and if stricter discipline were required to keep his fiery temper in order, it ought, I think, to be considered, that I am a woman, and that if I have erred in this matter, it becomes a friend’s part rather to aid than to rebuke me. I would these evils were taken order with before my lord’s return. He loves not domestic discord or domestic brawls ; and I would not willingly that he thought such could arise from one whom I favored—What do you counsel me to do?” “Dismiss this youth from your service, madam,” replied the preacher. “You cannot bid me do so,” said the Lady ; “ you cannot as a Christian and a man of humanity, bid me turn away an unprotected creature against whom my favor, my injudicious favor if you will, has reared up so many enemies.” “It is not necessary you should altogether abandon him, though you dismiss him to another service, or to a calling better suiting his station and character,” said the preacher ; ‘elsewhere he may be an useful and profitable member of the commonweal—here he is but a makebate, and a stumbling- block of offence. ‘The youth has snatches of sense and of in-THE ABBOT. St telligence, though he lacks industry. I will myself give him letters commendatory to Olearius Schinderhausen, a learned professor at the famous university of Leyden, where they lack an under-janitor—where, besides gratis instruction, if God give him the grace to seek it, he will enjoy five merks’ by the year and the professor’s cast-off suit, which he disparts with bien- nially.”’ “This will never do, good Mr. Warden,” said the Lady, scarce able to suppress a smile ; “we will think more at large upon this matter. In the meanwhile, I trust to your remon: strances with this wild boy and with the family, for restraining these violent and unseemly jealousies and bursts of passion ; and I entreat you to press on him and them their duty in this respect towards God, and towards their master.” “You shall be obeyed, madam,” said Warden. “On the next Thursday | exhort the family, and will, with God’s bless- ing, so wrestle with the demon of wrath and violence, which hath entered into my little flock, that I trust to hound the wolf out of the fold, as if he were chased away with ban-dogs.” This was the part of the conference from which Mr. Warden derived the greatest pleasure. The pulpit was at that time the same powerful engine for affecting popular feeling which the press has since become, and he had been no unsuccessful preacher, as we have already seen. It followed, as a natural consequence, that he rather over-estimated the powers of his own oratory, and, like some of his brethren about the period, was glad of an opportunity to handle any matters of importance, whether public or private, the discussion of which could be dragged into his discourse. In that rude age the delicacy was unknown which prescribed time and place to personal exhorta- tions ; and as the court-preacher often addressed the King in- dividually, and dictated to him the conduct he ought to observe in matters of state,so the nobleman himself, or any of his retainers, were, in the chapel of the feudal castle, often incensed or appalled, as the case might be, by the discussion of their private faults in the evening exercise, and by spiritual cen- sures directed against them, specifically, personally, and by name. The sermon, by means of which Henry Warden purposed to restore concord and good order to the Castle of Avenel, bore for text the well-known words, “ He who striketh with the sword shall perish by the sword,’ and was a singular mixture of good sense and powerful oratory with pedantry and bad taste. He enlarged a good deal on the word striketh, which he assured52 THE ABBOT: his hearers comprehended blows given with the point as well as with the edge, and more generally, shooting with hand-gun, cross-bow, or long-bow, thrusting with a lance, or doing any- thing whatever by which death might be occasioned to the adversary. In the same manner he proved satisfactorily, that the word sword comprehended all descriptions, whether back- sword or basket-hilt, cut-and-thrust or rapier, falchion or cim- eter. ‘ But if,” he continued, with still greater animation, “ the fext includeth in its anathema those who strike with any of those weapons which man hath devised for the exercise of his open hostility still more doth it comprehend such as from their form and size are devised rather for the gratification of privy malice by treachery, than for the destruction of an enemy pre- pared and standing upon his defence. Such,” he proceeded, looking sternly at the place where the page was seated on a cushion at the feet of his mistress, and wearing in his crimson belt a gay dagger with a gilded hilt,—“such, more especially, I hold to be those implements of death, which, in our modern and fantastic times, are worn not only by thieves and cut-throats to whom they most properly belong, but even by those wha attend upon women, and wait in the chambers of honorable ladies. Yes, my friends,—every species of this unhappy weapon, framed for all evil and for no good, is comprehended un- der this deadly denunciation, whether it be a stilet, which we have borrowed from the treacherous Italian, or a dirk, which is borne by the savage Highlandman, or a whinger, which is carried by our own Border-thieves and cut-throats, or a dud- geon-dagger, all are alike engines invented by the devil him- self, for ready implements of deadly wrath, sudden to execute and difficult to be parried. Even the common sword-and- buckler brawler despises the use of such a treacherous and malignant instrument, which is therefore fit to be used, not by men or soldiers, but by those who, trained under female disci- pline, become themselves effeminate hermaphrodites, having _ female spite and female cowardice added to the infirmities and evil passions of their masculine nature.” The effect which this oration produced upon the assembled congregation of Avenel cannot very easily be described. The Lady seemed at once embarrassed and offended ; the menials could hardly contain, under an affectation of deep attention, the joy with which they heard the chaplain launch his thunders at the head of the unpopular favorite, and the weapon which they considered as a badge of affectation and finery. Mrs. Lilias crested and drew up her head with all the deep-felt prideLHE ABBOT. cf? 09 eeu aia ey lend eta Bot : . Z of gratified resentment ; while the steward observing a strict 4 neutrality of aspect, fixed his eyes upon an old scutcheon on the opposite side of the wall, which > seemed to examine with the utmost accuracy, more willing, perhaps, to incur the censure of being inattentive to the sermon, than that of seeming to listen with marked approbation to what appeared so distaste- ful to his mistress. Phe unfortunate subject of the harangue, whom nature had endowed with passions which had hitherto found no effectual restraint, could not disguise the being thus directly held u inhabit His brow grew red, he clenched his hand, « of the assembled lived. resentment which he felt at to the scorn, as well as the censure, ts of the little world in which he lip grew pale, he set his teeth, mechanical readiness grasped his weapon of which the clergyman had given so hideous acharacter ; and at length, as the preacher heightened the coloring of his invective, he felt hi ; rage become so un- governable, that, fearing of being hurried into some deed of desperate violence, he rose up, traversed the chapel with hasty steps and left the congregation. The preacher was surprised into a sudden pause, while the fiery youth shot across him like a flash of lightning, regarding him as he passed, as if he had wished to dart from his eyes the same power of blighting and of consuming. But no sooner had he crossed the chapel, and shut with violence behind him the door of the vaulted entrance by which it communicated with ‘the castle, than the impropriety of his conduct supplied Warden with one of those happier subjects for eloquence, of which he knew how to take advantage for making a suitable impression on his hearers. in a slow and solemn He paused for an instant, and then pronounced eep anathema: ‘He hath gone out from us because he was not of us—the sick man hath been offended at the who wounded patient surgeon—the sheep hath fled from the sheepfold and del himself to the wolf, because he could esome bitter of the medicine—the hath flinched from the friendly knife of the ivered not assume the quiet and humble conduct demanded of us by the great Shepherd. Ah! my brethren, beware of wrath the deadly and destroying sin wl our frail eyes in the garments of light ! WI honor? Pride, and pride only—What our Pride and vanity. Voyagers speak of Indian men and anoint themselves with graces? who deck themselves with shells, pigments, and boast of their attire as we do of our beware of pride—beware of 1ich so often shows itself to 1at is our earthiy earthly gifts and miserableTHE ABBOT. carnal advantages—Pride could draw down the morning-stat from Heaven even to the verge of the pit—Pride and self- opinion kindling the flaming sword which waves us off from Paradise—Pride made Adam mortal, and a weary wanderer on the face of the earth, which he had else been at this day the immortal lord of—Pride brought amongst us sin, and doubles every sin it has brought. It is the outpost which the devil and the flesh most stubbornly maintain against the assaults of grace ; and until it be subdued, and its barriers levelled with the very earth, there is more hope of a fool than of the sinner. Rend, then, from your bosoms this accursed shoot of the fatal apple ; tear it up by the roots, though it be twisted with the Chords of your life. Profit by the example of the miserable sinner that has passed from us, and embrace the means of grace while it is called to-day—ere your conscience is seared as with a firebrand, and your ears deafened like those of the adder, and your heart hardened like the nether mill-stone. Up, then, and be doing—wrestle and overcome ; resist, and the enemy shall flee from you—Watch and pray, lest ye fall into tempta- tion, and let the stumbling of others be your warning and your example. Above all, rely not on yourselves, for such self-con- fidence is even the worst symptom of the disorder itself. The Pharisee, perhaps, deemed himself humble while he stooped in the Temple, and thanked God that he was not as other men, and even as the publican. But while his knees touched the marble pavement, his head was as high as the topmost pinnacle of the Temple. Do not, therefore, deceive yourselves, and offer false coin, where the purest you can present is but as dross— think not that such will pass the assay of Omnipotent Wisdom. Yet shrink not from the task, because, as is my bounden duty, I do not disguise from you its difficulties. Self-searching can do much—Meditation can do much—Grace can do all.” And he concluded with a touching and animating exhorta- tion to his hearers to seek divine grace, which is perfected in human weakness. The audience did not listen to this address without being considerably affected ; though it might be doubted whether the feelings of triumph, excited by the disgraceful retreat of the favorite page, did not greatly qualify in the minds of many the exhortations of the preacher to charity and to humility. And, in fact, the expression of their countenances much resembled the satisfied triumphant air of a set of children, who having just seen a companion punished for a fault in which they had mo share, con their task with double glee. both because theyTHE ABBOT 55 themselves are out of the scrape, and because the culprit is ity it. With very different feelings did the Lady of Avenel seek her own apartment. She felt angry at Warden having made a domestic matter, in which she took a personal interest, the subject of such public discussion. But this she knew the good man claimed as a branch of his Christian liberty as a preacher, and also that it was vindicated by the universal custom of his brethren. But the self-willed conduct of her protégé afforded her yet deeper concern. That he had broken through in so remarkable a degree, not only the respect due to her presence, but that which was paid to religious admonition in those days with such peculiar reverence, argued a spirit as untamable as his enemies had represented him to possess. And yet, so far as he had been under her own eye, she had seen no more of that fiery spirit than appeared to her to become his years and his vivacity. This opinion might be founded in some degree on partiality ; in some degree, too, it might be owing to the kindness and indulgence which she had always extended to him ; but still she thought it impossible that she could be totally mistaken in the estimate she had formed of his character. The extreme of violence is scarce consistent with a course of continued hypocrisy (although Lilias charitably hinted, that in some instances they were happily united), and therefore she could not exactly trust the report of others against her own experience and observation. ‘The thoughts of this orphan boy clung to her heartstrings with a fondness for which she herself was unable to account. He seemed to have been sent to her by Heaven, to fill up those intervals of languor and vacuity which deprived her of much enjoyment. Perhaps he was not less dear to her, because she well saw that he was a favorite with no one else, and because she felt, that to give him up was to afford the judgment of her husband and others a triumph . over her own; a circumstance not quite indifferent to the best of spouses of either sex. In short, the Lady of Avenel formed the internal resolution, that she would not desert her page while her page could be rationally protected ; and, with the view of ascertaining how far this might be done, she caused him to be summoned to her presence.LHE ABBOT. Chik tar. i In the wild storm, The seaman hews his mast down, and the merchant Heaves to the billows wares he once deemed precious ; So prince and peer, ’mid popular contentions, Cast off their favorites. OLD Pray. IT was some time ere Roland Greme appeared. The mes- senger (his old friend Lilias) had at first attempted to open the door of his little apartment with the charitable purpose, doubt- less, of enjoying the confusion and marking the demeanor of the culprit. But an oblong bit of iron, yclept a bolt, was passed across the door on the inside, and prevented her benign intentions. Lilias knocked and called at intervals. “Roland —Roland Greme—Aaster Roland Graeme ” (an emphasis on the word Master), “will you be pleased to undo the door ?— What ails you ?—are you at your prayers in private, to com- plete the devotion which you left unfinished in public ?—Surely we must have a screened seat for you in the chapel, that your gentility may be free from the eyes of common folks!’ Still no whisper was heard in reply. “Well, master Roland,” said the waiting-maid, “I must tell my mistress, that if she would have an answer, she must either come herself, or’ send those on errand to you who can beat the door down.” “What says your Lady?” answered the page from within. “ Marry, open the door, and you shall hear,” answered the waiting-maid. ‘I trow it becomes my Lady’s message to be listened to face to face ; and I will not, for your idle pleasure, whistle it through a key-hole.” “ Your mistress’s name,” said the page, opening the door, “is too fair a cover for your impertinence—What saysmy Lady?” “ That you will be pleased to come to her directly, in the withdrawing-room,” answered Lilias, “J presume she has some directions for you concerning the forms to be observed in leaving chapel in future.” “Say to my Lady, that I will directly wait on her,” answered the page ; and returning into his apartment, he once more locked the door in the face of the waiting-maid. ~ Rare courtesy!” muttered Lilias; and mistress, acquainted her that Roland Greme when it suited his convenience, , returning to her would wait on herTHE ABBOT. 57 “What! is that his addition or your own phrase, Lilias? ” said the Lady, coolly ** Nay, madam,” replied the attendant, not directiy answer. ing the question, ‘“he looked as if he could have said much more impertinent things than that, if I had been willing to hear them.—But here he comes to answer for himself,” Roland Graeme entered the apartment with a loftier mien and somewhat a higher color, than his wont: there was em- barrassment in his manner, but it was neither that of fear nor of penitence. “Young man,” said the Lady, “ what trow you J am to think of your conduct this day?” “Tf it has offended you, madam, I am deeply grieved,’ replied the youth. “To have offended me alone,” replied the lady, ‘“‘ were but littlek—You have been guilty of conduct which will highly offend your master—of violence to your fellow-servants, and of disrespect to God himself, in the person of his ambassador.” “Permit me again to reply,” said the page, “that if I have offended my only mistress, friend and benefactress, it includes the sum of my guilt, and deserves the sum of my penitence— Sir Halbert Glendinning calls me not servant, nor do I call him master—he is not e ae to blame me for chastising an insolent groom—nor do J fear oe wrath of Heaven for treating with scorn the unauthorized interference of a meddling preacher.” The Lady of Avenel had ere this seen symptoms in her favorite of boyish petulance, and of impatience of censure or reproof. But his present demeanor was of a graver and more determined character, and she was for a moment at a loss how she should treat the youth, who seemed to have at once assumed the character not only of a man, but of a bold and determined one. She paused an instant, and then assuming the dignity which was natural to her, she said, “Is it to me, Roland, that you hold this language? Is it for the purpose of making me repent the favor I have shown you, that you declare yourself independent both of an earthly and a Heavenly master? Have you forgotten what you were, ‘and to what the loss of my pro- tection would speedily again reduce you?” “Tady,” said the page, “I have forgot nothing, I remember but too much. I know that but for you, I should have perished in yon blue waves,” pointing, as he spoke, to the lake, which vas seen through the window, agitated by the western wind. “Your goodness has gone farther, madam—you have protected me against the malice of others, and against my own folly.THE ABBOT. You are free, if you are willing, to abandon the orphan you have reared. You have left nothing undone by him, and he complains of nothing. And yet, Lady, do not think I have been ungrateful—I have endured something on my part, which I would have borne for the sake of no one but my benefactress.” “For my sake!” said the Lady ; ‘‘and what is it that I can have subjected you to endure, which can be remembered with other feelings than those of thanks and gratitude? ”’ “You are too just, madam, to require me to be thankful for the cold neglect with which your husband has uniformly treated me—neglect not unmingled with fixed aversion. You are too just, madam, to require me to be grateful for the constant and unceasing marks of scorn and malevolence with which I have been treated by others, or for such a homily as that with which your reverend chaplain has, at my expense, this very day regaled | the assembled household.” ‘““Heard mortal ears the like of this!” said the waiting- maid with her hands expanded and her eyes turned up to heaven ; ‘““he speaks as if he were son of an earl, or of a belted knight the least penny!” The page glanced on her a look of supreme contempt, but vouchsafed no other answer. His mistress, who began to feel herself seriously offended, and yet sorry for the youth’s folly, took up the same tone. “Indeed, Roland, you forget yourself. so strangely,” said she, “that you will tempt me to take serious measures to lower you in your own opinion by reducing you to your proper station in society.” “ And that,” added Lilias, ‘ would be best done by turning him out the same beggar’s brat that your ladyship took him in. “ Lilias speaks too rudely,” continued the Lady, “but she has spoken the truth, young man ; nor do I think I ought to spare that pride which hath so completely turned your head. You have been tricked up with fine garments, and treated like the son of a gentleman, until you have forgot the fountain of your churlish blood.” “Craving you pardon, most honorable madam, Lilias hath not spoken truth, nor does your ladyship know aught of my descent, which should entitle you to treat it with such decided scorn. I am no beggar’s brat—my erandmother begged from no one, here nor elsewhere—she would have perished sooner on the bare moor. We were harried out and driven from our home—a chance which has happed elsewhere, and to others. Avenel Castle, with its lake and its towers, was not at all times able to protect its inhabitants from want and desolation.”LHE ABBOT. 59 “Hear but his assurance!” said Lilias, “he upbraids m Lady with the distresses of her family ! ” : “Tt had indeed been a theme more gratefully spared,” said the Lady, affected nevertheless with the allusion. . “It was necessary, madam, for my vindication,” said the page, “or I had not even hinted at a word that might give you pain. But believe, honored Lady, I am of no churl’s blood. My proper descent I know not ; but my only relation has said and my heart has echoed it back and attested the truth, that I am sprung of gentle blood, and deserve gentle usage.” Gr 2 ; : : witay ¢ sais poe pIOBES to expect all the repaid, all the Bae ed ; gard, privileges, befitting high rank and distinguished birth, and become a con- tender for concessions which are only due to the noble? Go to, sir, know yourself, or the master of the household shall make you know you are liable to the scourge as a malapert boy. You have tasted too little the discipline fit for your age and station.” “The master of the household shall taste of my dagger, ere I taste of his discipline,’ said the page, giving way to his restrained passion. ‘‘ Lady, I have been too long the vassal of a panfoufle, and the slave of a silver whistle. You must hence- forth find some other to answer your call; and let him be of birth and spirit mean enough to brook the scorn of your menials, and to call a church vassal his master.” “‘T have deserved this insult,” said the Lady, coloring deeply, “for so long enduring and fostering your petulance. Begone, sir. Leave this castle to-night—I will send you the means of subsistence till you find some honest mode of support, though I fear your imaginary grandeur will be above all others, save those of rapine and violence. Begone, sir, and see my face no more.” The page threw himself at her feet in an agony of sorrow, “ My dear and honored mistress,” he said, but was unable to bring out another syllable. “ Arise, sir,” said the Lady, “ and let go my mantle—hypoc- risy is a poor cloak for ingratitude.” “T am incapable of either, madam,” said the page, springing up with the hasty start of passion which belonged to his rapid and impetuous temper. “ Think not I meant to implore per- mission to reside here ; it has been long my determination to leave Avenel, and I will never forgive myself for having per. mitted you to say the word Jdegone, ere I said, ‘I leave you.’ I did but kneel to ask your forgiveness for an ill-considered word used in the height of displeasure, but which ill became myBo THEEABBOT. mouth, as addressed to you. Other grace I asked not—you have done much for me—but I repeat, that you better know what you yourself have done, than what I have suffered.” “Roland,” said the Lady, somewhat appeased, and relenting towards her favorite, ‘“‘ you had me to appeal to when you were aggrieved. You were neither called upon to suffer wrong, nor entitled to resent it, when you were under my protection.” “ And what,” said the youth, “if I sustained wrong from those you loved and favored, was I to disturb your peace with idle tale-bearings and eternal complaints ? No, madam jelchayve borne my own burden in silence, and without disturbing you with murmurs ; and the respect which you accuse me of wanting, furnishes the only reason why I have neither appealed to you, nor taken vengeance at my own hand in a manner far more effectual, It is well, however, that we part. I was not born to be a stipendiary, favored by his mistress, until ruined by the calumnies of others. May Heaven multiply its choicest bless- ings on your honored head ; and, for your sake, upon all that are dear to you!” He was about to leave the apartment when the Lady called upon him to return. He stood still, while she thus addressed him: “It was not my intention, nor would it be just, even in the height of my displeasure, to dismiss you without the means of support ; take this purse of gold.” “ Forgive me, Lady,” said the boy, “and let me go hence with the consciousness that I have not been degraded to the point of accepting alms. If my poor services can be placed against the expense of my apparel and my maintenance, I only remain debtor to you for my life, and that alone is a debt which I can never repay ; put up then that purse, and only say, in- stead, that you do not part from me in anger.” “No, not in anger,” said the lady, “in sorrow rather for your wilfulness ; but take the gold, you cannot but need it.” “May God evermore bless you for the kind tone and the kind word! but the gold I cannot take. I am able of body, and do not lack friends so wholly as you may think ; for the time may come that I may yet show myself more thankful than by mere words.” He threw himself on his knees, kissed the hand which she did not withdraw, and then hastily left the apartment. : Lilias, for a moment or two. kept her eve fixed on her mis- tress, who looked so unusually pale, that she seemed about to faint; but the lady instantly recovered herself, and declining the assistance which her attendant offered her, walked to her own apartment.THE ABBOT. CHAPTER SIXTH. Thou hast each secret of the household, Francis. I dare be sworn thou hast been in the buttery Steeping thy curious humor in fat ale, And in the butler’s tattle—ay, or chatting With the glib waiting-woman o’er her comfits— These bear the key to each domestic mystery. Op PLAy. Upon the morrow succeeding the scene we have described, the disgraced favorite left the castle ; and at breakfast-time the cautious old steward and Mrs. Lilias sat in the apartment of the latter personage, holding grave converse on the important event of the day, sweetened by a small treat of comfits, to which the providence of Mr. Wingate had added a little flask of racy canary. “He is gone at last,” said the abigail, sipping her glass ; “and here is to his good journey.” Amen,” answered the steward, gravely ; “I wish the poor deserted lad no ill.’ “And he is gone like a wild-duck as he came,” continued Mrs. Lilias ; “no lowering of drawbridges, or pacing along causeways, for him. My master has pushed off in the boat which they call the little Herod (more shame to them for giving the name of a Christian to wood and iron), and has rowed him- self by himself to the farther side of the loch, and off and away with himself, and left all his finery strewed about his room. I wonder who is to clean his trumpery out after him—though the things are worth lifting, too.” ‘Doubtless, Mistress Lilias,’’ answered the master of the household ; ‘“‘in the which case, I am free to think, they will not long cumber the floor.” ‘And now tell me, Master Wingate,” continued the damsel, ‘“do not the very cockles of your heart rejoice at the house being rid of this upstart whelp, that flung us all into shadow?” “Why, Mistress Lilias,” replied Wingate, “as to rejoicing —those who have lived as long in great families as has been my lot, will be in no hurry to rejoice at anything. And for Roland Graeme, though he may be a good riddance in the main, yet what says the very sooth proverb, ‘ Seldom comes a better.’ ” “Seldom comes a better, indeed !”” echoed Mrs. Lilias. “TI Say, never can come a worse, or one halfso bad. He might63 THE ABBOT. have been the ruin of our poor dear mistress” (here she used her kerchief), “body and soul, and estate too; for she spent more coin on his apparel than on any four servants about the house.” “ Mrs. Lilias,” said the sage steward, “I do opine that our mistress requireth not this pity at your hands, being in all respects competent to take care of her own body, soul, and estate into the bargain.” ‘You would not mayhap have said so,” answered the wait- ing-woman, “ had you seen how like Lot’s wife she looked when young master took his leave. My mistress is a good lady, and a virtuous, and a well-doing lady, and a well-spoken of—but I would not Sir Halbert had seen her last evening for two anda plack.”’ “Oh, foy! foy! foy!” reiterated the steward ; “ servants should hear and see, and say nothing. Besides that, my Lady is utterly devoted to Sir Halbert, as well she may, being, as he is, the most renowned knight in these parts.” “Well, well,” said the abigail, “‘ I mean no more harm ; but they that seek least renown abroad, are most apt to find quiet at home, that’s all ; and my Lady’s lonesome situation is to be considered, that made her fain to take up with the first beg- gar’s brat that a dog brought her out of the loch.” “‘ And, therefore,” said the steward, ‘‘I say, rejoice not too much, or too hastily, Mistress Lilias ; for if your Lady wished a favorite to pass away the time, depend upon it, the time will not pass lighter now that he is gone. So she will have another favorite to choose for herself ; and be assured, if she wishes such a toy, she will not lack one.” “And where should she choose one, but among her own tried and faithful servants,” said Mrs. Lilias, “who have broken her bread, and drunk her drink, for so many years? I have known many a lady as high as she is, that never thought either of a friend or favorite beyond their own waiting-woman—always having a proper respect, at the same time, for their old and faithful master of the’ household, Master Wingate.” “Truly, Mistress Lilias,’”’ replied the steward, “I do partly see the mark at which you shoot, but I doubt your bolt will fall short. Matters being with our Lady as it likes you to suppose, it will neither be your crimped pinners, Mrs. Lilias (speaking of them with due respect), nor my silver hair, or golden chain, that will fill up the void which Roland Graeme must needs leave in our Lady’s leisure. There will be a learned young divine with some new doctrine—a learned leech with some newTHE ABBOT. 63 drug—a bold cavalier, who will not be refused the favor of wearing her colors at a running at the ring—a cunning harper that could harp the heart out of woman’s breast, as they say Signor David Rizzio did to our poor oe these are the sort of folk who supply the loss of a melee epee favorite, and not an old steward, or a middle-aged w aiting-woman.” « Well,” “P lied Lil ias, ‘ ‘you have experience, Master Win- gate, and truly I would my master would leave off his pricking hither and thitl ier, and look better after the affairs of his house. hold. There will be a papistrie among us next, for what should [ see among master’s clothes but a string of gold beads? - I promise you, aves and credos both ;—l] seized on them like a falcon.”’ “I doubt it not, I doubt it not,” said the steward, sagaciously nodding his head ; “I have often noticed that the boy had strange observances which savored of popery, and that he was very jealous to conceal them. But you will find the Catholic under the Presbyterian cloak as often as the knave under the Friar’s hood—what then? we are all mortal— —Right proper beads they are,” he added, rene attentively at them, “ and may weigh four ounces of fine gold,’ ‘And I will have them melted down presently,” she said, ‘before they be the misguiding of some poor blinded soul.” ‘“‘ Very cautious, indeed, Mistress Lilias,” said the steward, nodding his head in assent. ‘“¢T will have them made,” said Mistress Lilias, into a pair of shoe-buckles ; I would not wear the Pope’s trinkets, or whatever has once borne the sh 1ape of them, one inch above my instep, were they diamonds instead of g old—But this is what has come of Father Ambrose coming ab out the castle e, as demure as a cat that is about to steal cream.’ “Father Ambrose is our master’s brother,” said the steward, gravely. “Very true, Master Wingate,” answered the Dame ; “ but is that a good reason why he should pervert the King’s liege objects to papistrie pas ‘“‘ Heaven forbid, Mistress Lilias,” answered the sententious major-domo ; “but yet there are worse folk than the Papists.” “T wonder where they are to be found,” said the waiting- woman, with some asperity; “but I believe, Master Wingate, if one were to speak to you about the devil himself, you would say there were worse people en Satan.” “ Assuredly I might say so,” replied the steward, “‘ supposing that I saw Satan standing at my ag eae 364 THE ABBOT. The waiting-woman started, and having exclaimed, “God bless us!” added, “I wonder, Master Wingate, you can take pleasure in frightening ane thus.” “Nay, Mistress Lilias, I had no such purpose,’ was the reply ; “but look you here—the Papists are but put down for the present, but who knows how long this word present will last? There are two great Popish earls in the north of England, that abominate the very word reformation ; I mean the Northumberland and Westmoreland Earls, men of power enough to shake any throne in Christendom. Then, though our Scottish king be, God bless him, a true Protestant, yet he is but a boy; and here is his mother, that was our queen—I trust there is no harm to say, God bless her too—and she is a Catholic ; and many begin to think she has had but hard measure, such as the Hamiltons in the west, and some of our Border clans here, and the Gordons in the north, who are all wishing to see a new world ; and if such a new world should chance to come up, it is like that the Queen will take back her own crown, and that the mass and the cross will come up, and then down go pulpits, Geneva gowns, and black silk skull- caps.” “And have you, Master Jasper Wingate, who have heard the word, and listened unto pure and precious Mr. Henry Warden—have you, I say, the patience to speak, or but to think, of popery coming down on us like a storm, or of the woman Mary again making the royal seat of Scotland a throne of abomination ; no marvel that you are so civil to the cowled monk, Father Ambrose, when he comes hither with his down- cast eyes that he never raises to my Lady’s face, and with his low sweet-toned voice, and his benedicites, and his benisons ; and who so ready to take them kindly as Master Wingate?” “Mistress Lilias,” replied the butler, with an air which was intended to close the debate, ‘‘ there are reasons for all things. If I received Father Ambrose debonairly, and suffered him to steal a word now and then with this same Roland Greme, it was not that I cared a brass bodle for his benison or malison either, but only because I respected my master’s blood. And who can answer, if Mary come in again, whether he may not be as stout a tree to lean to as ever his brother hath proved to us? For down goes the Earl of Murray when the Queen comes by her own again ; and good is his luck if he can keep the head on his own shoulders. And down goes our Knight, with the Earl, his patron ; and who so like to mount into his empty saddle as this same Father Ambrose? The Pope of Rome can soon dis- )THE ABBOT. 6s pense with his vows, and then we should have Sir Edward the soldier, instead of Ambrose the priest.” Anger and astonishment kept Mrs. Lilias silent, while her old friend, in his self-complacent manner, was making known to her his political speculations. At length her resentment found utterance in words of great ire and scorn. “What. Master Wingate! have you eaten my mistress’s bread, to say nothing of my master’s so many years, that you could live to think of her being dispossessed of her own Castle of Avenel, by a wretched monk, who is not a drop’s blood to her in the way of relation ? I, that am but a woman, would try first whether my rock o1 his cowl was the better metal. Shame on you, Master Win- gate! If I had not held you as so old an acquaintance, this should have gone to my Lady’s ears, though I had been called pickthank and tale-pyet for my pains, as when I told of Roland Greme shooting the wild swan.” Master Wingate was somewhat dismayed at perceiving, that the details which he had given of his farsighted political views had produced on his hearer rather suspicion of his fidelity than admiration of his wisdom, and endeavored, as hastily as pos- sible, to apologize and to explain, although internally extremely offended at the unreasonable view, as he deemed it, which it had pleased Mrs. Lilias Bradbourne to take of his expressions ; and mentally convinced that her disapprobation of his sentiments arose solely out of the consideration, that though Father Am- brose, supposing him to become the master of the castle, would certainly require the services of a steward, yet those of a waiting- woman would, in the supposed circumstances, be altogether superfluous. After his explanation had been received as explanations usually are, the two friends separated ; Lilias to attend the sil- ver whistle which called her to her mistress’s chamber, and the sapient major-domo to the duties of his own department. They parted with less than their usual degree of reverence and regard ; for the steward felt that his worldly wisdom was rebuked by the more disinterested attachment of the waiting-woman, and Mistress Lilias Bradbourne was compelled to consider her old friend as something little better than a time-server. 5THE ABBOT: CHAPTER SEVENTH. When I hae a saxpence under my thumb, Then I get credit in ilka town: But when I am puir they bid me gae by— Oh, poverty parts good company ! OLD SONG. WHILE the departure of the page afforded subject for the con- versation which we have detailed in our last chapter, the late favorite was far advanced on his solitary journey, without well knowing what was its object, or what was likely to be its end. He had rowed the skiff in which he left the castle to the side of the lake most distant from the village, with the desire of escaping from the notice of the inhabitants. His pride whis- pered, that he would be, in his discarded state, only the subject of their wonder and compassion ; and his generosity told him, that any mark of sympathy which his situation should excite, might be unfavorably reported at the castle. A trifling incident convinced him he had little to fear for his friends on the latter score. He was met by a young man some years older than himself, who had on former occasions been but too happy to be permitted to share in his sports in the subordinate char- acter of his assistant. Ralph Fisher approached to greet him, with all the alacrity of an humble friend. ‘‘ What, Master Roland, abroad on this side, and without either hawk or hound ?” ‘“ Hawk orhound,” said Roland, ‘ I will never perhaps hollo toagain. I have been dismissed—that is, I have left the castle.” Ralph was surprised. ‘What! you are to pass into the - Knight’s service, and take the black jack and the lance ?”’ “Indeed,” replied Roland Greme, “I am not—I am now leaving the service of Avenel forever.” “And whither are you going, then ? ” said the young peasant. “Nay, that is a question which it craves time to answer— I have that matter to determine yet,” replied the disgraced favorite. ‘“ Nay, nay,” said Ralph, ‘I warrant you it is the same to you which way you go—my Lady would not dismiss you till she had put some lining into the pouches of your doublet.” “Sordid slave!’ said Roland Greme, ‘‘ dost thou think I would have accepted a boon from one who was giving me overTHE ABBOT. 6y a prey to detraction and to ruin, at the instigation of a canting priest and a meddling serving-woman? ‘The bread that I had bought with such an alms would have choked me at the first mouthful.’ Ralph looked at his quondam friend with an air of wonder not unmixed with contempt. ‘ Well,” he said, at length, “no occasion for passion—each man knows his own stomach best— but, were I ona black moor at this time of day, not knowing whither I was going, I should be glad to have a broad piece or two in my pouch, come by them as I could.—But perhaps you will go with me to my father’s—that is, for a night, for to- morrow we expect my uncle Menelaus and all his folks ; but, as I said, for one night——_” The cold-blooded limitation of the offered shelter to one night only, and that tendered most unwillingly, offended the pride of the discarded favorite. “I would rather sleep on the fresh heather, as | have done many a night on less occasion,” said Roland Greme, ‘than in the smoky garret of your father, that smells of peat smoke and usquebaugh like a Highlander’s plaid.” “ You may choose, my master, if you are so nice,’’ replied Ralph Fisher ; “ you may be glad to smell a peat-fire, and usquebaugh too, if you journey long in the fashion you propose. You might have said God-a-mercy for your proffer, though—it is not every one will put themselves in the way of ill-will by harboring a discarded serving-man.” ‘“ Ralph,” said Roland Graeme, “I would pray you to remember that I have switched you before now, and this is the same riding-wand which you have tasted.” Ralph, who was a thickset clownish figure, arrived at his full strength, and conscious of the most complete personal superior- ity, laughed contemptuously at the threats of the slight-made stripling. “It may be the same wand,” he said, ‘“‘ but not the same hand ; and that is as good rhyme as if it were in a ballad. Look you, my Lady’s page that was, when your switch was up, it was no fear of you, but of your betters, that kept mine down —and I wot not what hinders me from clearing old scores with this hazel rung, and showing you it was your Lady’s livery- coat which I spared, and not your flesh and blood, Master Roland.” In the midst of his rage, Roland Graeme was just wise enough to see, that by continuing this altercation, he would subject himself to very rude treatment from the boor, who was68 THE ABBOT. so much alder and stronger than himself ; and while his antag: onist, with a sort of jeering laugh of defiance, seemed to provoke the contest, he felt the full bitterness of his own degraded condition, and burst into a passion of tears, which hein vain endeavored to conceal with both his hands. Even the rough churl was moved with the distress of his quondam companion. “ Nay, Master Roland,” he said, “I did but as ’twere jest with thee—I would not harm thee, man, were it but for old acquaintance’ sake. But ever look to a man’s inches ere you talk of switching—why, thine arm, man, is but like a spindle compared to mine.—But hark, I hear old Adam Woodcock hollowing to his hawk—Come along, man, we will have a merry afternoon, and go jollily to my father’s, in spite of the peat- smoke and usquebaugh toboot. Maybe we may put you into some honest way of winning your bread, though it’s hard to come by in these broken times.” The unfortunate page made no answer, nor did he withdraw his hands from his face, and Fisher continued in what he imagined a suitable tone of comfort. “Why, man, when you were my Lady’s minion, men held you proud, and some thought you a Papist, and I wot not what ; and so, now that you have no one to bear you out, you must be companionable and hearty, and wait on the minister's exam- inations, and put these things out of folk’s head ; and if he says you are in fault, you must jouk your head to the stream ; and if a gentleman, or a gentleman’s gentleman, give you a rough word, or a light blow, you must only say, thank you for dusting my doublet, or the like, as I have done by you.—But hark to Woodcock’s whistle again. Come, and I will teach you all the trick on’t as we go on.” “T thank you,” said Roland Graeme, endeavoring to assume an air of indifference and of superiority ; “‘ but I have another path before me, and were it otherwise, I could not tread in yours.” “ Very true, Master Roland,” replied the clown ; “ and every man knows his own matters best, and so I will not keep you from the path, as you say. Give us a grip of your hand, man, for auld Jang syne.—What not clap palms, ere we part !—well so be it—a wilful man will have his way, and so farewell, and the blessing of the morning to you.” | “Good morrow—good-morrow,” said Roland, hastily ; and the clown walked lightly off, whistling as he went, and glad, apparently, to be rid of an acquaintance whose claims might be=> : : 3 = = = PRESSES - - RRSP WSS Ws —— A \ Ww QS] WSS \ BS Py LLU, arty 7) cA as e os Pee « 1 KiNY) NY A Bo -“WS ake e AN: rf ADAM WOODCOCKTHE ABBOT. 69 troublesome, and who had no longer the means to be serviceable to him. Roland Graeme compelled himself to walk on while they were within sight of each other, that his former intimate might not augur any vacillation of purpose, or uncertainty of object, from his remaining on the same spot; but the effort was a painful one. He seemed stunned, as it were, and giddy; the earth on which he stood felt as if unsound, and quaking under his feet like the surface of a bog ; and he had once or twice nearly fallen, though the path he trode was of firm green- sward. He kept resolutely moving forward, in spite of the internal agitation to which these symptoms belonged, until the distant form of his acquaintance disappeared behind the slope of a hill, when his heart failed at once ; and, sitting down on the turf, remote from human ken, he gave way to the natural expressions of wounded pride, grief, and fear, and wept with unrestrained profusion and unqualified bitterness. When the first violent paroxysm of his feelings had sub- sided, the deserted and friendless youth felt that mental relief which usually follows such discharges of sorrow. The tears con- tinued to chase each other down his cheeks, but they were no longer accompanied by the same sense of desolation ; an afflict- ing yet milder sentiment was awakened in his mind, by the recollection of his benefactress, of the unwearied kindness which had attached her to him, in spite of many acts of provok- ing petulance, now recollected as offences of a deep dye, which had protected him against the machinations of others, as well as against the consequences of his own folly, and would have continued to do so, had not the excess of his presumption compelled her to withdraw her protection. oe “Whatever indignity I have borne,” he said, “has been the just reward of my own ingratitude. And have I done be to accept the hospitality, the more than maternal kindness, o my protectress, yet to detain from her the knowledge my re- ligion ?—but she shall know that a Catholic has as much erate tude as a Puritan—that I have been thoughtless, but not wicked —that in my wildest moments I have loved, respected, ore ored her—and that the orphan boy might indeed be heedless, re rer ungrateful !” ae esgs mond as these thoughts passed through his mind, and began hastily to retread his footsteps towards the castle. But tae hecked the first eagerness of his repentant haste, when he a, re : vith which the family reflected on the scorn and contempt w A taht onehaee were likely to see the return of the fugitive, humbled, as they70 THE ABBOT. must necessarily suppose him, into a supplicant, who requested pardon for his fault, and permission to return to his service. He slackened his pace, but he stood not still. “T care not,” he resolutely determined ; “‘let them wink, point, nod, sneer, speak of the conceit which is humbled, of the pride which has had a fall—I care not ; it is a penance due to my folly, and I will endure it with patience. Butif she also, my benefactress, if she also should think me sordid and weak- spirited enough to beg, not for her pardon alone, but for a renewal of the advantages which I derived from her favor— her suspicion of my meanness I cannot—lI will not brook.” He stood still, and his pride rallying with constitutional obstinacy against his more just feeling, urged that he would incur the scorn of the Lady of Avenel, rather than obtain her favor, by following the course which the first ardor his repent- ant feelings had dictated to him. “T£ I had but some plausible pretext,” he thought, “some ostensible reason for my return, some excuse to allege which might show I came not as a degraded supplicant, or a discarded menial, I might go thither—but as I am | cannot—my heart would leap from its place and burst.” As these thoughts swept through his mind, something passed in the air so near him as to dazzle his eyes and almost to brush the plume in his cap. He looked up—it was the favorite falcon of Sir Halbert, which, flying around his head seemed to claim his attention, as that of a well-known friend. Roland extended his arm, and gave the accustomed whoop, and the falcon in- stantly settled on his wrist, and began to prune itself, glancing at the youth from time to time an acute and brilliant beam of its hazel eye, which seemed to ask why he caressed it not with his usual fondness. “ Ah, Diamond!” he said, as if the bird understood him, “thou and I must be strangers henceforward. Many a gallant stoop have I seen thee make, and many a brave heron strike down ; but that is all gone and over, and there is no hawking more for me!” “ And why not, Master Roland,” said Adam Woodcock, the falconer, who came at that instant from behind a few alder bushes which had concealed him from view, ‘‘ why should there be no more hawking for you? Why, man, what were our life without our sport?—thou knowest the jolly old song— And rather would Allan in dungeon lie, Than live at large where the falcon cannot fly ; And Allan would rather lie in Sexton’s pound, Than live where he follow’d not the merry hawk and hound.”THE ABBOT. 4 The voice of the falconer was hearty and friendly, and the tone in which he half-sung, half recited, his rude ballad, implied honest frankness and cordiality. But remembrance of their quarrel, and its Consequences, embarrassed Roland, and _ pre- vented his reply. The falconer saw his hesitation, and guessed the cause. 4 What now,” said he, “ Master Roland? do you, who are half an Englishman, think that I, who am a whole one, would keep up anger against you, and you in distress? That were like some of the Scots (my master’s reverence always excepted), who can be fair and false, and wait their time, and keep their mind as they say, to themselves, and touch pot and flagon with you, and hunt and hawk with you, and, after all, when time serves, pay off some old feud with the point of the dagger. Canny Yorkshire has no memory for such old sores. Why, man, an you had hit me a rough blow, maybe I would rather have taken it from you, than a rough word from another ; for you have a good notion of falconry, though you stand up for washing the meat for the eyases. So give us your hand, man, and bear no malice.”’ Roland, though he felt his proud blood rebel at the familiarity of honest Adam’s address, could not resist its downright frank- ness. Covering his face with the one hand, he held out the other to the falconer, and returned with readiness his friendly grasp. “Why, this is hearty now,” said Woodcock ; “I always said you had a kind heart, though you have a spice of the devil in your disposition, that is certain. I came this way with the falcon on purpose to find you, and yon half-bred lubbard told me which way you took flight. You ever thought too much of that kestril-kite, Master Roland, and he knows nought of sport after all, but what he caught from you. I saw how it had been betwixt you, and I sent him out of my company with a wanion —I would rather have a rifler on my perch than a false knave at my elbow—and now, Master Roland, tell me what way wing ye?” “That is as God pleases,” replied the page, with a sigh which he could not suppress. = ‘‘Nay, man, never droop a feather for being cast off,” said the falconer ; “who knows but you may soar the better and fairer flight for all this yet ?—Look at Diamond there, ’tis a noble bird, and shows gallantly with his hood, and bells, and jesses ; but there is many a wild falcon in Norway that would not change properties with him—And that is what I would say of you. You are no longer my Lady’s page, and you will not"2 THE ABBOT. clothe so fair, or feed so well, or sleep so soft, or show so gallant —What of all that? if you are not her page, you are your own man, and may go where you will, without minding whoop or whistle. The worst is the loss of the sport, but who knows what you may come to? They say that Sir Halbert himself, I speak with reverence, was once glad to be the Abbot’s forester, and now he has hounds and hawks of his own, and Adam Woodcock for a falconer to the boot.” “You are right, and say well, Adam,” answered the youth, the blood mantling in his cheeks, ‘“ the falcon will soar higher without his bells than with them, though the bells be made of silver.”’ “That is cheerily spoken,’ whither now?” ‘“T thought of going to the Abbey of Kennaquhair,”’ answered Roland Greeme, ‘‘ to ask the counsel of Father Ambrose.” ‘And joy go with you,” said the falconer, “though it is likely you may find the old monks in some sorrow; they say the commons are threatening to turn them out of their cells, and make a devil’s mass of it in the old church, thinking they have forborne that sport too long; and troth I am clear of the same opinion.”’ “Then will Father Ambrose be the better of having a friend beside him!” said the page, manfully. ““ Ay, but, my young fearnaught,” replied the falconer, ‘‘ the friend will scarce be the better of being beside Father Ambrose —he may come by the redder’s lick, and that is ever the worst of the battle.” = cate motdor that? said the pages the «dread of adick should not hold me back; but I fear I may bring trouble between the brothers by visiting Father Ambrose. I will tarry to-night at Saint Cuthbert’s cell, where the old priest will give me a night’s shelter ; and I will send to Father Ambrose to ask his advice before I go down to the convent.” ‘By Our Lady,” said the falconer, “ and that is a likely plan —and now,” he continued, exchanging his frankness of manner for a sort of awkward embarrassment, as if he had somewhat to say that he had no ready means to bring out—‘ and now, you wot well that I wear a pouch for my hawk’s meat,* and so forth ; but wot you what it is lined with, Master Roland ? ” ‘With leather, to be sure,” replied Roland, somewhat sur- * This same bag, like everything belonging to falconry, was esteemed an honorable dis- tinction, and worn often by the nobility and gentry. One of the Somervilles of Camnethan was called Str ohn with the red bag, because it was his wont to wear his hawking pouch covered with satin of that color. , replied the falconer; ‘andLHE ABBOT. 43 prised at the hesitation with which Adam Woodcock asked a question apparently so simple. ‘With leather, lad?” said Woodcock ; “ay, and with silver to the boot of that. See here,” he said, showing a secret slit in the lining of his bag of office—“ here they are, thirty good Harry groats as ever were stuck in bluff old Hall’s time, and ten of them are right heartily at your service ; and now the murder is out.” Roland’s first idea was to refuse his assistance ; but he recol- lected the vows of humility which he had just taken upon him, and it occurred that this was the Opportunity to put his new- formed resolution to the test. Assuming a strong command of himself, he answered Adam Woodcock with as much frankness as his nature permitted him to wear, in doing what was so con- trary to his inclinations, that he accepted thankfully of his kind offer, while, to soothe his own reviving pride, he could not help adding, “he hoped soon to requite the obligation.” “That as you list—that as you list, young man,” said the falconer, with glee, counting out and delivering to his young friend the supply he had so generously offered, and then adding, with great cheerfulness,—‘“‘ Now, you may go through the world ; for he that can back a horse, wind a horn, hollow a greyhound, fly a hawk, and play at sword and buckler, with a whole pair of shoes, a green jacket, and ten lily-white groats in his pouch, may bid Father Care hang himself in his own jesses. Farewell, and God be with you!” So saying, and asif desirous to avoid the thanks of his com- panion, he turned hastily round, and left Roland Graeme to pursue his journey alone. CHAPTER EIGHTH. ‘he sacred tapers’ lights are gone, Gray moss has clad the altar stone, The holy image is o’erthrown, The bell has ceased to toll, The long-ribb’d aisles are burst and shrunk, The holy shrines to ruin sunk, Departed is the pious monk, God’s blessing on his soul! REDIVIVA. THE cell of Saint Cuthbert, as it was called, marked, or was sup posed to mark, one of those resting-places which that vener- able saint was pleased to assign to his monks, when his convent,74 THE ABBOT. being driven from Lindisfern by the Danes, became a peripa- tetic society of religionists, and, bearing their patron’s body on their shoulders, transported him from place to place through Scotland and the borders of England, until he was pleased at length to spare them the pain of carrying him farther, and to choose his ultimate place of rest in the lordly towers of Durham. The odor of his sanctity remained behind him at each place where he had granted the monks a transient respite from their labors ; and proud were those who could assign, as his temporary resting-place, any spot within their vicinity. There were few cells more celebrated and honored than that of Saint Cuthbert, to which Roland Graeme now bent his way, situated consider- ably to the northwest of the great Abbey of Kennaquhair, on which it was dependent. In the neighborhood were some of those recommendations which weighed with the experienced priesthood of Rome, in choosing their sites for places of religion. There was a well, possessed of some medicinal qualities, which, of course, claimed the saint for its guardian and patron, and occasionally produced some advantage to the recluse who inhabited his cell, since none could reasonably expect to benefit by the fountain who did not extend their bounty to the saint’s chaplain. A few roods of fertile land afforded the monk his plot of garden-ground ; an eminence well clothed with trees rose behind the cell, and sheltered it from the north and the east, while the front, opening to the south-west, looked up a wild but pleasant valley, down which wandered a lively brook, which battled with every stone that interrupted its passage. The cell itself was rather plainly than rudely constructed— a low Gothic building with two small apartments, one of which served the priest for his dwelling-place, the other for his chapel. As there were few of the secular clergy who durst venture to reside so near the Border, the assistance of this monk in spiritual affairs had not been useless to the community, while the Catholic religion retained the ascendency ; as he could marry, christen, and administer the other sacraments of “the Roman Church. Of late, however, as the Protestant doctrines gained ground, he had found it convenient to live in close re tirement, and to avoid, as much as possible, drawing upon him- self observation or animadversion. The appearance of his habitation, however, when Roland Graeme came before ite an the close of the evening, plainly showed that his caution had been finally ineffectual. The page’s first movement was to knock at the door, when he observed, to his surprise, that it was open, not from beingTHE ABBOT. 5 left unlatched, but because, beat off its upper hinge, it was only fastened to the door-post by the lower, and could therefore no longer perform its functions. Somewhat alarmed at this, and receiving no answer when he knocked and called, Roland began to look more at leisure upon the exterior of the little dwelling before he ventured to enter it. The flowers, which had been trained with care against the walls, seemed to have been recently torn down, and trailed their dishonored garlands on the earth ; the latticed window was broken and dashed in. The garden, which the monk had maintained by his constant labor in the highest order and beauty, bore marks of having been lately trode down and destroyed by the hoofs of animals, and the feet of men. The sainted spring had not escaped. It was wont to rise beneath a canopy of ribbed arches, with which the devotion of elder times had secured and protected its healing waters. These arches were now almost entirely demolished, and the stones of which they were built were tumbled into the well, as if for the purpose of choking up and destroying the fountain, which, as it had shared in other days the honor of the saint, was, in the present, doomed to partake his unpopularity. Part of the roof had been pulled down from the house itself, and an attempt had been made with crows and levers upon one of the angles, by which several large corner-stones had been forced out of their place ; but the solidity of ancient mason-work had proved too great for the time or patience of the assailants, and they had relinquished their task of destruction. Such dilap- idated buildings after the lapse of years, during which nature has gradually covered the effects of violence with creeping plants, and with weather-stains, exhibit, amid their decay, a melancholy beauty. But when the visible effects of violence appear raw and recent, there is no feeling to mitigate the sense of devastation with which they impress the spectators ; and such was now the scene on which the youthful page gazed, with the painful feelings it was qualified to excite. When his first momentary surprise was over, Roland Graeme was at no loss to conjecture the cause of these ravages. ‘The destruction of the Popish edifices did not take place at once throughout Scotland, but at different times, and according to the spirit which actuated the reformed clergy ; some of whom instigated their hearers to these acts of demolition, and others, with better taste and feeling, endeavored to protect the ancient shrines, while they desired to see them purified from the objects which had attracted idolatrous devotion. From time to time,THE ABBOT. therefore, the populace of the Scottish towns and villages, when instigated either by their own feelings of abhorrence for Popish superstition, or by the doctrines of the most zealous preachers, resumed the work of destruction, and exercised it upon some sequestered church, chapel, or cell, which had escaped the first burst of their indignation against the religion of Rome. In many places, the vices of the Catholic clergy, arising out of the wealth and the corruption of that tremendous hierarchy, fur- nished too good an apology for wreaking vengeance upon the splendid edifices which they inhabited; and of this an old Scottish historian gives a remarkable instance. “Why mourn ye,” said an aged matron, seeing the discon- tent of some of the citizens, while a stately convent was burnt by the multitude,—“ why mourn ye for its destruction? If you knew half the flagitious wickedness which has been perpetrated within that house, you would rather bless the divine judgment, which permits not even the senseless walls that screened such profligacy any longer to cumber Christian ground.” But although, in many instances, the destruction of the Roman Catholic buildings might be, in the matron’s way of judging, an act of justice, and in others an act of policy, there is no doubt that the humor of demolishing monuments of ancient piety and munificence, and that in a poor country like Scotland, where there was no chance of their being replaced, was both useless, mischievous, and barbarous. In the present instance, the unpretending and quiet seclu- sion of the monk of Saint Cuthbert’s had hitherto saved him from the general wreck ; but it would seem ruin had now at length reached him. Anxious to discover if he had at least escaped personal harm, Roland Graeme entered the half-ruined cell. The interior of the building was in a state which fully justi- fied the opinion he had formed from its external injuries. The few rude utensils of the solitary’s hut were broken down, and lay scattered on the floor, where it seemed as if a fire had been made with some of the fragments to destroy the rest of his prop- erty, and to consume, in particular, the rude old image of Saint Cuthbert, in his episcopal habit, which lay on the hearth like Dagon of yore, shattered with the axe and scorched with the flames, but only partially destroyed. In the little apart- ment which served as a chapel, the altar was overthrown, and the four huge stones of which it had been once composed lay scattered around the floor. ‘The large stone crucifix which occupied the niche behind the altar, and fronted the supplicantTHE ABBOT. i / while he paid his devotion there, had been pulled down and dashed by its own weight into three fragments. There were marks of sledge-hammers on each of these ; yet the image had been saved from utter demolition by the size and strength of the remaining fragments, which, though much injured, retained enough of the original sculpture to show what it had been in- tended to represent.* Roland Graeme, secretly nursed in the tenets of Rome, saw with horror the profanation of the most sacred emblem, accord- ing to his creed, of our holy religion.. “It is the badge of our redemption,” he said, “ which the felons have dared to violate—would to God my weak strength were able to replace it—my humble strength to atone for the sacrilege !”’ He stooped to the task he first meditated, and with a sud- den, and to himself almost an incredible exertion of power, he lifted up the one extremity of the lower shaft of the cross, and rested it upon the edge of the large stone which served for its pedestal. Encouraged by this success, he applied his force to the other extremity, and, to his own astonishment, succeeded so far as to erect the lower end of the limb into the socket, out of which it had been forced, and to place this fragment of the image upright. While he was employed in this labor, or rather at the very moment when he had accomplished the elevation of the frag- ment, a voice, in thrilling and well-known accents, spoke behind him these words :—” Well done, thou good and faithful ser- vant! Thus would I again meet the child of my love—the hope of my aged eyes.” Roland turned round in astonishment, and the tall com- manding form of Magdalen Graeme stood beside him. She was arrayed in a sort of loose habit, in form like that worn by penitents in Catholic countries, but black in color, and ap proaching as near to a pilgrim’s cloak as it was safe to wear in a country where the suspicion of Catholic devotion in many places endangered the safety of those who were suspected of attachment to the ancient faith. Roland Greme threw him- self at her feet. She raised and embraced him, with affection indeed, but not unmixed with gravity which amounted almost to sternness. “Thou hast kept well,” she said, “the bird in thy bosom.f t Deis ee by Sir Ralph Percy, slain in the battle of Hedgelymoor in 1464, se : . : vo: tera . E Se when dying, to express his haying preserved unstained his fidelity to the House of Lans caster.78 THE ABBOT. As a boy, as a youth, thou hast held fast thy faith amongst heretics—thou hast kept thy secret and mine own amongst thine enemies. I wept when I parted from you—I who seldom weep, then shed tears, less for thy death than for thy spiritual danger—lI dared not even see thee to bid thee a last farewell— my grief, my swelling grief, had betrayed me to these heretics. But thou hast been faithful—down, down on thy knees before the holy sign, which evil men injure and blaspheme ; down, and praise saints and angels for the grace they have done thee, in preserving thee from the leprous plague which cleaves to the house in which thou wert nurtured !” ‘If, my mother—so must I ever call you,” replied Graeme, —‘‘if I am returned such as thou wouldst wish me, thou must thank the care of the pious Father Ambrose, whose instructions confirmed your early precepts, and taught me at once to be faithful and to be silent.” ‘‘ Be he blessed for it,” said she, “‘ blessed in the cell and in the field, in the pulpit and at the altar—the saints rain bless- ings on him!—they are just, and employ his pious care to counteract the evils which his detested brother works against the realm and the church,—but he knew not of thy lineage?” ‘I could not myself tell him that,’ answered Roland. “I knew but darkly from your words, that Sir Halbert Glendinning holds mine inheritance, and that I am of blood as noble as runs in the veins of any Scottish Baron—these are things not to be forgotten, but for the explanation I must now look to you.” ’ ‘“ And when time suits, thou shalt not look for it in vain. But men say, my son, that thou art bold and sudden ; and those who bear such tempers are not lightly to be trusted with what will strongly move them.” ‘Say rather, my mother,” returned Ronald Greme, “ that I am laggard and cold-blooded—what patience or endurance can you require of which Ze is not capable, who for years has heard his religion ridiculed and insulted, yet failed to plunge his dagger into the blasphemer’s bosom ?” ‘“ Be contented, my child,” replied Magdalen Graeme ; “‘ the time, which then and even now demands patience, will soon ripen to that of effort and action—great events are on the wing, and thou—thou shalt have thy share in advancing them. Thou hast relinquished the service of the Lady of Avenel ?”’ ‘““T have been dismissed from it, my mother—I have lived to be dismissed, as if I were the meanest of the train.” “It is the better, my child,” replied she ; “thy mind willTHE ABBOT. be the more hardened to undertake that which must be per- formed.” “Let it be nothing, then, against the Lady of Avenel,” said the page, ‘‘as thy look and words seem to imply. I have eaten her bread—I have experienced her favor-—I will neither injure nor betray her.”’ ‘Of that hereafter, my son,” said she; “ but learn this, that it is not for thee to capitulate in thy duty, and to say this will I do, and that will I leave undone—No, Roland! God and man will no longer abide the wickedness of this generation. Seest thou these fragments—knowest thou what they represent ?—and canst thou think it is for thee to make distinctions amongst a race so accursed by Heaven, that they renounce, violate, blas- pheme, and destroy, whatsoever we are commanded to believe in, whatsoever we are commanded to reverence?” As she spoke, she bent her head towards the broken image, with a countenance in which strong resentment and zeal were mingled with an expression of ecstatic devotion ; she raised her left hand aloft as in the act of making a vow, and thus pro- ceeded :—“ Bear witness for me, blessed symbol of our salvation, bear witness, holy saint, within whose violated temple we stand, that as it is not for vengeance of my own that my hate pursues these people, so neither, for any favor or earthly affection to- wards any amongst them, will I withdraw iny hand from the plough when it shall pass through the devoted furrow! Bear witness, holy saint, once thyself a wanderer and fugitive as we are now—bear witness, Mother of Mercy, Queen of Heaven— bear witness, saints and angels!” In this high strain of enthusiasm, she stood, raising her eyes through the fractured roof of the vault, to the stars which now began to twinkle through the pale twilight, while the long gray tresses, which hung down over her shoulders waved in the night-breeze, which the chasm and fractured windows admitted freely. Roland Graeme was too much awed by early habits, as well as by the mysterious import of her words, to ask for farther ex- planation of the purpose she obscurely hinted at. Nor did she farther press him on the subject ; for, having concluded her prayer or obtestation, by clasping her hands together with so- lemnity, and then signing herself with the cross, she again ad- dressed her grandson, in a tone more adapted to the ordinary business of life. “Thou must hence,” she said, but not till morning—And now, how wilt t “Roland, thou must hence, hou shift for th)THE ABBOT. night’s quarters ?—thou hast been more softly bred than when we were companions in the misty hills of Cumberland an¢é Liddlesdale.”’ “T have at least preserved, my good mother, the habits which I then learned—can lie hard, feed sparingly, and think it no hardship. Since I was a wanderer with thee on the hills, I have been a hunter, and fisher, and fowler, and each of these is accustomed to sleep freely in a worse shelter than sacrilege has left us here.” “Than sacrilege has left us here!” said the matron, repeat: ing his words, and pausing on them. “ Most true, my son; and God’s faithful children are now worst sheltered, when they lodge in God’s own house and the demesne of his blessed saints. We shall sleep cold here, under the night-wind, which whistles through the breaches which heresy has made. ‘They shall lie warmer who made them—ay, and through a long hereafter.” Notwithstanding the wild and singular expression of this ~ female, she appeared to retain towards Roland Greme, ina strong degree, that affectionate and sedulous love which women bear to their nurslings, and the children dependent on their care. It seemed as if she would not permit him to do aught for himself which in former days her attention had been used to do for him, and that she considered the tall stripling before her as being equally dependent on her careful attention as when he was the orphan child, who had owed all to her affectionate solicitude. “What hast thou to eat now?” she said, as, leaving the chapel, they went into the deserted habitation of the priest ; “ or what means of kindling a fire, to defend thee from this raw and inclement air? Poor child! thou hast made slight provi- sion for a long journey ; nor hast thou skill to help thyself by wit, when means are scanty. But Our Lady has placed by thy side one to whom want, in all its forms, is as familiar as plenty and splendor have formerly been. And with want, Roland, come the arts of which she is the inventor.” With an active and officious diligence, which strangely con- trasted with her late abstracted and high tone of Catholic de votion, she set about her domestic arrangements for the evening. A pouch, which was hidden under her garment, produced a flint and steel, and from the scattered fragments around (those per- taining to the image of Saint Cuthbert scrupulously excepted) she obtained splinters sufficient to raise a sparkling and cheer- ful fire on the hearth of the deserted cell. “And now,” she said, ‘‘ for needful food.”THE ABBOT. 81 “Think not of it, mother,” said Roland, “unless you your: self feel hunger. It is a little thing for me to endure a night’s abstinence, and a small atonement for the necessary transeres- sion of the rules of the Church upon which I was compelled during my stay in the castle.” “Hunger for myself!” answered the matron—“ Know, youth, that a mother knows not hunger till that of her child is satisfied.” And with affectionate inconsistency, totally different from her usual manner, she added, “ Roland, you must not fast ; you have dispensation ; you are young, and to youth food and sleep are necessaries not to be dispensed with. Husband your strength, my child—your sovereign, your religion, your country, require it. Let age macerate by fast and vigil a body which can only suffer ; let youth, in these active times, nourish the limbs and the strength which action requires.” While she thus spoke, the scrip, which had produced the means of striking fire, furnished provision for a meal ; of which she herself scarce partook, but anxiously watched her charge, taking a pleasure, resembling that of an epicure, in each morsel which he swallowed with a youthful appetite which abstinence had rendered unusually sharp. Roland readily obeyed her rec- ommendations, and ate the food which she so affectionately and earnestly placed before him. But she shook her head when invited by him in return to partake of the refreshment her own cares had furnished ; and when his solicitude became more pressing, she refused him in a loftier tone of rejection. “Young man,” she said, “‘ you know not to whom or of what you speak. They to whom Heaven declares his purpose must merit its communication by mortifying the senges ; they have that within which requires not the superfluity. 6f earthly nutri- ment, which is necessary to those who are without the sphere of the Vision. To them the watch spent in prayer is a refresh- ing slumber, and the sense of doing the will of Heaven is a richer banquet than the tables of monarchs can spread before them !—But do thou sleep soft, my son,” she said, relapsing from the tone of fanaticism into that of maternal affection and tenderness ; ‘“‘ do thou sleep sound while life is but young with thee, and the cares of the day can be drowned in the slumbers of the evening. Different is thy duty and mine, and as different the means by which we must qualify and strengthen ourselves to perform it. From thee is demanded strength of body—from me strength of soul.” = When she thus spoke, she prepared with ready address a pallet-couch, composed partly 4 the dried leaves which had$2 THE ABBOT. once furnished a bed to the solitary, and the guests who occa- sionally received his hospitality, and which, neglected by the destroyers of his humble cell, had remained little disturbed in the corner allotted for them. To these her care added some of the vestures which lay torn and scattered on the floor. With a zealous hand she selected all such as appeared to have made any part of the sacerdotal vestments, laying them aside as sacred from ordinary purposes, and with the rest she made, with dexterous promptness, such a bed as a weary man might willingly stretch himself on ; and during the time she was pre- paring it, rejected, even with acrimony, any attempt which the youth made to assist her, or any entreaty which he urged, that she would accept of the place of rest for her own use. “ Sleep thou,” said she, ‘“ Roland Greme, sleep thou—the persecuted, the disinherited orphan—the son of an ill-fated mother—sleep thou! I go to pray in the chapel beside thee.” The manner was too enthusiastically earnest, too obstinately firm, to permit Roland Graeme to dispute her will any farther. Yet he felt some shame in giving way to it. It seemed as if she had forgotten the years that had passed away since their parting ; and expected to meet, in the tall, indulged, and wilful youth, whom she had recovered, the passive obedience of the child whom she had left in the Castle of Avenel. This did not fail to hurt her grandson’s characteristic and constitutional ‘ pride. He obeyed, indeed, awed into submission by the sud- den recurrence of former subordination, and by feelings of affec- tion and gratitude. Still, however, he felt the yoke. “ Have I relinquished the hawk and the hound,” he said, “to become the pupil of her pleasure, as if I were still a child? —JI, whom even my envious mates allowed to be superior in those exercises which they took most pains to acquire, and which came to me naturally, as if a knowledge of them had been my birthright? This may not, and must notbe. I will be no reclaimed sparrow-hawk, who is carried hooded on a woman’s wrist, and has his quarry only shown to him when his eyes are uncovered for his flight. I will know her purpose ere it is proposed to me to aid it.” These, and other thoughts, streamed through the mind of Roland Greme ; and although wearied with the fatigues of the day, it was long ere he could compose himself to rest.THE ABBOT. CHAPTER NINTH. Kneel with me—swear it—’tis not in words J trust, Save when they’re fenced wth an appeal to Heaven. Op Pay. AFTER ee the night in that sound sleep for which agi- tation and fatigue had prepared him, Roland was awakened by the fresh morning air, and by the beams of the rising sun. His first feeling was that of surprise ; for, instead of looking forth from a turret window on the waters of the lake of Avenel, “which was the prospect his former apartment afforded, an uniatticed aperture gave him the view of the demolished garden of the banished “anchorite. He sat up on his couch of leaves, and arranged in his memory, not without wonder, the singular events of the preceding day, w hich appeared the more surprising the more he considered them. He had lost the protectress of his youth, and, in the same day, he had recovered the guide and guardian of his childhood. ‘The former deprivation he felt ought to be matter of unceasing regret, and it seemed as if the latter could hardly be the subj ect of unmixed self- congratula- tion. He remembered this person, who had stood to him in the relation of a mother, as equally affectionate in her attention, and absolute in her authority. A singular mixture of love and fear attended upon his early remembrances as they were con- nected with her ; and the fear that she might desire to resume the same absolute control over his motions—a fear which her conduct of yesterday did not tend much to dissipate—weighed heavily against the joy of this second meeting. “She cannot mean,” said his rising pride, “to lead and direct me as a pupil, when I am at the age of judging of my own actions ?—this she cannot mean, or, meaning it, will feel herself strangely deceived.” A sense of gratitude towards the person against whom his heart thus rebelled, checked his course of feeling. He resisted the thoughts which involuntarily arose in his mind, as he would have resisted an actual instigation of the foul fiend ; and, to aid him in his struggle, he felt for his beads. But, in his hasty departure from the ‘Castle of Avenel, he had forgotten and left them behind him. “This is yet worse,” he said ; “ but two things I learned of her under the most deadly charge of secrecy—to tell my beads,84 THE ABBOT. and to conceal that I did so; and I have kept my word till now ; and when she shall ask me for the rosary, I must say I have forgotten it! Do Ideserve she should believe me when I say I have kept the secret of my faith, when I set so light by its symbol ?”’ He paced the floorin anxious agitation. In fact, his attach- ment to his faith was of a nature very different from that which animated the enthusiastic matron, but which, notwithstanding, it would have been his last thought to relinquish. The early charges impressed on him by his grandmother, had been instilled into a mind and memory of a character pecu- liarly tenacious. Child as he was, he was proud of the confi- dence reposedin his discretion, and resolved to show that it had not been rashly intrusted to him. At the same time, his reso- lution was no more than that of a child, and must, necessarily, have gradually faded away under the operation both of precept and example, during his residence at the Castle of Avenel, but for the exhortations of Father Ambrose, who, in his lay estate, had been called Edward Glendinning. This zealous monk had been apprised, by an unsigned letter placed in his hand by a pilgrim, that a child educated in the Catholic faith was now in the Castle of Avenel, perilously situated (so was the scroll ex- pressed), as ever the three children who were cast into the fiery furnace of persecution. The letter threwupon Father Ambrose the fault, should this solitary lamb, unwillingly left within the demesnes of the prowling wolf, become his final prey. There needed no farther exhortation to the monk than the idea that a soul might be endangered, and that a Catholic might become an apostate ; and he made his visits more frequent than usual to the Castle of Avenel, lest, through want of the private encour- agement and instruction, which he always found some oppor- tunity of dispensing, the church should lose a proselyte, and, according to the Romish creed, the devil acquire a soul. Still these interviews were rare ; and though they encouraged the solitary boy to keep his secret and hold fast his religion, they were neither frequent nor long enough to inspire him with anything beyond a blind attachment to the observances which the priest recommended. He adhered to the forms of his religion rather because he felt it would be dishonorable to change that of his fathers, than from any rational conviction or sincere belief of its mysterious doctrines. It was a principal part of the distinction which, in his own opinion, singled him out from those with whom he lived, and gave him an additional, though an internal and concealed reason, for contemning thoseTHE ABBOT. of the household who showed an undisguised dislike of him, and for hardening himself against the instructions of the chap- lain, Henry Warden. “The fanatic preacher,” he thought within himself, during some one of the chaplain’s frequent discourses against the Church of Rome, “he little knows whose ears are receiving his profane doctrine, and with what contempt and abhorrence they hear his blasphemies against the holy religion by which kings have been crowned, and for which martyrs have died ! ” But in such proud feelings of defiance of heresy, as it was termed, and of its professors, which associated the Catholic religion with a sense of generous independence, and that of the Protestants with the subjugation of his mind and temper to the direction of Mr. Warden, began and ended the faith of Roland Greme, who, independently of the pride of singularity, sought not to understand, and had no one to expound to him, the peculiarities of the tenets which he professed. His regret, therefore, at missing the rosary which had been conveyed to him through the hands of Father Ambrose, was rather the shame of a soldier who has dropped his cockade or badge of service, than that of a zealous votary who had forgotten a visible symbol! of his religion. His thoughts on the subject, however, were mortifying, and the more so from apprehension that his negligence must reach the ears of his relative. He felt it could be no one but she who had secretly transmitted these beads to Father Ambrose for his use, and that his carelessness was but an indifferent requital of her kindness. ‘“ Nor will she omit to ask me about them,” said he to himself; “for hers is a zeal which age cannot quell ; and if she has not quitted her wont, my answer will not fail to incense ber, While he thus communed with himself, Magdalen Graeme entered the apartment. “The blessing of the morning on your youthful head, my son,” she said, with a solemnity of expression » which thrilled the youth to the heart, so sad and earnest did the benediction flow from her lips, in a tone where devotion was blended with affection. “And thou hast started thus early from thy couch to catch the first breath of the dawn ? But it is not well, my Roland. Enjoy slumber while thou canst ;.the time is not far behind when the waking eye must be thy portion as well as mine.” f She uttered these words with an affectionate and anxious tone, which showed that, devotional as were the habitual86 THE ABBOT. exercises of her mind, the thoughts of her nursling yet bound her to earth with the cords of human affection and passion. But she abode not long in a mood which she probably regarded as a momentary dereliction of her imaginary high calling—‘ Come,” she said, “youth, up and be doing—lIt is time that we leave this place.” ‘And whither do we go?” said the young man ; “or what is the object of our journey ?” : The matron stepped back, and gazed on him with surprise, not unmingled with displeasure. “To what purpose such a question?” she said ; “is it not enough that I lead the way? Hast thou lived with heretics till thou hast learned to instal the vanity of thine own private judgment in place of due honor and obedience ?”’ “The time, thought Roland Greme within himself, “is already come, when I must establish my freedom, or be a willing thrall forever—I feel that I must speedily look to it.” She instantly fulfilled his foreboding by recurring to the theme by which her thoughts seemed most constantly engrossed, although, when she pleased, no one could so perfectly disguise her religion. “Thy beads, my son—hast thou told thy beads?” Roland Grzme colored high; he felt the storm was ap- proaching, but scorned to avert it by a falsehood. “T have forgotten my rosary,” he said, “at the Castle of avencl,” “Forgotten thy rosary!” she exclaimed ; “false both to religion and to natural duty, hast thou lost what was sent so fay atid at Such risk, a token of’ the’ truest aifection, that should have been, every bead of it, as dear to thee as thine eyeballs ?’ ‘““T am grieved it should have so chanced, mother,” replied the youth, “and much did I value the token as coming from you. For what remains, I trust to win gold enough, when I push my way in the world; and till then, beads of black oak. or a rosary of nuts, must serve the turn.” “Hear him!” said his grandmother ; “young as he is, he hath learned already the lessons of the devil’s school! The rosary, consecrated by the Holy Father himself, and sanctified by his blessing, is but a few knobs of gold, whose value may be replaced by the wages of his profane labor, and whose virtue may be supplied by a string of hazel nuts !—This is heresy— So Henry Warden, the wolf who ravages the flock of the Shepherd, hath taught thee to speak and to think.”THE ABBOT. 84 “ Mother,” said Roland Graeme, “ I am no heretic ; I believe and I pray according to the rules of our church—This misfor- tune I regret, but I cannot amend it.” “Thou canst repent it, though,” replied his spiritual direc- tress, “repent it in dust and ashes, atone for it by fasting, prayer, and penance, instead of looking on me with a counte- nance as light as if thou hadst lost but a button from thy cap.” “ Mother,” said Roland, “ be appeased ; I will remember my fault in the next confession which I have space and opportunity to make, and will do whatever the priest may require of me in atonement. For the heaviest fault I can do no mote. But, mother,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “let me not incur your farther displeasure, if I ask whither our journey is bound, and what is its object. I am no longer a child, but a man, and at my own disposal, with down upon my chin, and a sword by my side—lI will go to the end of the world with you to do your pleasure ; but I owe it to myself to inquire the purpose and direction of our travels.” “ You owe it to yourself, ungrateful boy ?”’ replied his rela- tive, passion rapidly supplying the color which age had long chased from her features—“ to yourself you owe nothing—you can owe nothing—to me you owe everything—your life when an infant—your support while a child—the means of instruc- tion, and the hopes of honor—and, sooner than thou shouldst abandon the noble cause to which J have devoted thee, would I see thee lie a corpse at my feet!” Roland was alarmed at the vehement agitation with which she spoke, and which threatened to overpower her aged frame ; and he hastened to reply—‘“I forget nothing of what I owe to you, my dearest mother—show me how my blood can testify my gratitude, and you shall judge if I spare it. But blindfold obedience has in it as little merit as reason. “Saints and angels!” replied Magdalen, ‘‘and do [| hear these words from the child of my hopes, the nursling by whose bed I have kneeled, and for whose weal I have wearied every saint in heaven with prayers? Roland, by obedience only canst thou show thy affection and thy gratitude. What avails it that you might perchance adopt the course I propose to thee, were it to be fully explained? Thou wouldst not then follow my command, but thine own judgment ; thou wouldst not do the will of Heaven, communicated through thy best friend, to whom thou owest thine all ; but thou wouldst observe the blinded dictates of thine own imperfect reason. Hear me, Roland! a lot calls thee—solicits thee—demands thee—the proudest to which88 THE ABBOT. man can be destined, and it uses the voice of thine earliest, thy best, thine only friend—Wilt thou resist it? Then go thy way—leave me here—my hopes on earth are gone and withered —T will kneel me down before yonder profaned altar, and when the raging heretics return, they shall dye it with the blood of a martyr.” “But, my dearest mother,” said Roland Greeme, whose early recollections of her violence were formidably renewed by these wild expressions of reckless passion, “I will not forsake you— I will abide with you—worlds shall not force me from your side —I will protect—I will defend you—I will live with you, and die for you!” “ One word, my son, were worth all these—say only, ‘I will obey you.’ ”’ “Doubt it not, mother,” replied the youth, “I will, and that with all my heart ; only 2 “‘ Nay, I receive no qualifications of thy promise,” said Mag- dalen Graeme, catching at the word, “the obedience which I re- quire is absolute ; and a blessing on thee, thou darling memory of my beloved child, that thou hast power to make a promise so hard to human pride? Trust me well, that in the design in which thou dost embark, thou hast for thy partners the mighty and the valiant, the power of the church, and the pride of the noble. Succeed or fail, live or die, thy name shall be among those with whom success or failure is alike glorious, death or life alike desirable. Forward, then, forward ! life is short, and our plan is laborious—Angels, saints, and the whole blessed host of heaven, have their eyes even now on this barren and blighted land of Scotland—What say I? on Scotland ?—their eye is on ws, Roland—on the frail woman, on the inexperienced youth, who, amidst the ruins which sacrilege hath made in the holy place, devote themselves to God’s cause, and that of their lawful Sovereign. Amen,so be it! The blessed eyes of saints and martyrs which see our resolve shall witness the execution ; or their ears which hear our vow shall hear our death-groan drawn in the sacred cause!” While thus speaking, she held Roland Greme firmly with one hand, while she pointed upward with the other, to leave him, as it were, no means of protest against the obtestation to which he was thus made a party. When she had finished her appeal to Heaven, she left him no leisure for farther hesitation, or for asking any explanation of her purpose ; but passing with the same ready transition as formerly to the solicitous attentions of an anxious parent, overwhelmed him with questions concern:THE ABBOT. ing his residence in the Castle of Avenel. and tl accomplishments he had acquired. , 4 “= Tt is well,” she said, when she had exhausted her inquiries, my gay goss-hawk* hath been well trained, and wil] soar high ; but those who bred him will have cause to fear as well as to wonder at his flight—lLet us now,” she said, “to our morning meal, and care not though it be a scanty one. A few hours’ walk will bring us to more friendly quarters.” hey broke their fast, accordingly, on such fragments as re- mained of their yesterday’s provision, and immediately set out on their farther journey. Magdalen Greme led the way, witha firm and active step much beyond her years, and Roland Graeme followed, pensive and anxious, and far from satisfied with the State of dependence to which he seemed again to be reduced. ‘Am I forever,” he said to himself, “to be devoured with the desire of independence and free agency, and yet to be for- ever led on by circumstances to follow the will of others? ” 1€ qualities and CHAPTER: TENTH, She dwelt unnoticed and alone Beside the springs of Dove; A maid whom there was none to praise, And very few to love. WORDSWORTH. In the course of their journey the travellers spoke little to each other. Magdalen Grame chanted from time to time ina low voice a part of some one of those beautiful old Latin hymns which belong to the Catholic service, muttered an Ave or a Credo, and so passed on, lost in devotional contemplation. The meditations of her grandson were more bent on mundane matters ; and many a time as a moor-fowl arose from the heath and shot along the moor, uttering his bold crow of defiance, he thought of the jolly Adam Woodcock and his trusty goss-hawk ; or, as they passed a thicket where the low trees and bushes were intermingled with tall fern, furze, and broom, so as to form a thick and intricate cover, his dreams were of a roebuck and a brace of gaze-hounds. But frequently his mind returned to the benevolent and kind mistress whom he had left behind him offended justly, and unreconciled by any effort of his. * Note D. Goss-hawk.90 THE ABBOT. ‘My step would be lighter,” he thought, “and so would my heart, could I but have returned to see her for one instant, and to say, Lady, the orphan boy was wild, but not ungrateful !” Travelling in these divers moods, about the hour of noon they reached a small straggling village, in which, as usual, were seen one or two of those predominating towers or peel houses, which, for reasons of defence elsewhere detailed, were at that time to be found in every Border hamlet. A brook flowed be- side the village, and watered the valley in which it stood. ‘There was also a mansion at the end of the village, and a little way separated from it, much dilapidated, and in very bad order, but appearing to have been the abode of persons of some con- sideration. The situation was agreeable, being an angle formed by the stream, bearing three or four large sycamore trees, which were in full leaf, and served to relieve the dark appearance of the mansion, which was built of a deep red stone. ‘The house itself was a large one, but was now obviously too big for the inmates ; several windows were built up, especially those which opened from the lower story ; others were blockaded in a less substantial manner. The court before the door, which had once been defended with a species of low outer-wall, now ruin- ous, was paved, but the stones were completely covered with long gray nettles, thistles, and other weeds, which, shooting up betwixt the flags, had displaced many of them from their level. Even matters demanding more peremptory attention had been left neglected, in a manner which argued sloth or poverty in the extreme. The stream, undermining a part of the bank near an angle of the ruinous wall, had brought it down, with a corner turret, the ruins of which lay in the bed of the river. The current, interrupted by the ruins which it had overthrown, and turned yet nearer to the site of the tower, had greatly enlarged the breach it had made, and was in the process of undermining the ground on which the house itself stood unless it were speedily protected by sufficient bulwarks. All this attracted Roland Graeme’s observation as they ap- proached the dwelling by a winding path, which gave them, at intervals, a view of it from different points. ‘‘ If we go to yonder house,”’ he said to his mother, “I trust it is but for a short visit. It looks as if two rainy days from the north-west would send the whole into the brook.” “You see but with the eyes of the body,” said the old woman ; ‘‘God will defend his own, though it be forsaken and despised of men. Better to dwell on the sand, under his law, than fly to the rock of human trust.”THE ABBOT. gr As she thus spoke, they entered the court before the old mansion, and Roland could observe that the front of it had formerly been considerably ornamented with carved work, in the same dark-colored freestone of which it was built. But all these ornaments had been broken down and destroyed, and only the shattered vestiges of niches and entablatures now strewed the place which they had once occupied. The larger entrance in front was walled up, but a little footpath, which, from its appearance, seemed to be rarely trodden, led to a small wicket, defended by a door well clenched with iron-headed nails, at which Magdalen Graeme knocked three times, pausing betwixt- each knock, until she heard an answering tap from within. At the last knock, the wicket was opened by a pale thin female, who said, “ Benedicti gut venient in nomine Domini.” They entered, and the portress hastily shut behind them the wicket, and made fast the massive fastenings by which it was secured. The female led the way through a narrow entrance, into a vestibule of some extent, paved with stone, and having benches of the same solid material ranged around. At the upper end was an oriel window, but some of the intervals formed by the Stone shafts and mullions were blocked up, so that the apart- ment was very gloomy. Here they stopped, and the mistress of the mansion, for such she was, embraced Magdalen Graeme, and greeting her by the title of sister, kissed her with much solemnity on either side of the face. “The blessing of Our Lady be upon you, my sister,’ were her next words ; and they left no doubt upon Roland’s mind re- Specting the religion of their hostess, even if he could have suspected his venerable and zealous guide of resting elsewhere than in the habitation of an orthodox Catholic. They spoke together a few words in private, during which he had leisure to remark more particularly the appearance of his grandmother’s friend. Her age might be betwixt fifty and sixty ; her looks had a mixture of melancholy and unhappiness that bordered on dis- content, and obscured the remains of beauty which age had still left on her features. Her dress was of the plainest and most ordinary description, of a dark color, and, like Magdalen Greme’s, something approaching to a religious habit. Strict neatness and cleanliness of person seemed to intimate, that if poor, she was not reduced to squalid or heart-broken distress, and that she was still sufficiently attached to life to retain a92 THE ABBOT. taste for its decencies, if not its elegancies. Her manner, as well as her features and appearance, argued an original condi tion and education far above the meanness of her present ap- pearance. In short, the whole figure was such as to excite the idea, “ That female must have had a history worth knowing.” While Roland Graeme was making this very reflection, the whispers of the two females ceased, and the mistress of the mansion, approaching him, looked on his face and person with much attention, and, as it seemed, some interest. “This, then,” she said, addressing his relative, “is the child of thine unhappy daughter, sister Magdalen; and him, the only shoot from your ancient tree, you are willing to devote to the Good Cause?” “Yes, by the rood,” answered Magdalen Graeme, in her usual tone of resolved determination, “to the good cause I de- vote him, flesh and fell, sinew and limb, body and soul.” “ Thou art a happy woman, sister Magdalen,” answered her companion, “that, lifted so high above human affection and human feeling, thou canst bind such a victim to the horns of the altar. Had I been called to make such sacrifice—to plunge a youth so young and fair into the plots and bloodthirsty deal- ings of the time, not the patriarch Abraham, when he led Isaac up the mountain, would have rendered more melancholy obedience.” She then continued to look at Roland with a mournful aspect of compassion, until the intentness of her gaze occasioned his color to rise, and he was about to move out of its influence, when he was stopped by his grandmother with one hand, while with the other she divided the hair upon his forehead, which was now crimson with bashfulness, while she added, with a mixture of proud affection and firm resolution—‘“ Ay, look at him well, my sister, for on a fairer face thine eye never rested. I too, when I first saw him, after a long separation, felt as the worldly feel, and was half shaken in my purpose. But no wind can tear a leaf from a withered tree which has long been stripped of its foliage, and no mere human casualtycan awaken the mor- tal feelings which have long slept in the calm of devotion.” While the old woman thus spoke, her manner gave the lie to her assertions, for the tears rose to her eyes while she added, ‘But the fairer and the more spotless the victim, is it not, my sister, the more worthy of acceptance?”? She seemed glad to escape from the sensations which agitated her, and instantly added, “ He will escape, my sister—there will be a ram caught in the thicket, and the hand of our revolted brethren: shalli Th ABBOT Ta not be on the youthful Joseph. Heaven can defend it’s own rights, even by means of babes and suckli ings, of women and beardless boys. “ Heaven hath left us,” said the other female ; sins and our fathers’ the succors of the blessed saints have abandoned this accursed land. We may win the crown of martyrdom, but not that of earth ly triumph. One, too, whose prudence was at this deep crisis so indispensable, has been called to a better world. The Abbot Eustatius is no more.’ ‘““ May his soul have mercy!” said Magdalen Graeme, “and may Heaven, too, have mercy upon us, who linger behind in this bloody land! His loss is indeed a perilous blow to our enterprise ; for who remains behind possessing his far-fetched experience, his self-devoted zeal, his consummate wisdom, and his undaunted courage? He hath fallen with the church’s standard in his hand, but God will raise up another to lift the blessed banner. Whom have the Chapter elected in his room?” “It is rumored no one of the few remaining brethren dare accept the office. The heretics have sworn that they will per- mit no future election, and will heavily punish any attempt to create a new Abbot of Saint Mary’s. Conjurat ‘erunt inter sé principe 5, dicentes, Projiciamus lagueos efus.” ‘ Quousgue Domine. ‘”’ ejaculated Magdalen ; “this, my sister, were indeed a perilous and fatal breach in our band ; but I am firm in my belief, that another will arise in the place of him so untimely removed. W here is thy daughter Cath- eine 27? ‘In the- parlor,” answered the matron, “but ” She looked at Roland Graeme, and muttered something in the ear of her friend. “Fear it not,” answered Magdalen Greme, “it is both lawful and necessary—fear nothing from him—I would he were as well grounded in the faith by w vhich alone comes safety, as he is free from thought, deed, or speech of villany. Therein is the heretics’ discipline to be commended, my sister, that they train up their youth in strong morality, and choke up every inlet to youthful folly.’ “Tt is but a cleansing of the outside of the cup,” answered her friend, “a whitening of the sepulchre ; but he shall see Catherine, since you, sister, judge it safe and meet.—Follow us, youth,’ , she added, and led the w ay from the apartment with her friend. These were the only words w ee the matron had addressed to Roland Graeme, who obeyed them in silence. As ‘‘for our94 THE ABBOT. they paced through several winding passages and waste apart- ments with a very slow step, the young page had leisure to make some reflections on his situation—reflections of a nature which his ardent temper considered as specially disagreeable. It seemed he had now got two mistresses, or tutoresses, instead of one, both elderly women, and both, it would seem, in league to direct his motions according to their own pleasure, and for the accomplishment of plans to which he was no party. This, he thought, was too much ; arguing reasonably enough, that whatever right his grandmother and benefactress had to guide his motions, she was neither entitled to transfer her authority, or to divide it with another, who seemed to assume, without ceremony, the same tone of absolute command over him. “ But it shall not long continue thus,” thought Roland ; “I will not be all my life the slave of a woman’s whistle, to go when she bids, and come when she calls. No, by Saint Andrew! the hand that can hold the lance is above the control of the distaff. I will leave them the slipp’d collar in their hands on the first opportunity, and let them execute their own devices by their own proper force. It may save them both from peril, for I guess what they meditate is not likely to prove either safe or easy—the Earl of Murray and his heresy are too well rooted to be grubbed up by two old women.” As he thus resolved, they entered a low room, in which a third female was seated. This apartment was the first he had observed in the mansion which was furnished with movable seats, and with a wooden table, over which was laid a piece of tapestry. A carpet was spread on the floor, there was a grate in the chimney, and, in brief, the apartment had the air of being habitable and inhabited. But Roland’s eyes found better employment than to make observations on the accommodations of the chamber ; for this second female inhabitant of the mansion seemed something very different from anything he had yet seen there. At his first entry, she had greeted with a silent and low obeisance the two aged matrons, then glancing her eyes towards Roland, she adjusted a veil which hung back over her shoulders, so as to bring it over her face ; an operation which she performed with much modesty, but without either affected haste or embarrassed timidity. During this manceuvre Roland had time to observe, that the face was that of a girl apparently not much past sixteen, and that the eyes were at once soft and brilliant. To these very favorable observations was added the certainty, that theTHE ABBOT. gs fair object to whom they referred possessed an excellent shape bordering perhaps on enbonpoint, and therefore rather that of a Hebe than of a Sylph, but beautifully formed, and shown to great advantage by the close jacket and petticoat which she wore after a foreign fashion, the last not quite long enough to conceal a very pretty foot, which rested on a bar of the table at which she sate ; her round arms and taper fingers very busily employed in repairing the piece of tapestry which was “spread on it, which exhibited several deplorable fissures, enough to demand the utmost skill of the most expert sempstress. [t is to be remarked, that it was by stolen glances that Roland Graeme contrived to ascertain these interesting par- ticulars ; and he thought he could once or twice, notwithstand- ing the texture of the veil, detect the damsel in the act of taking similar cognizance of his own person. The matrons in the meanwhile continued their separate conversation, eyeing from time to time the young people, in a manner which left Roland in no doubt that they were the subject of their conversation. At length he distinctly heard Magdalen Graeme say these words —* Nay, my sister, we must give them Opportunity to speak together, and to become acquainted ; they must be personally known to each other, or how shall they be able to execute what they are entrusted with ? ” It seemed as if the matron, not fully satisfied with her friend’s reasoning, continued to offer some objections ; but they were borne down by her more dictatorial friend. ‘It must be so,” she said, “ my dear sister ; let us therefore go forth on the balcony, to finish our conversation.—And do you,” she said, addressing Roland and the girl, “ become ac- quainted with each other.” “ih With this she stepped up to the young woman, and raising her veil, discovered freatures which, whatever might be their ordinary complexion, were now covered with a universal blush. “ Licitum sit,’ said Magdalen, looking at the other matron. “ Vix licitum,” replied the other, with reluctant and hesitat- ing acquiescence ; and again adjusting the veil of the blushing girl, she dropped it so as to shade, though not to conceal, her countenance, and whispered to her, in a tone loud enough for the page to hear, “ Remember, Catherine, who thou art, and for what destined.” The matron then retreated with Magdalen Graeme through one of the casements of the apartment, that opened on a large broad balcony, which with its ponderous balustrade, had once run along the whole south front of the building which faced96 THE ABBOT. the brook, and formed a pleasant and commodious walk in the open air. It was now in some places deprived of the balustrade, in others broken and narrowed ; but, ruinous as it was, could still be used as a pleasant promenade. Here then walked the ‘wo ancient dames, busied in their private conversation ; yet not so much so, but that Roland could observe the matrons, as their thin forms darkened the casement in passing or repassing before it, dart a glance into the apartment, to see how matters were going on there. CHAPTER ELEVENTH. Life hath its May, and it is mirthful then ; The woods are vocal, and the flowers all odor; Its very blast has mirth in’t—and the maidens, The while they don their cloaks to screen their kirtles, Laugh at the rain that wets them. OxLp Ptay. CATHERINE was at the happy age of innocence and buoyancy of spirit, when, after the first moment of embarrassment was over, a situation of awkwardness, like that in which she was suddenly left to make acquaintance with a handsome youth not even known to her by name, struck her, in spite of herself, in a ludicrous point of view. She bent her beautiful eyes upon the work with which she was busied, and with infinite gravity sate out the two first turns of the matrons upon the balcony ; but then, glancing her deep blue eye a little towards Roland, and observing the embarrassment under which he labored, now shifting on his chair, and now dangling his cap, the whole man evincing that he was perfectly at a loss how to open the con- versation, she could keep her composure no longer, but after a vain struggle broke out into a sincere, though a very invol- untary fit of laughing, so richly accompanied by the laughter of her merry eyes, which actually glanced through the tears which the effort filled them with, and by the waving of her rich tresses, that the goddess of smiles herself never looked more lovely than Catherine at that moment. A court page would not have left her long alone in her mirth; but Roland was country-bred, and, besides, having some jealousy as well as Dashfulness, he took it into his head that he was himself the object of her inextinguishable laughter.. His endeavors teTHE ABBOT. 97 sympathize with Catherine, therefore. could carry him no farther than a forced giggle, which had more of displeasure than of mirth in it, and which so much enhanced that of the girl, that it seemed to render it impossible for her ever to bring her laughter to an end, with whatever anxious pains she labored, todo so. For every one has felt that when a paroxysm of laughter has seized him at a misbecoming time and place, the efforts which he makes to suppress it, nay, the very sense of the impropriety of giving way to it, tend only to augment and prolong the irresistible impulse. It was undoubtedly lucky for Catherine, as well as for Ro- land, that the latter did not share in the excessive mirth of the former. For seated as she was, with her back to the casement, Catherine could easily escape the observation of the two matrons during the course of their promenade ; whereas Graeme was so placed, with his side to the window, that his mirth, had he shared that of his companion, would have been instantly visible and could not have failed to give offence to the personages in question. He sate, however, with some impatience, until Catherine had exhausted either her power or her desire of laughing, and was returning with good grace to the exercise of her needle, and then he observed with some dryness, that “ there seemed no great occasion to recommend to them to im- prove their acquaintance, as it seemed that they were already tolerably familiar.” Catherine had an extreme desire to set off upon a fresh score, but she repressed it strongly, and fixing her eyes on her work, replied by asking his pardon, and promising to avoid future offence. Roland had sense enough to feel that an air of offended dignity was very much misplaced, and that it was with a very different bearing he ought to meet the deep blue eyes which had borne such a hearty burden in the laughing scene. He tried, therefore, to extricate himself as well as he could from his blunder, by assuming a tone of correspondent gayety, and requesting to know of the nymph, “how it was her pleasure that they should proceed in improving the acquaintance which had commenced so merrily.” “That,” she said, “you must yourself discover ; perhaps I have gone a step too far in opening our interview.” : “Suppose,” said Roland Grame, “we should begin as in a tale-book, by asking each other’s names and histories. “It is right well imagined,” said Catherine, “and shows an argute judgment. Do you begin, and I will listen, and only 798 THE ABBOT: put in a question or two at the dark parts of the story, Come, unfold then your name and history, my new acquaintance.” “JT am called Roland Grzme, and that tall old woman is my grandmother.” “ And your tutoress?—good. Who are your parents?” “They are both dead,” replied Roland. ““ Ay, but who were they? you /ad parents, I presume?” ‘“T suppose so,” said Roland, “ but I have never been able to learn much of their history. My father was aScottish knight, who died gallantly in his stirrups—my mother was a Graeme of Heathergill, in the Debateable Land—most of her family were killed when the Debateable country was burned by the Lord Maxwell and Herries of Caerlaverock.” “Ts it long ago?” said the damsel. ‘“‘ Before I was born,” answered the page. “That must be a great while since,” said she, shaking her head gravely ; “look you, I cannot weep for them.” “Tt needs not,” said the youth, “they fell with honor.” “ So much for your lineage, fair sir,’’ replied his companion, “ of whom I like the living specimen (a glance at the casement) far less than those that are dead. Your much honored grand- mother looks as if she could make one weep in sad earnest. And now, fair sir, for your own person—if you tell not the tale faster, it will be cut short in the middle; Mother Bridget pauses longer and longer every time she passes the window, and with her there is as little mirth as in the grave of your an- cestors.” ; ‘““My tale is soon told—I was introduced into the Castle of Avenel to be page to the lady of the mansion.” “She is a strict Huguenot, is she not?” said the maiden. “As strict as Calvin himself. But my grandmother can play the puritan when it suits her purpose, and she had some plan of her own, for quartering me in the Castle—it would have failed, however, after we had remained several weeks at the hamlet, but for an unexpected master of ceremonies - “ And who was that?” said the girl. “A large black dog, Wolf by name, who brought me into the castle one day in his mouth, like a hurt wild duck, and pre- sented me to the lady.” ‘A most respectable introduction, truly,” said Catherine ; ‘and what might you learn at this same castle? I love dearly to know what my acquaintances can do at need.” “To fly a hawk, hollo to a hound, back a horse, and wield ‘ance, bow, and brand.”THE ABBOT. gs é¢ : ; } And to boast of all this when you have learned it,” said i se y : = ee ¢ a : 2 : Catherine, “ which. in France at least, is the surest accomplish- ment of a page. But proceed, fair sir; how came your Hugue- not lord and your no less Huguenot lady to receive and keep in the family so perilous a person as a Catholic page? ” 66 5 Be aah hee : 7 Because they knew not that part of my history, which from infancy [| have been taught to keep secret—and because my grand-dame s former zealous attendance on their heretic chaplain had laid all this suspicion to sleep, most fair Cal- . . ” . % ; . a ‘ ss 2 2 a : e lipolis,” said the page ; and in so saying, he edged his chair towards the seat of the fair querist, cc Tr oe = is a aie - 5 Nay, but keep your distance, most gallant sir.” answered the blue-eyed maiden ; ‘for, unless I greatly mistake, these reverend ladies will soon interrupt our amicable conference, if the acquaintance they recommend shall seem to proceed be- yond a certain point—so, fair sir, be pleased to abide by your Station, and reply to my questions.—By what achievements did you prove the qualities of a page which you had thus happily acquired ?” Roland, who began to enter into tl 1€ tone and spirit of the damsel’s conversation, replied to | 1er with becoming spirit. “In no feat, fair gentlewoman, was I found inexpert, where- in there was mischief implied. I shot swans, hunted cats, frightened serving-women, chased the deer, and robbed the orchard. I say nothing of tormenting the chaplain in various ways, for that was my duty as a good Catholic,” “Now; as-I am a gentlewoman,”’ said Catherine, “TI think these heretics have done Catholic penance in entertaining so all-accomplished a serving-man! And what, fair sir, might have been the unhappy event which deprived them of an inmate altogether so estimable? ’ “Truly, fair gentlewoman,” answered the youth, “ your real proverb says that the longest lane will have a turning, and mine was more—it was, in fine, a turning off.” “Good!” said the merry young maiden, “it is an apt play on the word—and what occasion was taken for so important a catastrophe ?—Nay, start not for my learning, I do know the schools—in plain phrase, why were you sent from service ?” The page shrugged his shoulders while he replied,—“ A Short tale is soon told—and a short horse soon curried. I made the falconer’s boy taste of my switch—the falconer threatened to make me brook his cudgel—he is a kindly clown as well as a stout, and I would rather have been cudgelled by him than any man in Christendom to choose—but I knew notaa THE ABBOT. his qualities at that time—so I threatened to make him brook the stab, and my Lady made me brook the ‘ Begone ;’ so adieu to the page’s office and the fair Castle of Avenel—I had not travelled far before I met my venerable parent—And so tell your tale, fair gentlewoman, for mine is done.” “A happy grandmother,” said the maiden, “ who had the luck to find the stray page just when his mistress had slipped his leash, and a most lucky page that has jumped at once from a page to an old lady’s gentleman-usher !” ‘All this is nothing of your history,’ answered Roland Greeme, who began to be much interested in the congenial vivacity of this facetious young gentlewoman,—" tale for tale is fellow-traveller’s justice.” “ Wait till we are fellow-travellers then,’”’ replied Catherine. “Nay, you escape me not so,” said the page ; “if you deal not justly by me, I will call out to Dame Bridget, or whatever your dame be called, and proclaim you for a cheat.” “Vou shall not need,” answered the maiden—“ my history is the counterpart of your own ; the same words might almost serve, change but dress and name. I am called Catherine Seyton, and I also am an orphan.” ‘Have your parents been long dead?” “This is the only question,” said she, throwing down her fine eyes with a sudden expression of sorrow, “that is the only question I cannot laugh at.” “And Dame Bridget is your grandmother ?”’ The sudden cloud passed away like that which crosses for an instant the summer sun, and she answered with her usual lively expression, “ Worse by twenty degrees—Dame Bridget 1s my maiden aunt.” “ Over gods forbode !” said Roland—“ Alas! that you have such a tale to tell! and what horror comes next?” “ Vour own history, exactly. I was taken upon trial for service . “And turned off for pinching the duenna, or affronting my lady’s waiting-woman ?” ; “Nay, our history varies there,’ said the damsel—‘ Our mistress broke up house, or had her house broke up, which is the same thing, and I ama free woman of the forest.” “And I am as glad of it as if any one had lined my doublet with cloth of gold,” said the youth. “T thank you for your mirth,” said she,“ but the matter is not likely to concern you.” “Nay, but go on,” said the page, “for you will be presentlyTHE ABBOT. xe interrupted ; the two good dames have been soaring yonder on the balcony, like two old hooded crows, and their croak eTows hoarser as night comes on ; they will Wing to roost presently, This mistress of yours, fair gentlewoman, who was she in God’s name?” “Oh, she has a fair name in the world,” replied Catherine Seyton. ‘Few ladies kept a fairer house, or held more gentle- women in her household ; my aunt Bridget was one of her housekeepers. We never saw our mistress’s blessed face, to be sure, but we heard enough of her; were up early and down late, and were kept to long prayers and light food.” “ Out upon the penurious old beldam!” said the page. “ For Heaven’s sake, blaspheme not!” said the girl with an expression of fear.—‘‘ God pardon us both! I meant no harm, I speak of our blessed Saint Catherine of Sienna !—may God forgive me that I spoke so lightly, and made you do a great sin and a great blasphemy. This was her nunnery, in which there were twelve nuns and an abbess. My aunt was the abbess, till the heretics turned all adrift,” ~ And where are your companions?” asked the youth. “With the last year’s snow,” answered the maiden ; “ east, north, south, and west—some to France, some to Flanders, some, I fear, into the world and its pleasures, We have got permission to remain, or rather, our remaining has been con- nived at, for my aunt has great relations among the Kerrs, and they have threatened a death-feud if any one touches us; and bow and spear are the best warrant in these times.” ‘Nay, then, you sit under a sure shadow,” said the youth ; “and I suppose you wept yourself blind when Saint Catherine broke up housekeeping before you had taken arles* in her service ?”’ ‘Hush! for Heaven’s sake” said the damsel, crossing her- self ; “no more of that! but I have not quite cried my eyes out,” said she, turning them upon him, and instantly again bending them upon her work. It was one of those glances which would require the threefold plate of brass around the heart, more than it is needed by the mariners, to whom Horace recommends it. Our youthful page had no defence whatever to offer. “What say you, Catherine,” he said, ‘if we two, thus strangly turned out of service at the same time, should give our two most venerable duennas the torch to hold, while we walk a merry measure with each other over the floor of this wears world ?” * Anglicé—Earnest-money.TO2 THE ABBOT. “A goodly proposal, truly,” said Catherine, ‘‘and worthy the mad-cap brain of a discarded page !—And what shifts does your worship propose we should live by ?—by singing ballads, cutting purses, or swaggering on the highway ? for there, I think, you would find your most productive exchequer.” ‘“‘ Choose, you proud peat!” said the page, drawing off in huge disdain at the calm and unembarrassed ridicule with which his wild proposal was received. And as he spoke the words, the casement was again darkened by the forms of the matrons —it opened, and admitted Magdalen Grazme and the Motker Abbess, so we must now style her, into the apartment. CHAPTER TWELFTH. Nay, hear me, brother—I am elder, wiser, And holier than thou—And age, and wisdom, And holiness, have peremptory claims, And will be listen’d to. OLD Pray. WHEN the matrons re-entered, and put an end to the con- versation which we have detailed in the last chapter, Dame Magdalen Greme thus addressed her grandson and his pretty companion: ‘“‘ Have you spoke together, my children ?—Have you become known to each other as fellow-travellers on the same dark and dubious road, whom chance hath brought to- gether, and who study to learn the tempers and dispositions of those by whom their perils are to be shared ? ” It was seldom the light-hearted Catherine could suppress a jest, so that she often spoke when she would have acted more wisely in holding her peace. “Your grandson admires the journey which you propose so very greatly, that he was even now preparing for setting out upon it instantly.” “This is to be too forward, Roland,” said the dame, address- ing him, “‘ as yesterday you were over slack—the just mean lies in obedience, which both waits for the signal to start, and obeys it when given.—But once again, my children, have you so perused each other’s countenances, that when you meet, in what- ever disguise the times may impose upon you, you may recog- nize each in the other the secret agent of the mighty work in which you are to be leagued ?—Look at each other, know each line and lineament of each other’s countenance. Learn teTHE ABBOT. 103 distinguish by the step, by the sound of the voice, by the mo- tion of the hand, by the glance of the eye, the partner whom Heaven hath sent to aid in working its will.—Wilt thou know that maiden, whensoever or wheresoever you shall again meet her, my Roland Graeme? ” As readily as truly did Roland answer in the affirmative. “And thou, my daughter, wilt thou again remember the features of this youth?” “Truly, mother,” replied Catherine Seyton, “I have not seen so many men of late, that I should immediately forget your grandson, though I mark not much about him that is de- serving of special remembrance.” “ Join hands, then, my children,” said Magdalen Graeme ; but, in saying so, was interrupted by her companion, whose conventual prejudices had been gradually giving her more and more uneasiness, and who could remain acquiescent no longer. “Nay, my good sister, you forget,” said she to Magdalen, “Catherine is the betrothed bride of Heaven—these intimacies cannot be.” ‘It is in the cause of Heaven that I command them to em- brace,” said Magdalen, with the full force of her powerful voice ; ‘‘the end, sister, sanctifies the means we must use.” “They call me Lady Abbess, or Mother at the least, who address me,” said Dame Bridget, drawing herself up, as if offended at her friend’s authoritative manner—“ the Lady of Heathergill forgets that she speaks to the Abbess of Saint Catherine.” “When I was what you call me,” said Magdalen, “you in- deed were the Abbess of Saint Catherine, but both names are now gone, with all the rank that the world and that the church gave to them ; and are now, to the eye of human judgment, two poor, despised, oppressed women, dragging our dishonored old age toa humble grave. But what are we in the eye of Heaven ?—Ministers, sent forth to work his will—in whose weakness the strength of the church shall be manifested—be- fore whom shall be humbled the wisdom of Murray, and the dark strength of Morton.—And to such wouldst thou apply the narrow rules of thy cloistered seclusion ?—or, hast thou forgot- ten the order which I showed thee from thy Superior, subject- ing thee to me in these matters ?”’ “On thy head, then, be the scandal and the sin,” said the Abbess, sullenly. “On mine be they both,” said Magdalen “7 say embrace each other, my children.”104 THE ABBOT. But Catherine, aware, perhaps, how the dispute was likely to terminate, had escaped from the apartment, and so disap pointed the grandson at least as much as the old matron. “ She is gone,” said the Abbess, “to provide some little refreshment. But it will have little savour to those who dwell in the world; for I, at least, cannot dispense with the rules to which I am vowed, because it is the will of wicked men to break down the sanctuary in which they were wont to be observed.” “Tt is well, my sister,’ replied Magdalen, “ to pay each even the smallest tithes of mint and cummin which the church demands, and I blame not thy scrupulous observance of the rules of thine order. But they were established by the church, and for the church’s benefit ; and reason it is that they should give way when the salvation of the church herself is at stake.” The Abbess made no reply. One more acquainted with human nature than the inexpe- rienced page, might have found amusement in comparing the different kinds of fanaticism which these two females exhibited. The Abbess, timid, narrow-minded, and discontented, clung to ancient usages and pretensions, which were ended by the Refor- mation ; and was in adversity, as she had been in prosperity, scrupulous, weak-spirited, and bigoted; while the fiery and more lofty spirit of her companion suggested a wider field of effort, and would not be limited by ordinary rules in the extraor- dinary schemes which were suggested by her bold and irregu- lar imagination. But Roland Graeme, instead of tracing these peculiarities of character in the two old dames, only waited with great anxiety for the return of Catherine, expecting prob- ably that the proposal of the fraternal embrace would be renewed, as his grandmother seemed disposed to carry matters with a high hand. His expectations, or hopes, if we may call them so, were, however, disappointed ; for, when Catherine re-entered on the summons of the Abbess, and placed on the table an earthen pitcher of water, and four wooden platters, with cups of the same materials, the Dame of Heathergill, satisfied with the arbi trary mode in which she had borne down the opposition of the Abbess, pursued her victory no farther—a moderation for which her grandson, in his heart, returned her but slender thanks. In the mean while, Catherine continued to place upon the table the slender preparations for the meal of a recluse, which consisted almost entirely of colewort, boiled and served up ina wooden platter, having no better seasoning than a little salt, and no better accompaniment than some coarse barley-bread,THE ABBOT. Ios in very moderate quality. The water-pitcl tioned, furnished the only beverage, delivered by the Abbess, the guests sat down ‘to their spare entertainment. ‘The simplicity of the fare appeared to produce no distaste in the females, who ate of it moderately, but with the usual appearance of appetite. But Roland Greme had been used to better cheer. Sir Halbert Glendinning, who affected even an unusual degree of nobleness in his house- keeping, maintained it in a style of genial hospitality, which rivalled that of the Northern Barons of England. He might think, perhaps, that by doing so, he acted yet more completely the part for which he was born—that of a great Baron anda leader. Two bullocks, and six sheep, weekly, were the allow- ance when the Baron was at home, and the number was not greatly diminished during his absence. A boll of malt was weekly brewed into ale, which was used by the household at discretion. Bread was baked in proportion for the consumption of his domestics and retainers ; and in this scene of plenty had Roland Graeme now lived for several years. It formed a. bad introduction to lukewarm greens and spring-water ; and prob- ably his countenance indicated some sense of the difference, for the Abbess observed, “It would seem, my son, that the tables of the heretic Baron, whom you have so long followed, are more daintily furnished than those of the suffering daughters of the church ; and yet, not upon the most solemn nights of festival, when the nuns were permitted to eat their portion at mine own table, did I consider the cates, which were then served up, as half so delicious as these vegetables and this water, on which I prefer to feed, rather than do aught which may derogate from the strictness of my vow. It shall never be said that the mistress of this house made it a house of feasting, when days of darkness and of affliction were hanging over the Holy Church, of which I am an unworthy member.” “Well hast thou said, my sister,” replied Magdalen Greeme ; “but now it is not only time to suffer in the good cause, but to act init. And since our pilgrim’s meal is finished, let us go apart to prepare for our journey to-morrow, and to advise on the manner in which these children shall be employed, and what measures we can adopt to supply their thoughtlessness and lack of discretion.” Notwithstanding his indifferent cheer, the heart of Roland Graeme bounded high at this proposal, which he doubted not would lead to another #ée-d-/efe betwixt him and the pretty novice. But he was mistaken. Catherine, it would seem, had 1er, already men- After a Latin grace,106 THE ABBOT. no mind so far to indulge him ; for, moved either by delicacy or caprice, or some of those indescribable shades betwixt the one and the other, with which women love to tease, and at the same time to captivate, the ruder sex, she reminded the Abbess that it was necessary she should retire for an hour before vespers ; and, receiving the ready and approving nod of her Superior, she arose to withdraw. But before leaving the apart- ment, she made obeisance to the matrons, bending herself till her hands touched her knees, and then made a lesser reverence to Roland, which consisted in a slight bend of the body and gentle depression of the head. This she performed very de- murely ; but the party on whom the salutation was conferred, thought he could discern in her manner an arch and mis- chievous exultation over his secret disappointment.—‘* The devil take the saucy girl,” he thought in his heart, though the presence of the Abbess should have repressed all such profane imaginations,—“ she is as hard-hearted as the laughing hyena that the story-books tell of—she has a mind that I shall not forget her this night at least.” The matrons now retired also, giving the page to understand that he was on no account to stir from the convent, or to show himself at the windows, the Abbess assigning as a reason, the readiness with which the rude heretics caught at every occasion of scandalizing the religious orders. “ This is worse than the rigor of Mr. Henry Warden him- self,” said the page, when he was left alone ; “ for, to do him justice, however strict in requiring the most rigid attention during the time of his homilies, he left us to the freedom of our own wills afterwards—ay, and would take a share in our pastimes, too, if he thought them entirely innocent. But these old women are utterly wrapt up in gloom, mystery, and self- denial.—Well, then, if I must neither stir out of the gate nor look out at window, I will at least see what the inside of the house contains that may help to pass away one’s time—perad- venture I may light on that blue-eyed laugher in some corner or other.” Going, therefore, out of the chamber by the entrance oppo- site to that through which the two matrons had departed (for it may be readily supposed that he had no desire to intrude on their privacy), he wandered from one chamber to another, though the deserted edifice, seeking, with boyish eagerness, some source of interest oramusement. Here he passed through a long gallery, opening on either hand into the little cells of the nuns, all deserted, and deprived of the few trifling articles of furniture which the rules of the order admitted.THE ABBOT. 107 “The birds are flown,” thought the page ; “but whether they will find themselves worse off in the open air than in these damp narrow cages, I leave my Lady Abbess and my venerable relative to settle betwixt them. I think the wild young lark whom they have left behind them, would like best. to sing under God’s free sky.” A winding stair, straight and narrow, as if to remind the nuns of their duties of fast and maceration, led down to a lower suite of apartments, which occupied the ground story of the house. These rooms were even more ruinous than those which he had left, for, having encountered the first fury of the assail- ants by whom the nunnery had been wasted, the windows had been dashed in, the doors broken down, and even the parti- tions betwixt the apartments, in some places, destroyed. As he thus stalked from desolation to desolation, and began to think of returning from so uninteresting a research to the chamber which he had left, he was surprised to hear the low of a cow very Close to him. The sound was so unexpected at the time and place, that Roland Greme started as if it had been the voice of a lion, and laid his hand on his dagger, while at the same moment the light and lovely form of Catherine Seyton presented itself at the door of the apartment from which the sound had issued. “Good even to you, valiant champion!” said she. ‘Since the days of Guy of Warwick, never was one more worthy to encounter a dun cow.” “Cow?” said Roland Greme, “ by my faith, I thought it had been the devil that roared so near me. Who ever heard of a convent containing a cow-house ?” ‘“ Cow and calf may come hither now,” answered Catherine, “for we have no means to keep out either. But I advise you, kind sir, to return to the place from whence you came.”’ “Not till I see your charge, fair sister,” answered Roland, and made his way into the apartment, in spite of the half serious, half laughing, remonstrances of the girl. sa The poor solitary cow, now the only severe recluse within the nunnery, was quartered in a spacious chamber, which had once been the refectory of the convent. The roof was graced with groined arches, and the wall with niches, from which the images had been pulled down. These remnants of architec- tural ornaments were strangely contrasted with the rude crib constructed for the cow in one corner of the apartment, and the stack of fodder which was piled beside it for her food.* * Note E.—Chapel of St, Bridget.foe THE ABBOT. “By my faith,’ said the page, ‘‘Crombie is more lordly lodged than any one here!” “You had best remain with her,” said Catherine, ‘‘ and sup- ply by your filial attentions the offspring she has had the ill luck to lose.” ‘“‘T will remain, at least, to help you to prepare her night’s lair, pretty Catherine,” said Ronald, seizing upon a pitchfork. ‘“‘ By no means,” said Catherine ; ‘‘ for, besides that you know not in the least how to do her that service, you will bring a chiding my way, and I get enough of that in the regular course of things.” ‘“What! for accepting my assistance?”’ said the page,— “for accepting my assistance, who am to be your confederate in some deep matter of import? That were altogether unrea- sonable—and, now I think on it, tell me if you can, what is this mighty enterprise to which I am destined ?” ‘‘ Robbing a bird’s nest, I should suppose,”’ said Catherine, “considering the champion whom they have selected.” ‘“By my faith,” said the youth, ‘and he that has taken a falcon’s nest in the Scaurs of Polmoodie, has done something to brag of, my fair sister—But that is all over now—a murrain on the nest, and the eyases and their food, washed or unwashed, for it was all anon of cramming these worthless kites that I was sent upon my present travels. Save that I have met with you, pretty sister, I could eat my dagger-hilt for vexation at my own folly. But, as we are to be fellow-travellers———”’ ‘‘ Fellow-laborers ! not fellow-travellers !”’ answered the girl ; “for, to your comfort be it known, that the Lady Abbess and I set out earlier than you and your respected relative to-morrow, and that I partly endure your company at present, because it may be long ere we meet again.” “By Saint Andrew, but it shall not though,” answered Roland ; “I will not hunt at all unless we are to hunt in couples.”’ “I suspect, in that and in other points, we must do as we are bid,” replied the young lady.—“ But, hark ! I hear my aunt’s VOICE, The old lady entered in good earnest, and darted a severe glance at her niece, while Roland had the ready wit to busy himself about the halter of the cow. “The young gentleman,” said Catherine gravely, “ is helping me to tie the cow up faster to her stake, for I find that last night when she put her head out of the window and lowed, she alarmed the whole village ; and we shall be suspected of sorceryTHE ABBOT. 109 among the heretics, if they do not discover the cause of the ap- parition, or lose our cow if they do.’ _ “ Relieve yourself of that fear,” said the Abbess, somewhat ironically ; ‘‘ the person to whom she is now sold comes for the animal presently.” “Good night, then, my poor companion,” said Catherine, patting the animal’s shoulders ; “I hope thou hast fallen into kind hands, for my happiest hours of late have been spent in tending thee—I would I had been born to no better task ! ” “Now, out upon thee, mean-spirited wench!” said the Ab- bess ; “‘is that a speech worthy of the name of Seyton, or of the mouth of a sister of this house, treading the path of election— and to be spoken before a stranger youth, too ?—Go to my or- atory, minion—there read your Hours till I come thither, when I will read you such a lecture as shall make you prize the blessings which you possess.” Catherine was about to withdraw in silence, casting a half sorrowful, half comic, glance at Roland Greme, which seemed to say—‘ You see to what your untimely visit has exposed me,” when, suddenly changing her mind, she came forward to the page, and extended her hand as she bid him good evening, Their palms had pressed each other ere the astonished matron could interfere, and Catherine had time to say—‘“ Forgive me, mother ; it is long since we have seen a face that looked with kindness on us. Since these disorders have broken up our peaceful retreat all has been gloom and malignity. I bid this youth kindly farewell, because he has come hither in kindness, and because the odds are great, that we may never again meet in this world. I guess better than he that the schemes on which you are rushing are too mighty for your management, and that you are now setting the stone a-rolling which must surely crush you in its descent. I bid farewell,” she added, “to my fellow- victim !” This was spoken with a tone of deep and serious feeling, altogether different from the usual levity of Catherine’s man- ner, and plainly showed, that beneath the giddiness of extreme youth and total inexperience there lurked in her bosom a deeper power of sense and feeling than her conduct had hitherto ex- pressed. The Abbess remained a moment silent after she had left the room. ‘The proposed rebuke died on her tongue, and she ap- peared struck with the deep and foreboding tone in which her niece had spoken her good-even. She led the way In sigue to the apartment which they had formerly occupied, and whereRG THE ABBOT. there was prepared a small refection, as the Abbess termed it, consisting of milk and barley-bread. Magdalen Graeme, sum- moned to take share in this collation, appeared from an adjoin- ing apartment, but Catherine was seen no more. There was little said during the hasty meal, and after it was finished Roland Graeme was dismissed to the nearest cell, where some preparations had been made for his repose. The strange circumstances in which he found himself had their usual effect in preventing slumber from hastily descending on him, and he could distinctly hear, by a low but earnest mur- muring in the apartment which he had left, that the matrons continued in deep consultation to a late hour. As they separ- ated, he heard the Abbess distinctly express herself thus: ‘ In a word, my sister, I venerate your character and the authority with which my Superiors have invested you ; yet it seems to me that, ere entering on this perilous course, we should consult some of the Fathers of the Church.” ‘“And how and where are we to find a faithful Bishop or Abbot at whom to ask counsel? The faithful Eustatius is no more—he is withdrawn from a world of evil, and from the tyranny of heretics. May Heaven and our Lady assoilzie him of his sins, and abridge the penance of his mortal infirmities !— Where shall we find another with whom to take counsel ? ” ‘“ Heaven will provide for the Church,” said the Abbess ; ‘“and the faithful fathers who yet are suffered to remain in the house of Kennaquhair, will proceed to elect an Abbot. They will not suffer the staff to fall down, or the mitre to be unfilled, for the threats of heresy.” ‘That will I learn to-morrow,” said Magdalen Graeme; “yet who now takes the office of an hour, save to partake with the spoilers in their work of plunder ?—to-morrow will tell us if one of the thousand saints who are sprung from the House of Saint Mary’s continues to look down on it in its misery._-Farewell, my sister—we meet at Edinburgh.” ‘ Benedicite!”’ answered the Abbess, and they parted. “To Kennaquhair and to Edinburgh we bend our way,” thought Roland Greme. ‘ That information have I purchased by a sleepless hour—it suits well with my purpose. At Ken- naquhair I shall see Father Ambrose ;—at Edinburgh I shall find the means of shaping my own course through this bustling world, without burdening my affectionate relation—at Edin- burgh, too, I shall see again the witching novice, with her blue eyes and her provoking smile.”—He fell asleep, and it was to dream of Catherine Seyton.THE ABBOT. CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. What, Dagon up again !—I thought we had hurl’d him Down on the threshold, never more to rise. Bring wedge and axe ; and, neighbors, lend your hands And rive the idol into winter fagots! ATHELSTANE, OR THE CONVERTED DANE. ROLAND GR4ME slept long and sound, and the sun was high over the horizon, when the voice of his companion summoned him to resume their pilgrimage ; and when, hastily arranging his dress, he went to attend her call, the enthusiastic matron stood already at the threshold, prepared for her journey. There was in all the deportment of this remarkable woman a promp- titude of execution, and asternness of perseverance, founded on the fanaticism which she nursed so deeply, and which seemed to absorb all the ordinary purposes and feelings of mortality. One only human affection gleamed through her enthusiastic energies, like the broken glimpses of the sun through the rising clouds of a storm. It was her maternal fondness for her grandson—a fondness carried almost to the verge of dotage, in circumstances where the Catholic religion was not concerned, but which gave way instantly when it chanced either to thwart or come in contact with the more settled purpose of her soul, and the more devoted duty of her life. Her life she would willingly have laid down to save the earthly object of her affec- tion ; but that object itself she was ready to hazard, and would have been willing to sacrifice, could the restoration of the Church of Rome have been purchased with his blood. Her discourse by the way, excepting on the few occasions in which her extreme love for her grandson fourd opportunity to display ‘tself in anxietv for his health and accommodation, turned en- ' en honors of the Church, tirely on the duty of raising up the fall and replacing a Catholic sovereign on the throne. There were times at which she hinted, though very obscurely and distantly, that she herself was foredoomed by Heaven to perform a patt in this important task ; and that she had more than mere human warranty for the zeal with which she engaged in lt. But on this subject she expressed herself in such general lan- cuage, that it was not easy to decide whether she made any ac- tt sions to a dir yernatural call, like the cele- tual pretensions to a direct and supernari2 TLE ABBOT, brated Elizabeth Barton, commonly called the Nun of Kent ;* or whether she only dwelt upon the general duty which was in- cumbent on all Catholics of the time, and the pressure of which she felt in an extraordinary degree. Ai cauaie Yet though Magdalen Greme gave no direct intimation of her pretensions to be considered as something beyond the or- dinary class of mortals, the demeanor of one or two persons amongst the travellers whom they occasionally met, as they en- tered the more fertile and populous part of the valley, seemed to indicate their belief in her superior attributes. It is true, that two clowns, who drove before them a herd of cattle—one er two village wenches, who seemed bound for some merry- making—a strolling soldier, in a rusted morion, and a wander- ing student, as his threadbare black cloak and his satchel of books proclaimed him—passed our travellers without observa- tion, or with a look of contempt ; and, moreover, that two or three children, attracted by the appearance of adress so nearly resembling that of a pilgrim, joined in hooting and calling “Out upon the mass-monger!’”’ But one or two, who nourished in their bosoms respect for the downfallen hierarchy—casting first a timorous glance around, to see that no one observed them—hastily crossed themselves—bent their knee to Sister Magdalen, by which name they saluted her—kissed her hand, or even the hem of her dalmatique—received with humility the Benedicite with which she repaid their obeisance ; and then starting up, and again looking timidly round to see that they had been unobserved, hastily resumed their journey. Even while within sight of persons of the prevailing faith, there were individuals bold enough, by folding their arms and bending their head, to give distant and silent intimation that they rec- ognized Sister Magdalen, and honored alike her person and her purpose. She failed not to notice to her grandson these marks of honor and respect which from time to time she received. ‘You see,” she said, “my son, that the enemies have been unable altogether to suppress the good spirit, or to root out the true seed. Amid heretics and schismatics, spoilers of the church’s lands, and scoffers at saints and sacraments, there is lefta remnant.” “It is true, my mother,” said Roland Greeme ; “but me- * A fanatic nun, called the Holy Maid of Kent, who pretended to the gift of prophecy and power of miracles. Having denounced the doom of speedy death against Henry VIII. for his marriage with Anne Boleyn, the prophetess was attainted in Parliament, and executed with her accomplices. Her imposture was for a time so successful, that even Sir Thomas Moore was disposed to be a believer.PHE ABBOT: ri3 thinks they are of a quality which can help us but little. See you not all those who wear steel at their side, and bear marks of better quality,ruffle past as they would past the meanest beggars ? for those who give us any marks of sympathy are the poorest of the poor, and most outcast of the needy, who have neither bread to share with us, nor swords to defend us, nor skill to use them if they had. hat poor wretch that last kneeled to you with such deep devotion, and who seemed emaciated by the touch of some wasting disease within, and the grasp of poverty with- out—that pale, shivering, miserable caitiff, how can he aid the great schemes you meditate? ” “* Much, my son,” said the matron, with more mildness than the page perhaps expected. ‘“ When that pious son of the church returns from the shrine of Saint Ringan, whither he now travels by my counsel, and by the aid of good Catholics,—when he returns, healed of his wasting malady, high in health, and strong in limb, will not the glory of his faithfulness, and _ its miraculous reward speak louder in the ears of this besotted people of Scotland, than the din which is weekly made ina thousand heretical pulpits ?” = by, but, mother, I fear the Saint’s‘-hand is’ ott) tae long since we have heard of a miracle performed at Saint Ringan’s.”’ The matron made a dead pause, and, with a voice tremulous with emotion, asked, “ Art thou so unhappy as to doubt the power of the blessed Saint ?”’ “Nay, mother,” the youth hastened to reply, ‘I believe as the Holy Church commands, and doubt not Saint Ringan’s power of healing ; but, be it said with reverence, he hath not of late showed the inclination.”’ ‘¢ And has this land deserved it ?”’ said the Catholic matron, advancing hastily while she spoke, until she attained the sum- mit of a rising ground, over which the path led, and then stand- ing again still. ‘‘ Here,” she said, “stood the Cross, the limits of the Halidome of Saint Mary’s—here—on this eminence— from which the eye of the holy pilgrim might first catch a view of that ancient monastery, the light of the land, the abode of saints, and the grave of monarchs—Where is now that emblem of our faith? It lies on the earth—a shapeless block, from which the broken fragments have been carried off, for the meanest uses, till now no semblance of its original form remains. Look towards the east, my son, where the sun was wont to glitter on stately spires—from ae crosses and bells have now114 THE ABBOT. been hurled, as if the land had been invaded once more by bar- barous heathens.—Look at yonder battlements, of which we can, even at this distance, descry the partial demolition ; and ask if this land can expect from the blessed saints, whose shrines and whose images have been profaned, any other miracles but those of vengeance? How long,” she exclaimed, looking upward, “How long shall it be delayed?” She paused, and then re- sumed with enthusiastic rapidity, ‘‘ Yes, my son, all on earth is but for a period—joy and grief, triumph and desolation, suc- ceed each other like cloud and sunshine ;—the vineyard shall not be forever trodden down, the gaps shall be amended, and the fruitful branches once more dressed and trimmed. Even this day—ay, even this hour, I trust to hear news of im- portance. Dally not—let us on—time is brief, and judgment is certain.” She resumed the path which led to the Abbey—a path which, in ancient times, was carefully marked out by posts and rails, to assist the pilgrim in his journey—these were now torn up and destroyed. A half-hour’s walk placed them in front of the once splendid Monastery, which, although the church was as yet entire, had not escaped the fury of the times. The long range of cells and of apartments for the use of the brethren, which occupied two sides of the great square, were almost entirely ruinous, the interior having been consumed by fire, which only the massive architecture of the outward walls had enabled them to resist. The Abbot’s house, which formed the third side of the square, was, though injured, still inhabited, and afforded refuge to the few brethren, who yet, rather by connivance than by actual authority, were permitted to remain at Kennaquhair. Their stately offices—their pleasant gardens—the magnificent cloisters constructed for their recreation, were all dilapidated and ruinous ; and someof the building materials had apparently been put into requisition by persons in the village and in the vicinity, who, formerly vassals of the Monastery, had not hesi- tated to appropriate to themselves a part of the spoils. Roland saw fragments of Gothic pillars, richly carved, occupying the place of door-posts to the meanest huts ; and here and there a mutilated statue, inverted or laid on its side, made the door- post, or threshold, of a wretched cow-house. The church itself was less injured than the other buildings of the Monastery. But the images which had been placed in the numerous niches of its columns and buttresses, having all fallen under the charge of idolatry, to which the superstitious devotion of the Papists had justly exposed them, had been broken and thrown down,THE ABBOT. IIs without much regard to the preservation of the rich and airy canopies and pedestals on which they were placed ; nor, if the devastation had stopped short at this point, could we have con- sidered the preservation of these monuments of antiquity as an object to be put in the balance with the introduction of the re- formed worship. Our pilgrims saw the demolition of these sacred and vener- able representations of saints and angels—for as sacred and venerable they had been taught to consider them—with very different feelings. The antiquary may be permitted to regret the necessity of the action, but to Magdalen Graeme it seemed a deed of impiety, deserving the instant vengeance of heaven,— a sentiment in which her relative joined for the moment as cordially as herself. Neither, however, gave vent to their feel- ings in words, and uplifted hands and eyes formed their only mode of expressing them. The page was about to approach the great eastern gate of the church, but was prevented by his guide. ‘“‘ That gate,” she said, ‘‘ has long been blockaded, that the heretical rabble may not know there still exist among the brethren of Saint Mary’s men who dare worship where their predecessors prayed while alive and were interred when dead— follow me this way, my son.” Roland Greme followed accordingly ; and Magdalen, cast- ing a hasty glance to see whether they were observed (for she had learned caution from the danger of the times), commanded her grandson to knock at a little wicket which she pointed out to him. “ But knock gently,” she added, with a motion expres- sive of caution. After a little space, during which no answer was returned, she signed to Roland to repeat his summons for admission ; and the door at length partially opening, discovered a glimpse of the thin and timid porter, by whom the duty was performed, skulking from the observation of those who stood without ; but endeavoring at the same time to gain a sight of them without being himself seen. How different from the proud consciousness of di,aity with which the porter of ancient days offered his important brow, and his goodly person, to the pilgrims who repaired to Kennaquhair! His solemn “ [ntrate. met filit,’ was exchanged for a tremulous “ You cannot ente: now—the brethren are in their chambers.” But, when Mag: dalen Graeme asked, in an under tone of voice, “ Hast thou forgotten me, my brother? ’ he changed his apologetic refusal to ‘‘ Enter, my honored sister, enter speedily, for evil eyes are on us.” They entered accordingly, and having waited until the portet116 THE ABBOT. had, with jealous haste, barred and bolted the wicket, were con- ducted by him through several dark and winding passages. As they walked slowly on, he spoke to the matron in a subdued voice, as if he feared to trust the very walls with the avowal which he communicated. “ Our Fathers are assembled in the Chapter-house, worthy sister—yes, in the Chapter-house—for the election of an Abbot. —Ah, Benedicite! there must be no ringing of bells—no high mass—no opening of the great gates now, that the people might see and venerate their spiritual Father! Our Fathers must hide themselves rather like robbers who choose a leader, than godly priests who elect a mitred Abbot.” “ Regard not that, my brother,” answered Magdalen Graeme ; ‘the first successors of Saint Peter himself were elected, not in sunshine, but in tempests—not in the halls of the Vatican, but in the subterranean vaults and dungeons of heathen Rome —they were not gratulated with shouts and salvos of cannon- shot and of musketry, and the display of artificial fire—no, my brother—but by the hoarse summons of Lictors and Pretors, who came to drae the Fathers of the Church to martyrdom. From such adversity was the Church once raised, and by such will it now be purified.—And mark me, brother! not in the proudest days of the mitred Abbey, was a Superior ever chosen, whom his office shall so much honor, as #e shall be honore7, who now takes it upon him in these days of tribu- lation. On whom, my brother, will the choice fall?” “On whom can it fali—or, alas! who would dare to reply to the call, save the worthy pupil of the Sainted Eustatius— the good and valiant Father Ambrose?” ‘“‘T know it,” said Magdalen ; ‘“‘ my heart told me long ere your lips had uttered his name. Stand forth, courageous cham- pion, and man the fatal breach !—Rise, bold and experienced pilot, and seize the helm while the tempest rages !—Turn back the battle, brave raiser of the fallen standard !—Wield crook and sling, noble shepherd of a sca‘*sred flock !” ‘T pray you, hush, my sister !” said the porter, opening a door which led into the great church, “ the brethren will be presently here to celebrate their election with a solemn mass—I must marshal them the way to the high altar—all the offices of this venerable house have now devolved on one poor decrepit old man.” He left the churcn, and Magdalen and Roland remained alone in that great vaulted space, whose style of rich, yet chaste architecture, referred its origin to the early part of the fourTHE ABBOT. 117 ding. But the inside as well as teenth century, the best period of Gothic buil niches were stripped of their images in the the outside of the church ; and in the pell-mell havoc, the tombs of warriors and of princes had been included in the de- molition of the idolatrous shrines. Lances and swords of an- tique size, which had hung over the tombs of mighty warriors of former days, lay now strewed among relics, with which the devotion of pilgrims had graced those of their peculiar saints - and the fragments of the knights and dames, which had once lain recumbent, or kneeled in an attitude of devotion, where their mortal relics were reposed, were mingled with those of the saints and angels of the Gothic chisel, which the hand of violence had sent headlong from their stations. The most fatal symptom of the whole appeared to be, that, though this violence had now been committed for many months, the Fathers had lost so totally all heart and resolution, that they had not adventured even upon clearing away the rubbish, or restoring the church to some decent degree of order. This might have been done without much labor. But terror had overpowered the scanty remains of a body once so powerful, and, sensible they were only suffered to remain in this ancient seat by connivance and from compassion, they did not venture upon taking any step which might be construed into an asser- tion of their ancient rights, contenting themselves with the secret and obscure exercise of their religious ceremonial, in as unostentatious a manner as possible. Two or three of the more aged brethren had sunk under the pressure of the times, and the ruins had been partly cleared away to permit their interment. One stone had been laid over Father Nicholas, which recorded of him in special, that he had taken the vows during the incumbency of Abbot Ingelram, the period to which his memory so frequently recurred. Another flag-stone, yet more recently deposited, covered the body of Philip the Sacristan, eminent for his aquatic excursion with the phantom of Avenel; and a third, the most recent of all, bore the outline of a mitre, and the words A zacet Eustatius Abbas ; for no one dared to add a word of commendation in favor of his learning, and strenuous zeal for the Roman Catholic faith. Magdalen Greme looked at and perused the brief records of these monuments successively, and paused over that of Father Eustace. ‘In a good hour for thyself,” she said, “ but oh! in an evil hour for the Church, wert thou called from us. Let thy spirit be with us, holy man—encourage thy successor to tread in thy footsteps—give him thy bold and inventive118 THE ABBOT. capacity, thy zeal and thy discretion—even thy piety exceeds not his.” As she spoke, a side door, which closed a passage from the Abbot’s house into the church, was thrown open, that the Fathers might enter the choir, and conduct to the high altar the Superior whom they had elected. In former times, this was one of the most splendid of the many pageants which the hierarchy of Rome had devised to attract the veneration of the faithful. The period during which the Abbacy remained vacant, was a state of mourning, or, as their emblematical phrase expressed it, of widowhood ; a melan- choly term, which was changed into rejoicing and triumph when a new Superior was chosen. When the folding doors were on such solemn occasions thrown open, and the new Abbot appeared on the threshold in full-blown dignity, with ring and mitre, and dalmatique and crosier, his hoary standard-bearers and his juvenile dispensers of incense preceding him, and the venerable train of monks behind him, with all besides which could an- nounce the supreme authority to which he was now raised, his appearance was a signal for the magnificent jzdd/ate to rise from the organ and music-loft, and to be joined by the corresponding bursts of Alleluiah from the whole assembled congregation. Now all was changed. In the midst of rubbish and desolation, seven or eight old men, bent and shaken as much by grief and fear as by age, shrouded hastily in the prescribed dress of their order, wandered like a procession of spectres, from the door which had been thrown open, up through the encumbered pass- age, to the high altar, there to install their elected Superior a chief of ruins. It was like a band of bewildered travellers choosing a chief in the wilderness of Arabia ; or a shipwrecked crew electing a captain upon the barren island on which fate has thrown them. They who, in peaceful times, are most ambitious of authority among others, shrink from the competition at such eventful periods, when neither ease nor parade attend the possession of it, and when it gives only a painful pre-eminence both in danger and in labor, and exposes the ill-fated chieftain to the murmurs of his discontented associates, as well as to the first assault of the common enemy. But he on whom the office of the Abbot of Saint Mary’s was now conferred had a mind fitted for the situation to which he was called. Bold and enthusiastic, yet generous and forgiving—wise and skilful, yet zealous and prompt —he wanted but a better cause than the support of a decaying superstition, to have raised him to the rank of a truly great man. But as the end crowns the work, it also forms the ruleTHE ABBOT. 119 by which .t must be ultimately judged ; and those who, with sincerity and generosity, fight and fall in an evil cause, posterity can only compassionate as victims of a generous but fatal error. Amongst these, we must rank Ambrosius, the last Abbot of Kennaquhair, whose designs must be condemned, as their suc- cess would have rivetted on Scotland the chains of antiquated superstition and spiritual tyranny; but whose talents com- manded respect, and whose virtues, even from the enemies of his faith, extorted esteem. The bearing of the new Abbot served of itself to dignify a ceremonial which was deprived of all other attributes of grandeur. Conscious of the peril in which they stood, and recalling, doubtless, the better days they had seen, there hung over his brethren an appearance of mingled terror, and grief, and shame, which induced them to hurry over the office in which they were engaged, as something at once degrading and dangerous. But not so Father Ambrose. His features, indeed, expressed a deep melancholy, as he walked up the centre aisle, amid the ruin of things which he considered as holy, but his brow was undejected, andhis step firm andsolemn. He seemed to think that the dominion which he was about to receive, depended in no sort upon the external circumstances under which it was con- ferred ; and if a mind so firm was accessible to sorrow or fear, it was not on his own account, but on that of the Church to which he had devoted himself. At length he stood on the broken steps of the high altar, barefooted, as was the rule, and holding in his hand his pastoral staff, for the gemmed ring and jewelled mitre had become secular spoils. No obedient vassals came, man after man, to make their homage, and to offer the tribute which should pro- vide their spiritual Superior with palfrey and trappings. No Bishop assisted at the solemnity, to receive into the higher ranks of the Church nobility a dignitary whose voice in the legislature was as potential as his own. With hasty and maimed rites, the few remaining brethren stepped forward alternately to give their new Abbot the kiss of peace, in token of fraternal affection and spiritual homage. Mass was then hastily performed, but in such precipitation as if it had been hurried over rather to satisfy the scruples of a few youths, who were impatient to set out on a hunting party, than as if it made the most solemn part of a solemn ordination. ‘The officiating priest faltered as he spoke the service, and often looked around as if he expected to be interrupted in the midst of his office ; and the brethrena5 THE ABBOT. listened as to that which, short as it was, they wished yet more abridged.* These symptoms of alarm increased as the ceremony pro- ceeded, and, as it seemed, were not caused by mere apprehen- sion alone ; for, amid the pauses of the hymn there were heard without sounds of a very different sort, beginning faintly, and at a distance, but at length approaching close to the exterior of the church, and stunning with dissonant clamor those engaged in the service. The winding of horns, blown with no regard to harmony or concert; the jangling of bells, the thumping of drums, the squeaking of bagpipes, and the clash of cymbals— the shouts of a multitude, now as in laughter, now as in anger —the shrill tones of female voices, and of those of children, mingling with the deeper clamor of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier— Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern— Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting— Comic, yet fearful—droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. THE monks ceased their song, which, like that of the chor- isters in the legend of the Witch of Berkeley, died away in a quaver of consternation ;} and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to * In Catholic countries, in order to reconcile the pleasures of the great with the observ- ances of religion, it was common, when a party was bent for the chase, to celebrate mass, abridged and maimed of its rites, called a hunting mass, the brevity of which was designed to correspond with the impatience of the audience. t [The ‘*‘ Witch of Berkeley,”’—evidently referring to Southey’s Ballad, founded ona legend contained in Matthew of Westminster, a.p. 852, ‘‘ showing how an old woman rode double, and who rode before her.”? ' ‘* And the taper’s light was extinguish’d quite, And the choristers faintly sung, And the priests, dismay’d, panted and pray’d, And on all saints in Heaven for aid They call’d with trembling tongue. And in he came with eyes of flame. The Devil to fetch the dead.’’}LOSVIN Hf YNIGVH LdOd HOV’ = ~ — hy y : { r u LN HONV UU, OLNI HHL “HOUDHO INGE VIM AG FSOPs «THLE ABBOT. 121 disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot: who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dig- nified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his com- panions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the siation which hitherto they had occupied un- noticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot ; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear : ‘‘ Peace, my sister,” he said in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult ;—‘‘ Peace,” he said, “my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary’s himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.—And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon ;—if it is the pleasure of our protec- tress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of vio- lence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a (itholic son of the church.” The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder ; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with 2 step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, “ who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired ?”’ There was a moment’s silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, “‘ We desire entrance into the church ; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are.” ee “ By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. “By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Un- reason,” * replied the voice from without ; and, from the laugh * Note F. The Abbot of Unreason.122 THE ABBOT. which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. “T know not, and seek not to know, your meaning,” replied the Abbot, “since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leaye his servants inpeace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here.’ “Open the door,” said another rude voice, “ and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a Superior we must all pbey.”’ “‘ Break open the doors if he dallies any longer,” said a third, “and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege!” A general shout followed. “ Ay, ay, our priv- ilege ! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition ! ” The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. “ My children,” said he, “I will save you from committing a great sin. ‘The porter will presently undo the gate—he is gone to fetch the keys—meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold.” “Tillyvally for your papistry!” was answered from without ; “we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lenten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.—Said I well, comrades ?”’ “ Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done,” said the multitude ; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren— partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty—remained hud- dled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened ; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd ofTHE ABBOT. a 3 enraged assailants rushed into tl there was a cry of “ A halt le idiiengon a reste r r ( : Somson the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order was grotesque in the extreme. Itwas composed of men women. een. disguised in various habits, and pre- qually diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse’s head painted before him, and a tail b hind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth soit - supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled eabesoellect pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated vant of the hobby-horse,* so often alluded to in our ancient dente and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that con- cludes Bayes’s tragedy. To rival the address and agility dis- played by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabeea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him ; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head t—the best representation exhibited at the time ; and no ereat wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other mas- queraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men—children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads—while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress ; while colored pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. ‘Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out ; and thus the * Note G. The hobby-horse. t Note H. Robin Hood and Little John.124 THE ABBOT. transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesqué mummers was at once completed. z The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss tocomprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighborhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, some: times puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances im- posed on them at other seasons. But of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the peo- ple to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred ; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of a labor- er’s horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed—when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconve- nence arose from the established practice of games and merry- makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavored, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecor- ous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhi- bitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But itLE ABBOT. 126 was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated ;—the rude multitude continued attached to their favorite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic—the rochet of the reformed bishop—and the cloak and band of the Caivinistic divine—were, in turn, com- pelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason.* It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of Saint Mary’s, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supple- mental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier’s cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvas, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resem- bling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came, “A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason!” The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din ; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hal- looed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon walloped and hissed, and the hobby- horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and * From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, by Thomas Hope (1820), it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church.126 THE ABBOT. frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deaf- ened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator ; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by the reflection, that, bold in their disguise, the mummers who whooped and capered around them, might, on slight provocation, turn their jest into earnest, or at least proceed to those practical pleasantries, which at all times arise so naturally out of the frolicsome and mischievous disposition of the populace. They looked to their Abbot amid the tumult, with such looks. as landsmen cast upon the pilot when the storm is at the highest—looks which express that they are devoid of all hope arising from their own exertions, and not very confident in any success likely to attend those of their Palinurus. The Abbot himself seemed at a stand; he felt no fear, but he was sensible of the danger of expressing his rising indigna- tion which he was scarcely able to suppress. He made a ges- ture with his hand as if commanding silence, which was at first only replied to by redoubled shouts, and peals of wild laughter. When, however, the same motion, and as nearly in the same manner, had been made by Howleglas, it was immediately obeyed by his riotous companions, who expected fresh food for mirth in the conversation betwixt the real and mock Abbot, having no small confidence in the vulgar wit and impudence of of their leader. Accordingly, they began to shout, “ To it, fathers—to it ?”—‘“ Fight monk, fight madcap—Abbot against Abbot is fair play, and so is reason against unreason, and malice against monkery ?” ‘Silence, my mates!’ said Howleglas ; ‘‘ cannot two learned Fathers of the Church hold communion together, but you must come here with your bear-garden whoop and hollo, as if you were hounding forth a mastiff upon a mad bull? I say silence! and let this learned Father and me confer, touching matters affecting our mutual state and authority.” “My children,”—said Father Ambrose. ‘‘ My children, too,—and happy children they are!” said his burlesque counterpart ; ‘‘many a wise child knows not its own father, and it is well they have two to choose betwixt.” “If thou hast aught in thee, save scoffing and ribaldry,” said the real Abbot, “ permit me, for thine own soul’s sake, to speak a few words to these misguided men.”THE ABBOT. 124 ‘“Aught in me but scoffing, sayest thou?” retorted the Abbot of Unreason ; “ why, reverend brother, I have all that becomes mine office at this time a-day—I have beef, ale, and brandy-wine, with other condiments not worth mentioning ; and for speaking, man—why, speak away, and we will have turn about like honest fellows.” During this discussion the wrath of Magdalen Graeme had risen to the uttermost ; she approached the Abbot, and placing herself by his sicle, said in a low and yet distinct tone—“ Wake and arouse thee, Father—the sword of Saint Peter is in thy hand—strike and avenge Saint Peter’s patrimony !—Blind them in the chains which, being riveted by the church on earth, are riveted in Heaven 2 “Peace, sister!” said the Abbot ; “let not their madness destroy our discretion—I pray thee, peace, and let me do mine office. It is the first, peradventure it may be the last time I shal] be called on to discharge it.” ““ Nay, my holy brother!” said Howleglas, * I rede you, take the holy sister’s advice—never throve convent without woman’s counsel,” ‘Peace, vain man!” said the Abbot ; ‘and you my breth- ren——”’ ‘“ Nay, nay !”’ said the Abbot of Unreason, “ no speaking to the lay people, until you have conferred with your brother of the cowl. I swear by bell, book, and candle, that no one of my congregation shall listen to one word you have to sav; so you had as well address yourself to me who will.” To escape a conference so ludicrous, the Abbot again at- tempted an appeal to what respectful feelings might yet remain amongst the inhabitants of the Halidome, once so devoted to their spiritual Superiors. Alas! the Abbot of Unreason had only to flourish his mock crosier, and the whooping, the hal- looing, and the dancing, were renewed with a vehemence which would have defied the lungs of Stentor. “And now, my mates,” said the Abbot of Unreason, “ once again dight your gabs and be hushed—let us see if the Cock of Kennaquhair will fight or flee the pit.” There was again a dead silence of expectation, of which Father Ambrose availed himself to address his antagonist, seeing plainly that he could gain an audience on no other terms. ‘‘ Wretched man!” said he, “ hast thou no better em- ployment for thy carnal wit, than to employ it in leading these blind and helpless creatures into the pit of utter darkness!” “Truly, my brother,” replied Howleglas, “Tecan seel little128 THE ABBOT. difference betwixt your employment and mine, save that you make a sermon of a jest, and I make a jest of a sermon. “Unhappy being,’’ said the Abbot, a who hast no better subject of pleasantry than that which should make thee tremble —no sounder jest than thine own sins, and no better objects for laughter than those who can absolve thee from the guilt of them!” “Verily, my reverend brother,” said the mock Abbot, ‘‘ what you say might be true, if, in laughing at hypocrites, I meant to laugh at religion.—Oh, it is a precious thing to wear a long dress, with a girdle and a cowl—we become a holy pillar of Mother Church, and a boy must not play at ball against the walls for fear of breaking a painted window !” “ And will you, my friends,” said the Abbot, looking round and speaking with a vehemence which secured him a tranquil audience for some time,—will you suffer a profane buffoon, within the very church of God, to insult his ministers? Many of you—all of you, perhaps—have lived under my holy prede- cessors, who were called upon to rule in this church where I am called upon to suffer. If you have worldly goods, they are their gift; and, when you scorned not to accept better gifts— the mercy and forgiveness of the church—were they not ever at your command ?—did we not pray while you were jovial— wake while you slept?” ‘Some of the good wives of Halidome were wont to say so,” said the Abbot of Unreason ; but his jest met in this in- stance but slight applause, and Father Ambrose, having gained a moment’s attention, hasten to improve it. “What!” said he ; “and is this grateful—is it seemly—is it honest—to assail with scorn a few old men, from whose predecessors you hold all, and whose only wish is to die in peace among these fragments of what was once the light of the land, and whose daily prayer is, that they may be removed ere that hour comes when the last spark shall be extinguished, and the land left in the darkness which it has chosen rather than light? We have not turned against you the edge of the spiritual sword, to revenge our temporal persecution ; the tempest of your wrath hath despoiled us of land, and deprived us almost of our daily food, but we have not repaid it with the thunders of ex- communication—we only pray your leave to live and die within the church which is our own, invoking God, our Lady, and the Holy Saints to pardon your sins, and our own, undisturbed by scurrile buffoonery and biasphemy.” . This speech, so different in tone and termination from thatTHE: ABBOT. 129 which the crowd had expected, produced an effect upon their feelings unfavorable to the prosecution of their frolic. The morris-dancers stood still—the hobby-horse surceased his caper- ing—pipe and tabor were mute, and “ silence, like a heavy cloud,”’ seemed to descend on the once noisy rabble. Several of the beasts were obviously moved to compunction ; the bear could not restrain his sobs, and a huge fox was observed to wipe his eyes with his tail. But in especial the dragon, lately SO formidably rampant, now relaxed the terror of his claws, uncoiled his tremendous rings, and grumbled out of his fiery throat Ina repentant tone, “ By the mass, I thought no harm In exercising our old pastime, but an I had thought the good Father would have taken it so to heart, I would as soon have played your devil, as your dragon.” In this momentary pause, the Abbot stood amongst the mis- cellaneous and grotesque forms by which he was surrounded, triumphant as Saint Anthony, in Callot’s Temptations ; but Howleglas would not so resign his purpose. “And how now, my masters!” said he, “is this fair play or no? Have you not chosen me Abbot of Unreason, and is it lawful for any of you to listen to common sense to-day? Was I not formally elected by you in solemn chapter, held in Luckie Martin’s change-house, and will you now desert me, and give up your old pastime and privilege? Play out the play—andhe that speaks the next word of sense or reason, or bids us think or consider, or the like of that, which befits not the day, I will have him solemnly ducked in the mill-dam !” The rabble, mutable as usual, huzzaed, the pipe and tabor struck up, the hobby-horse pranced, the beasts roared, andeven the repentant dragon began again to coil up his spires, and prepare himself for fresh gambols. But the Abbot might still have overcome, by his eloquence and his entreaties, the mali- cious designs of the revellers, had not Dame Magdalen Graeme given loose to the indignation which she had long suppressed. ‘“‘Scoffers,” she said, “and men of Belial—Blasphemous heretics, and truculent tyrants——”’ “Your patience, my sister, I entreat and Icommand you !” said the Abbot ; “let me do my duty—disturb me not in mine office! ” But Dame Magdalen continued to thunder forth her threats in the name of Popes and Councils, and in the name of every Saint, from St. Michael downward. “ My comrades!” said the Abbot of Unreason, ‘‘ this good dame hath not spoken a single word of reason, and therein130 THE ABBOT. may esteem herself free from the law. But what she spoke was meant for reason, and, therefore, unless she confesses and avouches all which she has said to be nonsense, it shall pass for such, so far as to incur our statutes. Wherefore, holy dame, pilgrim, or abbess, or whatever thou art, be mute with thy mummery, or beware the mill-dam. We will have neither spiritual nor temporal scolds in our Diocese of Unreason !”’ As he spoke thus, he extended his hand towards the old woman, while his followers shouted, ‘“‘ A doom—a doom !” and prepared to second his purpose, when lo! it was suddenly frus- trated. Roland Greme had witnessed with indignation the insults offered to his old spiritual preceptor, but yet had wit enough to reflect he could render him no assistance, but might well, by ineffective interference, make matters worse. But when he saw his aged relative in danger of personal violence, he gave way to the natural impetuosity of his temper, and, stepping forward, struck his poniard into the body of the Abbot of Unreason, whom the blow instantly prostrated on the pavement. CHAPTER FIELD RENE. As when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd, Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud, And stones and brands in rattling furies fly, And all the rustic arms which fury can supply— Then if some grave and pious man appear, They hush their noise and lend a listening ear. ‘ DRYDEN’s VIRGIL. A DREADFUL shout of vengeance was raised by the revellers, whose sport was thus so fearfully interrupted ; but for an in stant the want of weapons amongst the multitude, as well as the inflamed features and brandished poniard of Roland Graeme kept them at bay, while the Abbot, horror-struck at the violence implored with uplifted hands pardon for blood-shed committed within the sanctuary. Magdalen Greme alone expressed tri: umph in the blow her descendant had dealt to scoffer, mixed, however, with a wild and anxious expression of terror for her grandson’s safety. ‘Let him perish,” she said, “in his blas- Deis him die on the holy pavement which he has in- sulted ! But the rage of the multitude, the grief of the Abbot, theLHE ABBOT i3i exultation of the enthusiastic Magdalen, were all mistimed and unnecessary. Howleglas, mortally wounded as he was supposed to be, sprung alertly up from the floor, calling aloud, “A miracle, a miracle, my masters ! as brave a ahiaele € as ever was w rought in the kirk of ee. And I charge you, my masters, as your lawfully chosen Abbot, that you touch no one without my command—You, wolf and bear, will guard this pragmatic youth, but without hurting him—And you, reverend brother, will, with your comrades, withdraw to your cells ; for our con. ference has ended like all con ferences, le eaving each of his own mind as before ; and if we fight, both you and your brethren, and the Kirk, will have the worst on’t—Wherefore pack up your pipes and begone.’ The hubbub was beginning again to awaken, but still Father Ambrose hesitated, as uncertain to what path his duty called him, whether to face out the present storm, or to reserve him- self for a better moment. His brother of Unreason observed his difficulty, and said, in a tone more natural and less affected than that with which he had hitherto sustained his character, “We came hither, my good sir, more in mirth than in mischiet —our bark is worse than our bite—and e especially, we mean you no personal harm—wherefore, draw off while the p play is good ; for it is ill whistling for a hawk when she is once on the soar, and worse to snatch the quarry from the ban- dog—Let these fellows once begin their brawl, and it will be too much for mad- ness itself, let alone the Abbot of Unreason, to bring them back to the lure.” The brethren crowded around Father Ambrosius, and joined in urging him to give place to the torrent. The present revel was, they : said, an ancient custom which his predecesgors had permitted, and old Father Nicholas himself had played the dragon in the days of the Abbot Ingelram. ‘“ And we now reap the fruit of the seed which they have so unadvisedly sown,” said Ambrosius ; “ they taught men to make a mock of what is holy, what wonder that the descendants of scoffers become robbers and plunderers? But be it as you list, my brethren—move towards the dortour—And you, dame, I command you, by the authority w 2 I have over you, and by your respect for that youth’s safety, tl vat you go with us without farther speech—Yet, stay—what are your intentions towards that youth whom you detain prisoner >—Wot ye,’ he continued, addressing Howleglas in a stern tone of voice, “that he bears the livery ‘of the House of Avenel ? They who fear not the anger of Heaven, may at least the wrath of man.”132 THE ABBOT. ‘“Cumber not yourself concerning him,” answered Howle- elas, “we know right well who and what he 1s.” ‘Let me pray,” said the Abbot, in atone of entreaty, ‘‘ that you do him no wrong for the rash deed which he attempted in his imprudent zeal.” ‘“T say, cumber not yourself about it, father,’ answered Howleglas, “but move off with your train, male and female, or I will not undertake to save yonder she-saint from the ducking-stool—And _ as for bearing of malice, my stomach has no room for it ; it is,” he added, clapping his hand on his portly belly, “too well bumbasted out with straw and buckram— gramercy to them both—they kept out that madcap’s dagger as well as a Milan corselet could have done.” In fact the home-driven poniard of Roland Greme had light upon the stuffing of the fictitious paunch, which the Abbot of Unreason wore as a part of his characteristic dress, and it was only the force of the blow which had prostrated that rev- erend person on the ground for a moment. Satisfied in some degree by this man’s assurances, and com- pelled to give way to superior force, the Abbot Ambrosius re- tired from the church at the head of the monks, and left the court free for the revellers to work their will. But, wild and wilful as these rioters were, they accompanied the retreat of the religionists with none of those shouts of contempt and derision with which they had at first hailed them. The Abbot’s dis- course had affected some of them with remorse, others with shame, and all with a transient degree of respect. They re- mained silent until the last monk had disappeared through the side-door which communicated with their dwelling-place, and even then it cost some exhortations on the part of Howleglas, some caprioles of the hobby-horse, and some wallops of the dragon, to rouse once more the rebuked spirit of revelry. ‘* And how now, my masters ?”’ said the Abbot of Unreason ; ‘“‘and wherefore look on me with such blank Jack-a-Lent visages ? Will you lose your old pastime for an old wife’s tale of saints and purgatory? Why, 1 thought you would have made all split long since—Come, strike up, tabor and harp, strike up, fiddle and rebeck—dance and be merry to-day, and Jet care come to-morrow. Bear and wolf, look to your prisoner —prance, hobby—hiss, dragon, and _ halloo, boys—we grow older every moment we stand idle, and life is too short to be spent in playing mumchance.” This pithy exhortation was attended with the effect desired, They fumigated the church with burnt wool and feathers in:THE ABBOT 133 stead of incense, put foul water into the holy- wate basins, and celebrated a parody on the church-service, the mock Abbot off- Ciating at the altar; they sang ludicrous and indecent parodies, to the: tunes of church hymns ; they violated whatever vestments or vessels belonging to the Abbey they could lay their hands / upon ; and, playing every freak which the whim of the moment could suggest to their wild caprice, at length they fell to more lasting deeds of demolition, pulled down and ¢ destroy ed some carved wood-work, dashed out the painted windows which had escaped former violence, and in their rigorous search after sculpture dedicated to idolatry, began to destroy what orna- ments yet remained entire upon the tombs, and around the cornices of the pillars. The spirit of demolition, like other tastes, increases by in- dulgence ; from these lighter attempts at mischief, the more tumultuous part of the meeting began to meditate destruction on a more extended scale—* Let us heave it down altogether, the old crow’s nest,” became a general cry among them; “it has served the Pope and his rooks too lon = and up ‘they struck a ballad which was then-popular amone the lower classes.* - fe YN “The Paip, that pagan full of pride, Hath blinded us ower Beer For where the blind the blinc th lead, No marvel baith gae wrang Like prince and hes He led the ring Of all iniquity, Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix, Under the greenwood tree. “The Bishop rich, he could not preach For sporting with the lasses; The silly friar behoved to fleech For awmous as he passes ; The curate his creep He could not read,— Shame fa’ the company ! Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix, Under the greenwood tree.” Thundering out this chorus of a notable hunting song, which had been pressed into the service of some polemicale poet, a hese rude rhymes are taken, with some trifling alterations, from a ballad called Trim- go-trix. It occurs ina singular collection, entitled, ‘‘ A Comp endious Book of Godly and Spit a, 11 Songs, coll lectes d out of sundrie parts of the Scripture, with sundrie of other Pallabe cha: iged out of prophane sanges, for ayoveng of sin and harlotrie, with Augmentation oO sundrie Gude and Cx idly Balla ites. Edin burgh, es by Andro Hart. This curious collection has been reprinted in Sir G. Dalyell’s Scottish Poems of the sixteenth cen oly Edin. 1801, 2 vols. r2mo. [There is also a separate publication of ‘‘the Gude and Go Baliates’’ from the earlier edition of 1578, at Edin. 1868, 12mo.]134 THE ABBOT. the followers of the Abbot of Unreason were turning every moment more tumultuous, and getting beyond the manage- ment even of that reverend prelate himself, when a knight in full armor, followed by two or three men-at-arms, entered the church, and in a stern voice commanded them to forbear their riotous mummerty. His visor was up, but if it had been lowered, the cognizance of the holly-branch sufficiently distinguished Sir Halbert Glen- dinning, who, on his homeward road, was passing through the village of Kennaquhair ; and moved, perhaps, by anxiety for his brother’s safety, had come directly to the church on hear- ing of the uproar. “What is the meaning of this,” he said, “ my masters? are ye Christian men, and the King’s subjects, and yet waste and destroy church and chancel like so many heathens ?” All stood silent, though doubtless there were several disap- pointed and surprised at receiving chiding instead of thanks from so zealous a Protestant. The dragon, indeed, did at length take upon him to be spokesman, and growled from the depth of his painted maw, that they did but sweep Popery out of the church with the besom of destruction. “What! my friends,” replied Sir Halbert Glendinning, “think you this mumming and masking has not more of Popery in it than have these stone walls? Take the leprosy out of your flesh, before you speak of purifying stone walls—abate your insolent license, which leads but to idle vanity and sinful excess ; and know, that what you now practise is one of the profane and unseemly sports introduced by the priests of Rome themselves, to mislead and to brutify the souls which fell into their met.” “Marry come up—are you there with your bears?” mut- tered the dragon, witha draconic sullenness, which was in good keeping with his character ; “‘we had as good have been Romans still, if we are to have no freedom in our pastimes!” “Dost thou reply to me so?” said Halbert Glendinning ? “or is there any pastime in grovelling on the ground there like a gigantic kail-worm ?—Get out of thy painted case, or, by my knighthood, I will treat you like the beast and reptile you have made yourself.” ‘“‘ Beast and reptile?’ retorted the offended dragon, ‘ set- ting aside your knighthood, I hold myself as well a born man as thyself.” The Knight made no answer in words, but bestowed twoTHE # ABBOT. 13° such blows with the butt of his lance on the petulant dragon, oe = not the hoops which constituted the ribs of the ma- chine been pretty stron of the Boul Frode Hele Rhea eeu ee c é 1e@ masker crept out of his disguise, unwilling to abide a third buffet from the lance of the e enraged Ki cht. And when the ex-dr ragon stood on the floor of the church. he presented to Halbert Glendinning the well-known countenance of Dan of the Howlethirst, an an- cient comrade of his own, ere fate had eee him so high above the rank to which he was born. The clown looked su Ikily upon the Knight, as if to upbraid him for his violence towards an old acquaintance, and Glendinning’s own good-nature reproached him for the violence he had acted upen him. “I did wrong to strike thee,” he said. ‘Dan ; but in truth I knew thee not—thou wert ever a mad fellow—come to Avene] Castle, and we shall see how my hawks fly.” “And if we show him not falcons th at will mount as merrily as rockets,’”’ said the Abbot of Unreason, “I would your honor laid as hard on my bones as you did on his even now.” “ How now, Sir Knave,” said the Knight, “and what has brought you hither ?” The Abbat, hastily ridding himself of the false nose which mystified his phy slognomy, a1 nd the supplementary belly which made up his disguise, stood before his master in his real char- acter, of Adam W oodcock, the falconer of Avenel. “How, varlet !” said the Knight ; “ hast thou dared to come here and disturb the very house my brother was dwelling in?” ‘And it was even for that reason, craving your honor’s pardon, that I came hither—for I heard the country was to be up to choose an Abbot of Unreason, and sure, thought [, J that can sing, dance, leap backwards over a broadsword, and am as good a ‘fool as ever sought promotion, have all chance of carry- ing the office ; and if I gain my election, I may stand his hon- or’s brother in some stead, supposing things fall roughly out at the Kirk of Saint Mary’s.” “Thou art but a cogging knave,” said Sir Halbert, “and well I wot, that love of ale and brandy, besides the humor of riot and frolic, would draw thee a mile, when love of my house would not bring thee a yard. But, go to—carry thy roisterers elsewhere—to the alehouse if they list, and there are crowns to pay your charges—make out the day’s madness without doing more mischief, and be wise men to-morrow—and hereafter learn to serve a good cause better than by acting like buffoons or ruffians.”’136 THE ABBOT. Obedient to his master’s mandate, the falconer was collect- ing his discouraged followers, and whispering into their ears— “ Away, away—/ace is Latin for a candle—never mind the good Knight’s puritanism—we will play the frolic out overa stand of double ale in Dame Martin the Brewster’s barn-yard—draw off, harp and tabor—bagpipe and drum—mum till you are out of the churchyard, then let the welkin ring again—move on, wolf and bear—keep the ‘hind legs till you cross the kirk-stile, and then show yourselves beasts of mettle—what devil sent him here to spoil our holiday |—but anger him not, my hearts ; his lance is no goose-feather, as Dan’s ribs can tell.” “By my soul,” said Dan, “had it been another than my ancient comrade, I would have made my father’s old fox™ fly about his ears!” “Hush! hush ! man,” replied Adam Woodcock, “not a word that way, as you value the safety of your bones—what, man? we must take a clink as it passes, so it is not bestowed in down- right ill-will.” “ But I will take no such thing,” said Dan of the Howlet- hirst, suddenly resisting the efforts of Woodcock, who was drag- ging him out of the church ; when the quick millitary eye of Sir Halbert Glendinning detecting Roland Graeme betwixt his two guards, the Knight exclaimed ‘“‘So ho! falconer—Woodcock —knave, hast thou brought my Lady’s page in mine own livery, to assist at this hopeful revel of thine, with your wolves and bears? Since you were at such mummings, you might, if you would, have at least saved the credit of my household, by dress- ing him up as a jackanapes—bring him hither, fellows?” Adam Woodcock was too honest and downright to permit blame to light upon the youth, when it was undeserved. “I swear,” he said, ‘ by Saint Martin of Bullions——” T ‘And what hast thou to do with Saint Martin?” “Nay, little enough, sir, unless when he sends such rainy days that we cannot fly a hawk—but I say to your worshipful knighthood, that as I am a true man——” ‘‘ As you are a false varlet, had been the better obtestation.” “Nay, if your knighthood allows me not to speak,” said Adam, “I can hold my tongue—but the boy came not hither by my bidding, for all that.” ‘But to gratify his own malapert pleasure, I warrant me,” said Sir Halbert Glendinning—“‘ Come hither, young springald, * An old-fashioned broadsword was often so called. + The Saint Swithin, or weeping Saint of Scotland. if St. Martin’s festival (4thJuly) prove wet, forty days of rain are expected.THE ABBOT. 137 and tell me whether you have your mistress’s license to be so far absent from the castle, or to dishonor my livery by minglin,’ in such a May-game ? ” “Sir Halbert Glendinning,” answered Roland Greme witly steadiness, ‘‘ | have obtained the permission, or rather the com mands, of your lady, to dispose of my time hereafter according to my own pleasure. Ihave been a most unwilling spectator of this May-game, since it is your pleasure soto call it; and I only wear your livery until I can obtain clothes which bear no such badge of servitude.” “How am I to understand this, young man?” said Sir Halbert Glendinning ; speak plainly, for I am no reader of riddles.—That my lady favored thee, I know. What hast thou done to disoblige her, and occasion thy dismissal ?”’ ‘Nothing to speak of,” said Adam Woodcock, answering for the boy—“ a foolish quarrel with me, which was more fool- ishly told over again to my honored lady, cost the poor boy his place. For my part, I will.say freely, that I was wrong from beginning to end, except about the washing of the eyas’s meat. There I stand to it that I was right.” With that, the good-natured falconer repeated to his master the whole history of the squabble which had brought Roland Greme into disgrace with his mistress, but in a manner so favorable for the page, that Sir Halbert could not but suspect his generous motive. “Thou art a good-natured fellow,” he said, “ Adam Wood- cock.” “As ever had falcon upon fist,” said Adam ; “ and, for that matter so is Master Roland ; but being half a gentleman by his office, his blood is soon up, and so is mine.” “ Well,” said Sir Halbert, “ be it as it will, my lady has acted hastily, for this was no great matter of offence to discard the lad whom she had trained up for years ; but he, I doubt not, inade it worse by his prating—it jumps well with a purpose, however, which I had in my mind. Draw off these people, Woodcock, —and you, Roland Graeme, attend me.” The page followed him in silence into the Abbot’s house, where, stepping into the first apartment which he found open, he commanded one of his attendants to let his brother, Master Edward Glendinning, know that he desired to speak with him. The men-at-arms went gladly off to join their comrade, Adam Woodcock, and the jolly crew whom he had assembled at Dame Martin’s, the hostler’s wife, and the Page and Knight were left alone in the apartment. Sir Halbert Glendinning paced138 THE ABBOT. the floor for a moment in silence, and then thus addressed his attendant— “Thou mayst have remarked, stripling, that I have but seldom distinguished thee by much notice ;—I see thy color rises, but do not speak till thou hearest me out. I say I have never much distinguished thee, not because I did not see that in thee which I might well have praised, but because I saw something blameable, which such praises might have made worse. hy mistress, dealing according to her pleasure in her own household, as no one had better reason or title, had picked thee from the rest, and treated thee more like a relation than a domestic ; andif thou didst show some vanity and petulance under such distinction, it were injustice not to say that thou hast profited both in thy exercises, and in thy breeding, and hast shown many sparkles of a gentle and manly spirit. More- over, it were ungencrous, having bred thee up freakish and fiery, to dismiss thee to want or wandering, for showing that very peevishness and impatience of discipline which arose from thy too delicate nurture. Therefore, and for the credit of my own household, I am determined to retain thee in my train, until I can honorably dispose of thee elsewhere, with a fair prospect of thy going through the world with credit to the house that brought thee up.” If there was something in Sir Halbert Glendinning’s speech which flattered Roland’s pride, there was also much that, accord- ing to his mode of thinking, was an alloy to the compliment. And yet his conscience instantly told him that he ought to accept, with grateful deference, the offer which was made him by the husband of his kind protectress ; and his prudence, how- ever slender, could not but admit he should enter the world under very different auspices as a retainer of Sir Halbert Glen- dinning, so famed for wisdom, courage, and influence, from those under which he might partake the wanderings, and be- come an agent in the visionary schemes, for such they appeared to him, of Magdalen his relative. Still, a strong reluctance to re-enter a service from which he had been dismissed with con- tempt, almost counterbalanced these considerations. Sir Halbert looked on the youth with surprise, and resumed —* You seem to hesitate, young man. Are your own prospects So inviting, that you should pause ere you accept those which I should offer to you? or, must I remind you, that although you have offended your benefactress, even to the point of her dis- missing you, yet I am convinced, the ki ow edge that you have gone unguided on your own wild way, into a world so disturbedTHE ABBOT. 139 as ours of Scotland, cannot, in the upshot, but give her sorrow and pain ; from which it is, in gratitude, your duty to preserve her, no less than it is in common wisdom your duty to accept my offered protection, for your own sake, where body and soul are alike endangered, should you refuse it.” Roland Greeme replied in a respectful tone, but at the same time with some spirit, ‘I am not ungrateful for such counte- nance as has been afforded me by the Lord of Avenel, and I am glad to learn, for the first time that I have not had the misfor- tune to be utterly beneath his observation, as I had thought— And it is only needful to show me how I can testify my duty and my gratitude towards my early and constant benefactress with my life’s hazard, and I will gladly peril it.” He stopped. “ These are but words, young man,” answered Glendinning ; “large protestations are often used to supply the place of effectual service. I know nothing in which the peril of your life can serve the Lady of Avenel; I can only say, she will be pleased to learn you have adopted some course which may ensure the safety of your person, and the weal of your soul— What ails you, that you accept not that safety when it is offered you?’ ‘My only relative who is alive,’ answered Roland, “ at least the only relative whom I have ever seen, has rejoined me since I was dismissed from the castle of Avenel, and I must consult with her whether I can adopt the line to which you now call me, or whether her increasing infirmities, or the authority which she is entitled to exercise over me, may not require me to abide with her.” “ Where is this relation?” said Sir Halbert Glendinning. ‘Tn this house,’ answered the page. “Go then and seek her out,” said the Knight of Avenel ; “ more than meet it is that thou shouldst have her approbation, yet worst than foolish would she show herself in denying it.” Roland left the apartment to seek for his erandmother ; and as he retreated, the Abbot entered. The two brothers met as brothers who loved each other fondly, yet meet rarely together. Such indeed was the case. Their mutual affection attached them to each other ; but in every pursuit, habit, or sentiment, connected with the discords of the times, the friend and counsellor of Murray stood opposed to the Roman Catholic priest ; nor, indeed, could they have held very much society together, without giving cause of offence and suspicion to their confederates on each side. Aftera close come on that of the embrace on the part of both, and a wel140 THE ABBOT. Abbot, Sir Halbert Glendinning expressed his satisfaction that he had come in time to appease the riot raised by Howleglas and his tumultuous followers. . ‘And yet,” he said, ‘‘ whenI look on your garments, brother Edward, I cannot help thinking there still remains an Abbot of Unreason within the bounds of the Monastery.”’ “ And wherefore carp at my garments, brother Halbert?” said the Abbot; “it is the spiritual armor of my calling, and, as such, beseems me as well as breastplate and baldric become your own bosom,” ‘Ay, but there were small wisdom, methinks, in putting on armor where we have no power to fight; it is but a dangerous temerity to defy the foe whom we cannot resist.” “ For that, my brother, no one can answer,” said the Abbot, “until the battle be fought; and, were it even as you Say, methinks a brave man, though desperate of victory, would rather desire to fight and fall, than to resign sword and shield on some mean and dishonorable composition with his insulting antagonist. But, let not you and me make discord of a theme on which we cannot agree but rather, stay and partake, though a heretic, of my admission feast. You need not fear, my brother, that your zeal for restoring the primitive discipline of the church will, on this occasion, be offended with the rich pro- fusion of a conventual banquet. The days of our old friend Abbot Boniface are over; and the Superior of Saint Mary’s has neither forests nor fishings, woods nor pastures, nor corn- fields ;—neither flocks nor herds, bucks nor wild-fowl—gran- aries of wheat, nor storehouses of oil and wine, of ale and of mead. The refectioner’s office is ended ; and such a. meal as a hermit in romance can offer to a wandering knight, is all we have to set before you. But,if you will share it with us, we shall eat it with a cheerful heart, and thank you, my brother, for your timely protection against these rude scoffers.” ‘My dearest brother,” said the Knight, “it grieves me deeply I cannot abide with you ; but it would sound ill for us both were one of the reformed congregation to sit down at your admission feast ; and, if I can ever have the satisfaction of affording you effectual protection, it will be much owing to my remaining unsuspected of countenancing or approving your religious rites and ceremonies. It will demand whatever con- sideration I can acquire among my own friends, to shelter the bold man, who, contrary to law and the edicts of parliament, has dared to take up the office of Abbot of Saint Mary’s.” “Trouble not yourself with the task, my brother,” repliedLE ABEOT. 141 Father Ambrosius. ‘I would lay down my dearest blood ta know that you defended the church for the church sake ; but while you remain unhappily her enemy, I would not th at you endangered your own safety, or diminished your own con nforts, for the sake of my individual prote ction—But who comes hither to disturb the few pa bates of fraternal communication which our evil fate allows us? The door of the apartment opened as the Abbot s poke, and Dame Magdalen entered. “Who is this woman?” said Sir Halbert Glendinning, somewhat sternly, “‘and what does she want?” ‘That you know me not,” said the matron, “ signifies little ; I come by your own order, to give my free consent that the stripling, Roland Graeme, return to your service ; and, having said so, I cumber you no longer with my presence. Peace be with you!”’’ She turned to go away, but was stopped by the inquiries of Sir Halbert Glendinning. “Who are you ?—what are you?—and why do you not await to make me answer?” ‘I was,” she replied, ‘while yet I belonged to the world a matron of no vulgar name; now I am Magdalen, a poor pil- grimer, for the sake of Holy Kirk.” “‘ Yea,’ said Sir Halbert, “‘ art thou a Catholic? I thought my dame said that Roland Graeme came of reformed kin.” “His father,” said the matron, ‘“‘was a heretic, or rather one who regarded neither orthodoxy nor heresy—neither the temple of the church or of antichrist. I, too, for the sins of the times make sinners, have seemed to conform to your unhal- lowed rites—but I had my dispensation and my absolution.” “Vou see, brother,” said Sir Halbert, with a smile of mean- ing towards his brother, “that we accuse you not altogether without grounds of méntal equivocation.’ 2 My. brother, you do us injustice, replied the Abbot; “this woman, as her bearing may of itself warrant you, Is not in her perfect mind, ‘Thanks, I must needs say, to the persecuti on of your marauding barons, and of your latitudinarian os “T will not dispute the point,” said Sir Halbert ; “the evi ils of the time are unhappily so numerous, that both churches may divide them, and have enow to spare.” 5o aoe he leaned from the window of the apartment, and winded his bugle a Why do you sound your horn, my brother ? said the Abbot ; ‘‘ we have spent but few minutes together. 7 “ Alas!” said the elder brother, “and even these few have been sullied by disagreement. I sound to horse, my brother—142 THE ABBOT: the rather that, to avert the consequences of this day’s rashness on your part, requires hasty efforts on mine—Dame, you will oblige me by letting your young relative know that we mount instantly. I intend not that he shall return to Avenel with me—it would lead to new quarrels betwixt him and my house- hold; at least to taunts which his proud heart could ill brook, and my wish is todo him kindness. He shall, therefore, go forward to Edinburgh with one of my retinue, whom I shall send back to say what has chanced here.—You seem rejoiced at this?’ he added, fixing his eyes keenly on Magdalen Graeme, who returned his gaze with calm indifference. = would rather,’ she said,’ ‘that Roland, a ‘poor and ‘friendless orphan, were the jest of the world at large, than of the menials at Avenel.” ‘Fear not, dame—he shall be scorned by neither,” an- swered the Knight. “It may be,” she replied—‘“ It may well be—but I will trust more to his own bearing than to yaur countenance.” She left the room as she spoke. The Knight looked after her as she departed, but turned instantly to his brother, and expressing, in the most affectionate terms, his wishes for his welfare and happiness, craved his leave to depart. ‘“ My knaves,” he said, “are too busy at the ale-stand, to leave their revelry for the empty breath of a bugle horn.” “ You have freed them from higher restraint, Halbert,’’ an- swered the Abbot, “and therein taught them to rebel against your own.” “Fear not that, Edward,” exclaimed Halbert, who never gave his brother his monastic name of Ambrosius ; “ none obey the command of real duty so well as those who are free from observance of slavish bondage.” . He was turning to depart, when the Abbot said,—“ Let us not yet part, my brother—here comes some light refreshment. Leave not the house which I must now call mine, till force expel me from it, until you have at least broken bread with me. The poor lay brother, the same who acted as porter, now entered the apartment, bearing some simple refreshment, and a flask of wine. “He had found it,” he said, with officious humility, “by rummaging through every nook of the cellar.” The Knight filled a small silver cup, and, quaffing it off, asked his brother to pledge him, observing, the wine was Bacharac, of the first vintage, and great age,THE ABBOT. 143 a Ay,” said the poor lay brother, “it came out of the nook which old brother Nicholas (may his soul be happy !) was wont to call Abbot Ingelram’s corner; and Abbot Ingelram was bred at the Convent of Wurtzburg, which I understand to be near where that choice wine grows.” "True, my. reverend sir,” said Sir Halbert; ‘and there- fore I entreat my brother and you to pledge mein a cup of this orthodox vintage.” The thin old porter looked with a wishful glance towards the Abbot. ‘‘ Do veniam,” said his Superior ; and the old man seized, with a trembling hand, a beverage to which he had been long unaccustomed ; drained the cup with protracted delight, as if dwelling on the flavor and perfume, and set it down with a melancholy smile and shake of the head, as if bidding adieu in future to such delicious potations. The brothers smiled, But when Sir Halbert motioned to the Abbot to take up his cup and do him reason, the Abbot, in turn, shook his head, and replied—‘ This is no day for the Abbot of Saint Mary’s to eat the fat and drink the sweet. In water from our Lady’s well,” he added, filling a cup with the limpid element, “I wish you, my brother, all happiness, and above all, a true sight of your spiritual errors.” “And to you, my beloved Edward,” replied Glendinning, “ J wish the free exercise of your own free reason, and the dis- charge of more important duties than are connected with the idle name which you have so rashly assumed.” The brothers parted with deep regret ; and yet, each con- fident in his opinion, felt somewhat relieved by the absence of one whom he respected so much, and with whom he could agree so little. Soon afterwards the sound of the Knight of Avenel’s trum- pets was heard, and the Abbot went to the top of the tower, from whose dismantled battlements he could soon see the horsemen ascending the rising ground in the direction of the drawbridge. As he gazed, Magdalen Graeme came to his side. “Thou art come,” he said, “to catch the last glimpse of thy grandson, my sister. Yonder he wends, under the charge of the best knight in Scotland, his faith ever excepted.” “Thou canst bear witness, my father, that it was no wish either of mine or of Roland’s,” replied the matron, “ which in- duced the Knight of Avenel, as he is called, again to entertain my grandson in his household—Heaven, which confounds the wise with their own wisdom, and the wicked with their own policy, hath placed him where, for the services of the Church, I would most wish him to be.”nh THE ABBOT. “I know not what you mean, my sister,” said the Abbot. ‘Reverend father,” replied Magdalen, “hast thou never heard that there are spirits powerful to rend the walls of a castle asunder when once admitted, which yet cannot enter the house unless they are invited, nay, dragged over the thresh- old? * Twice hath Roland Graeme been thus drawn into the household of Avenel by those who now hold the title. Let them look to the issue.” So saying she left the turret ; and the Abbot, after pausing amoment on her words, which he imputed to the unsettled state of her mind, followed down the winding stair to celebrate his admission to his high office by fast and prayer, instead of revelling and thanksgiving. CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. Youth! thou wear’st to manhood now, Darker lip and darker brow, Statelier step, more pensive mien, In thy face and gait are seen ; Thou must now brook midnight watches, Take thy food and sport by snatches : For the gambol and the jest, Thou wert wont to love the best, Graver follies must thou follow, But as senseless, false, and hollow. Lir—E—A Porm. Younc Roland Greme now trotted gayly forward in the train of Sir Halbert Glendinning. He was relieved from his most galling apprehension,—the encounter of the scorn and taunt which might possibly hail his immediate return to the Castle of Avenel. ‘There will be a change ere they see me again,” he thought to himself ; “I shall wear the coat of plate, instead of the green jerkin, and the steel morion for the bonnet and feather. They will be bold that may venture to break a gibe on the man-at-arms for the follies of the page; and I trust that ere we return I shall have done something more worthy of note than hallooing a hound after a deer, or scram- bling a crag for a kite’s nest.” He could not, indeed, help marvelling that his grandmother, with all her religious prej- udices, leaning, it would seem, to the other side, had consented so readily to his re-entering the service of the House of Avenel; * Note I. Inability of evil spirits to enter a house uninvited.F oy > IHE ABBOT. 148 and yet more, at the mysterious joy with which she took leave of him at the Abbey. ‘“ Heaven,” said the dame, as she kissed her young rela- tion, and bade him farewell, “works its own work, even by the hands of those of our enemies who think themselves the strong- est and the wisest. Thou, my child, be ready to act upon the call of thy religion and country ; and remember, each earthly bond which thou canst form, is, compared to the ties which bind thee to them, like the loose flax to the twisted cable. Thou hast not forgot the face or form of the damsel Catherine Seyton?” Roland would have replied in the negative, but the word seemed to stick in his throat, and Magdalen continued her exhortations. “Thou must not forget her, my son; and here I intrust thee with a token, which I trust thou wilt speedily find an op- portunity of delivering with care and secrecy into her own hand.” She put here into Roland’s hand a very small packet, of which she again enjoined him to take the strictest care, and to suffer it to be seen by no one save Catherine Seyton, who, she again (very unnecessarily) reminded him, was the young maiden he had met on the preceding day. She then bestowed on him her solemn benediction, and bade God speed him. There was something in her manner and her conduct which implied mystery ; but Roland Graeme was not of an age or temper to waste much time in endeavoring to decipher her meaning. All that was obvious to his perception in the pres- ent journey, promised pleasure and novelty. He rejoiced that he was travelling towards Edinburgh, in order to assume the character of a man, and lay aside that of a boy. He was de- lighted to think that he would have an opportunity of rejoining Catherine Seyton, whose bright eyes and lively manners had made so favorable an impression on his imagination ; and, as an inexperienced, yet high-spirited youth, entering for the first time upon active life, his heart bounded at the thought that he was about to see all those scenes of courtly splendor and war- like adventures, of which the followers of Sir Halbert used to boast on their occasional visits to Avenel, to the wonderment and envy of those who, like Roland, knew courts and camps only by hearsay, and were condemned to the solitary sports and almost monastic seclusion of Avenel, surrounded by its lonely lake, and embosomed among its pathless mountains146 THE ABBOT. “They shall mention my name,” he said to himself, “ if the risk of my life can purchase me opportunities of distinction, and Catherine Seyton’s saucy eye shall rest with more respect on the distinguished soldier, than that with which she laughed to scorn the raw and inexperienced page.”—There was wanting but one accessory to complete the sense of rapturous excitation, and he possessed it by being once more mounted on the back of a fiery and active horse, instead of plodding along on foot, as had been the case during the preceding days. Impelled by the liveliness of his own spirits, which so many circumstances tended naturally to exait, Roland Grame’s voice and his laughter were soon distinguished amid the trampling of the horses of the retinue, and more than once attracted the attention of their leader, who remarked with satisfaction, that the youth replied with good-humored raillery to such of the train as jested with him on his dismissal and return to the ser- vice of the House of Avenel. “T thought the holly-branch in your bonnet had been blighted, Master Roland?” said one of the men-at-arms. “ Only pinched with half-an-hour’s frost ; you see it flourishes as green as ever.” “It is too grave a plant to flourish on so hot a soil as that headpiece of thine, Master Roland Graeme,” retorted the other, who was an old equerry of Sir Halbert Glendinning. “Tf it will not flourish alone,” said Roland, “I will mix it with the laurel and the myrtle—and I will carry them so near the sky, that it shall make amends for their stinted growth.” Thus speaking, he dashed his spurs into his horse’s sides, and, checking him at the same time, compelled him to execute a lofty caracole. Sir Halbert Glendinning looked at the demeanor of his new attendant with that sort of melancholy pleasure with which those who have long followed the pursuits of life, and are sensible of their vanity, regard the gay, young, and buoyant spirits to whom existence, as yet, is only hope and promise. In the meanwhile, Adam Woodcock, the falconer, stripped of his masking habit, and attired, according to his rank and calling, in a green jerkin with a hawking-bag on the one side, and a short hanger on the other, a glove on his left hand which reached half-way up his arm, and a bonnet and feather upon his head, came after the party as fast as his active little galloway-nag could trot, and immediately entered into parley with Roland Greeme. “So, my youngster, you are once more under shadow of the holly-branch ? ” :THE ABBOT. 147 “And in case to repay you, my good friend,” Roland, “your ten groats of silver.” “Which, but an hour since,” said the falconer, “you had nearly paid me with ten inches of steel. On my faith, it is ease Mego sige of our destiny, that I must’ brook your ¢ veNay, speak not of that, my good friend,” said the youth, I would rather have broached my own bosom than yours ; but who could have known you in the mumming dress you wore nee “Yes,” the falconer resumed——for both as a poet and actor he had his own professional share of self-conceit—“I think I was as good a Howleglas as ever played part at a Shrovetide revelry, and not a much worse Abbot of Unreason. I defy the Old Enemy to unmask me when I choose to keep my vizard on. What the devil brought the Knight on us before we had the game out? You would have heard me hollo my own new ballad with a voice should have reached to Berwick. But I pray you, Master Roland, be less free of cold steel on slight occasions ; since, but for the stuffing of my reverend doublet, I had only left the kirk to take my place in the kirkyard.”’ ‘““Nay, spare me that feud,” said Roland Graeme, “ we shall have no time to fight it out ; for, by our lord’s command, I am bound for Edinburgh.” “IT know it,” said Adam Woodcock, “and even therefore we shall have time to solder up this rent by the way, for Sir Halbert has appointed me your companion and guide.” “Ay? and with what purpose?” said the page. “That,” said the falconer, ‘“‘is a question J cannot answer, but I know, that be the food of the eyases washed or unwashed, and, indeed, whatever becomes of perch and mew, I am to go with you to Edinburgh, and see you safely delivered to the Regent at Holyrood.” “ How, to the Regent ?” said Roland, in surprise. “ Ay, by my faith, to the Regent,” replied Woodcock, “I promise you, that if you are not to enter his service, at least you are to wait upon him in the character of a retainer of our Knight of Avenel.” “T know no right,” said the youth, “ which the Knight of Avenel hath to transfer my service, supposing that I owe it to himself.” “Hush, hush!” said the falconer; “that is a question I advise no one to stir in until he has the mountain or the lake, or the march of another kingdom, which is better than either, betwixt him and his feudal superior.” answered >148 THE ABBOT. “ But Sir Halbert Glendinning,” said the youth, “is not my feudal superior , nor has he aught of authority e ““T pray you, my son, to rein your tongue,” answered Adam Woodcock ; “my lord’s displeasure, if you provoke it, will be worse to appease than my lady’s. ‘The touch of his least finger were heavier than her hardest blow. And, by my faith, he is a man of steel, as true and as pure, but as hard and as pitiless. You remember the Cock of Capperlaw, whom he hanged over his gate for a mere mistake—a poor yoke of oxen taken in Scotland, when he thought he was taking them in English land? I loved the Cock of Capperlaw ; the Kerrs had not an honester man in their clan, and they have had men that might have been a pattern to the Border—men that would not have lifted under twenty cows at once, and would have held themselves dishonored if they had taken a drift of sheep, or the like, but always managed their raids in full credit and honor.—But see, his worship halts, and we are close by the bridge. Ride up—ride up—we must have his last instruc- tions.” It was as Adam Woodcock said. In the hollow way de- scending towards the bridge, which was still in the guardianship of Peter Bridgeward, as he was called, though he was now very old, Sir Halbert Glendinning halted his retinue, and beckoned to Woodcock and Greme to advance to the head of the train. ‘‘ Woodcock,” said he, ‘‘ thou knowest to whom thou art to conduct this youth. And thou, young man, obey discreetly and with diligence the orders that shall be given thee. Curb thy vain and peevish temper. Be just, true, and faithful ; and there is in thee that which may raise thee many a degree above thy present station. Neither shalt thou— always supposing thine efforts to be fair and honest—want the protection and countenance of Avenel.”’ Leaving them in front of the bridge, the centre tower of which now began to cast a prolonged shade upon the river, the Knight of Avenel turned to the left, without crossing the river and pursued his way towards the chain of hills within whose recesses are situated the Lake and Castle of Avenel. There remained behind, the falconer, Roland Graeme, and a domestic of the Knight, of inferior rank, who was left with them to look after their horses while on the road, to carry their baggage, and to attend to their convenience. So soon as the more numerous body of riders had turned off to pursue their journey westward, those whose route lay across= aoe THE ABBOT. 149 the river, and was directed towards the nortl Bridgew vard, and demanded a free p assage, “I will not lower the bridge,” answered Peter, in a voice querulous with age and _ill-humor.—* Come Papist, come Protestant, ye are all the same. The Papist threatened us with Purgatory, and fleeched us with pard¢ the Protestant mints at us with his sword, and cuittles us with the liberty of conscience ; but never a one of either says, ‘ Peter, there is your penny.’ Iam well tired of all this, and for no man shall the bridge fall that pays me not ready money ; and I would have you know I care as little for Geneva as for Rome—as little for homilies as for pardons ; and the silver pennies are the only passports I will hear of.” ‘* Here is a proper old chuff!” said Woodcock to his com- panion , then raising his voice, he exclaimed, “ Hark thee, dog — bridgeward, villain, dost thou think we have refused thy name- sake Peter’s pence to Rome, to pay thine at the Bridge of Kennaquhair? Let thy bridge down instantly to the followers of the house of Avenel. or by the hand of my father, and that 1, summoned the DI handled many a bridle rein, for he was a bluff Yorkshireman— I say, by my f ather’s hand, our Knight will blow thee out of thy solan- goose's nest there in the middle of the water, with the light falconet which we are bringing southward from Edinburgh to-morrow.” The Bridgeward heard, and muttered, “ A plague on falcon and Scapa en cannon and demicannon, and all the barking bull-dogs wl: ..1 they halloo against stone and lime in these our days! It was a merry time when there was little besides handy blows, and it may be a flizht of arrows that harmed an ashlar wall as little as so many hailstones. But we must jouk and let the jaw gang by.” Comforting himself in his state of diminished consequence with this pithy old proverb, Peter Bridgeward lowered the drawbridge, and permitted them to pass over. At the sight of his white hair, albeit it discovered a visage equally peevish through. age and misfortune, Roland was inclined to give him an alms, but Adam Woodcock prevented-him. “Ten let him pay the penalty of his former churlishness and greed.” he said; “the wolf, when he has lost his teeth, should treated no better than a cur.” Leaving the Bridgeward to lament the 2 alteration of ° which sent domineering soldiers and feudal retainers place of passage, inste ad of peaceful pilgrims, and reduce to become the oppressed, instead of playing the extortio: travellers turned them northward ; and Adam Woodcock fellow: which160 THE ABBOT. acquainted with that part of the country, proposed to cut short a considerable portion of the road, by traversing the little vale of Glendearg, so famous for the adventures which befell therein during the earlier part of the Benedictine’s manuscript. With these, and with the thousand commentaries, representations, and misrepresentations, to which they had given rise, Roland Graeme was, of course, well acquainted ; for, in the Castle of Avenel, as well as in other great establishments, the inmates talked of nothing so often, or with such pleasure, as of the private affairs of their lord and lady. But while Roland was viewing with interest these haunted scenes, in which things were said to have passed beyond the ordinary laws of nature, Adam Woodcock was still regretting in his secret soul the unfinished revel and the unsung ballad, and kept every now and then breaking out with some such verses as these :— “The Friars of Fail drank berry-brown ale, The best that e’er was tasted ; The Monks of Melrose make gude kale On Fridays, when they fasted. Saint Monance’ sister, The gray priest kist her— Fiend save the company ! Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix, Under the greenwood tree.” “By my hand, friend Woodcock,” said the page, “ though I know you for a hardy gospeler, that fear neither saint nor devil, yet, if I were you, I would not sing your profane songs in this valley of Glendearg, considering what has happened here before our time.” “A straw for your wandering spirits!” said Adam Wood- cock ; ‘‘ I] mind them no more than an erne cares for a string of wild-geese—they have all fled since the pulpits were filled with honest men, and the people’s ears with sound doctrine. Nay, I have a touch at them in my ballad,and I had but had the good luck to have it sung to end ;” and again he set off in the same key :— “From haunted spring and grassy ring, a Troop goblin, elf, and fairy ; rece And the kelpie must flit from the black bog-pit, rema And the brownie must not tarry ; To Limbo-lake, of the Their way they take, altertt With scarce the path to flee, to atte Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix, Coy Under the greenwood tree. to puik,” he added, “that could Sir Halbert’s patience haveTHE ABBOT. ret stretched till we came that length, he would have had a hearty laugh, and that is what he seldom enjoys.” “Tf it be all true that men tell of his early life,” said Roland, “he has less right to laugh at goblins than most men.” “ Ay, it be all true,” answered Adam Woodcock ; ‘ but who can ensure us of that? Moreover, these were but tales the monks used to gull us simple laymen withal ; they knew that fairies and hobgoblins brought aves and paternosters into re- pute ; but, now we have given up worship of images in wood and stone, methinks it were no time to be afraid of bubbles in the water, or shadows in the air.” “ However,” said Roland Graeme, “as the Catholics say they do not worship wood or stone, but only as emblems of the holy saints, and not as things holy in themselves——” “Pshaw! pshaw!” answered the falconer; “a rush for their prating. They told us another story when these baptized idols of theirs brought pike staves and sandalled shoon from all the four winds, and whillied the old women out of their corn and their candle-ends, and their butter, bacon, wool, and cheese, and when not so much as a gray groat escaped tithing.” Roland Graeme had been long taught, by necessity, to con- sider his form of religion as a profound secret, and to say noth- ing whatever in its defence when assailed, lest he should draw on himself the suspicion of belonging. to the unpopular and ex- ploded church. He therefore suffered Adam Woodcock to triumph without farther opposition, marvelling in his own mind whether any of the goblins, formerly such active agents, would avenge his rude raillery before they left the valley of Glendearg. But no such consequences followed. They passed the night quietly in a cottage in the glen, and the next day resumed their route to Edinburgh. CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. Edina! Scotia’s darling seat, All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch’s feet, Sate legislations sovereign powers. BuRNS. “Tuis, then, is Edinburgh ?” said the youth, as the fellow: yavellers arrived at one of the heights to the southwark, which252 THE ABBOT. commanded a view of the great northern capital—“ This is that Edinburgh of which we have heard so much?” 3 “Even so,” said the falconer ; “ yonder stands Auld Reekie —you may see the smoke hover over her at twenty miles’ dis- tance, as the goss-hawk hangs over a plump of young wild-ducks —ay, yonder is the heart of Scotland, and each throb that she gives is felt from the edge of Solway to Duncan’s-bay-head. See, yonder is the old Castle ; and see to the right, on yon rising ground, that is the Castle of Craigmillar, which I have known a merry place in my time.” “ Was it not there,” said the page in a lowvoice, “that the Queen held her court ?”’ ‘oAy, ay; xeplied the falconer, “Queen she was then} though you must not call hersonow. Well, they may say what they will—many a true heart will be sad for Mary Stuart, e’en if all be true men say of her ; for, look you, Master Roland— she was the loveliest creature to look upon that I ever saw with eye, and no lady in the land liked better the fair flight of a fal- con. Iwas at the great match on Roslin Moor betwixt Both- well—he was a black sight to her that Bothwell—and the Baron of Roslin, who could judge a hawk’s flight as well as any man in Scotland—a butt of Rhenish and a ring of gold was the wager, and it was flown as fairly for as ever was red gold and bright wine. And to see-her there on her white palfrey, that flew as if it scorned to touch more than the heather blossom ; and to hear her voice, as clear and sweet as the mavis’s whistle, mix among our jolly whooping and whistling ; and to mark all the nobles dashing around her ; happiest he who got a word or a look—tearing through moss and hagg, and venturing neck and limb to gain the praise of a bold rider, and the blink of a bonny Queen’s bright eye ;—she will see little hawking where she lies now—ay, ay, pomp and pleasure pass away as speedily as the wap of a falcon’s wing.” ‘And where is this poor Queen now confined? ” said Roland Greeme, interested in the fate of a woman whose beauty and grace had made so strong an impression even on the blunt and careless character of Adam Woodcock. ‘Where is she now imprisoned?” said honest Adam : 5 ‘why, in some castle in the north, they say—I know not where, for my part, nor is it worth while to vex one’s sell anent what cannot be mended—An she had guided her power well whilst she had it, she had not come to so evil a pass. Men say she must resign her crown to this little baby of a prince, for that they will trust her with it no longer. Our master has been asTHE ABBOT. [53 busy as his neighbors in all this work. If the Queen should come to her own again, Avenel Castle is like to smoke for it unless he makes his bargain all the better,” “In a castle in the north Queen Mary is confined ?” said the page. ‘Why, ay—they say so, at least—In a castle beyond that great river which comes down yonder, and looks like a river, but it is a branch of the sea, and as bitter as brine.” ‘And amongst all her subjects,” said the page, with some emotion, “is there none that will adventure anything for her relief?” ; “ That is a kittle question,” said the falconer ; “and if you ask it often, Master Roland, I am fain to tell you that vou will be mewed up yourself in some of those castles, if they do not prefer twisting your head off, to save further trouble with you —Adventure anything? Lord, why Murray has the wind in his poop now, man, and flies so high and strong, that the devil a wing of them can match him—No, no; there she is, and there she must lie, till Heaven send her deliverance, or till her son has the management of all—But Murray will never let her loose again, he knows her too well.—And hark thee, we are now bound for Holyrood, where thou wilt find plenty of news, and of courtiers to tell it—But, take my counsel, and keep a calm sough, as the Scots say—hear every man’s counsel and keep your own. And if you hap to learn any news you like, leap not up as if you were to put on armor direct in the cause—Our old Mr. Wingate says—and he knows court-cattle well—that if you are told old King Coul is come alive again, you should turn it off with, ‘ And is he in truth ?—I heard not of it,’ and should seem no more moved, than if one told you, by way of novelty, that old King Coul was dead and buried. Wherefore, look well to your bearing, Mr. Roland, for I promise you, you come among a generation that are keen as a hungry hawk— And never be dagger out of sheath at every wry word you hear spoken ; for you will find as hot blades as yourself, and then will be letting of blood without advice either of leech or almanac.” “Vou shall see how staid I will be, and how cautious, my good friend,” said Greme; “but, blessed Lady, what goodly house is that which is lying all in ruins so close to the city? Have they been playing at the Abbot of Unreason here, and ended the gambol by burning the church ?” “ There again now,” replied his companion, “ you go down the wind like a wild haggard, that minds neither lure nor beck164 THE ABBOT. —that is a question you should have asked in as low a tone as I shall answer it.” “Tf I stay here long,” said Roland Greme, “it is like I shall lose the natural use of my voice—but what are the ruins then?” “The Kirk of Field,” said the Falconer, in a low and im- pressive whisper, laying at the same time his finger on his lip ; “ask no more about it—somebody got foul play, and somebody got the blame of it ; and the game began there which perhaps may not be played out in our time.—Poor Henry Darnley! to be an ass, he understood somewhat of a hawk ; but they sent him on the wing through the air himself one bright moonlight night.” The memory of this catastrophe was so recent, that the page averted his eyes with horror from the scathed ruins in which it had taken place ; and the accusations against the Queen, to which it had given rise, came over his mind with such strength as to balance the compassion he had begun to entertain for her present forlorn situation.” It was, indeed, with that agitating state of mind which arises partly from horror, but more from anxious interest and curiosity, that young Graeme found himself actually traversing the scene of those tremendous events, the report of which had disturbed the most distant solitudes in Scotland, like the echoes of distant thunder rolling among the mountains. “Now,” he thought, “now or never shall I become a man, and bear my part in those deeds which the simple inhabitants of our hamlets repeat to each other as if they were wrought by beings of a superior order to their own. I will know now, wherefore the Knight of Avenelcarries his crest so much above those of the neighboring baronage, and how it is that men, by valor and wisdom, work their way from the hoddin-gray coat to the cloak of scarlet and gold. Men say I have not much wis- dom to recommend me ; and if that be true, courage must do it ; for I will be a man amongst living men, or a dead corpse amongst the dead.” From these dreams of ambition he turned his thoughts to those of pleasure, and began to form many conjectures, when and where he should see Catherine Seyton, and in what man- ner their acquaintance was to be renewed. With such con- * [The Collegiate Church of St. Mary in the Fields, so called from being outside the walls of Edinburgh, was familiarly known as the Kirk of Field. After the catastrophe of Darnley’s murder, the ruined building and adjacent grounds were acquired asa site for the University, founded in 1582.]THE ABBOT. 158 jectures he was amusing himself, when he found that they had entered the city, and all other feelings were suspended in the sensation of giddy astonishment with which an inhabitant of the country is affected, when, for the first time, he finds himself in the streets of a large and populous city, a unit in the midst of thousands. The principal street of Edinburgh was then, as now, one of the most spacious in Europe. ‘The extreme height of the houses, and the variety of Gothic gables and battlements, and balconies, by which the sky-line on each side was crowned and terminated, together with the width of the street itself, might have struck with surprise a more practised eye than that of young Greme. ‘The population, close packed within the walls of the city, and at this time increased by the number of the lords of the King’s party who had thronged to Edinburgh to wait upon the Regent Murray, absolutely swarmed like bees on the wide and stately street. Instead of the shop-windows, which are now calculated for the display of goods, the traders had their open booths projecting on the street, in which, as in the fashion of the modern bazaars, all was exposed which they had upon sale. And though the commodities were not of the richest kinds, yet Graeme thought he beheld the wealth of the whole world in the various bales of Flanders cloths, and the specimens of tapestry; and at other places, the display of domestic utensils and pieces of plate struck him with wonder. The sight of cutlers’ booths furnished with swords and poniards which were manufactured in Scotland, and with pieces of de- fensive armor, imported from Flanders, added to his surprise , and, at every step, he found so much to admire and to gaze upon, that Adam Woodcock had no little difficulty in prevailing on him to advance through such a scene of enchantment. The sight of the crowds which filled the streets was equally a subject of wonder. Here a gay lady, in her muffler or silken veil, traced her way delicately, a gentleman-usher making way for her, a page bearing up her train, and a waiting-gentlewo- man carrying her Bible, thus intimating that her purpose was towards the church—There he might see a group of citizens bending the same way, with their short Flemish cloaks, wide trousers, and high-caped doublets, a fashion to which, as well as to their bonnet and feather, the Scots were long faithful. Then, again, came the clergyman himself, in his black Geneva cloak and band, lending a grave and attentive ear to the dis- course of several persons who accompanied him, and who were doubtless holding serious converse on the religious subject he156 THE ABBOT. was about to treat of. Nor did there lack passengers of a dif- ferent class and appearance. At every turn, Roland Graeme might see a gallant ruffle along in the newer or French mode, his doublet slashed, and his points of the same colors with the lining, his long sword on one side, and his poniard on the other, behind him a body of stout serving men, proportioned to his estate and quality, all of whom walked with the air of military retainers, and were armed with sword and buckler, the latter being a small round shield, not unlike the Highland target, having a steel spike in the centre. ‘Two of these parties, each headed by a person of importance, chanced to meet in the very centre of the street, or, as it was called, “the crown of the causeway,” a post of honor as tenaciously asserted in Scotland as that of giving or taking the wall used to be in the more southern part of the island. The two leaders being of equal rank, and, most probably, either animated by political dislike, or by recollection of some feudal enmity, marched close up to each other, without yielding an inch to the right or the left ; and neither showing the least pur- pose of giving way, they stopped for an instant, and then drew theirswords. ‘Their followers imitated their example ; about a score of weapons at once flashed in the sun, and there was an immediate clatter of swords and bucklers, while the followers on either side cried their master’s name ; the one shouting “Help, a Leslie! a Leslie!” while the others answered with shouts of “Seyton! Seyton!” with the additional punning slogan, “Set on, Set on—bear the knaves to the ground!” If the falconer found difficulty in getting the page to go for- ward before, it was now perfectly impossible. He reined up his horse, clep »ed his hands, and, delighted with the fray, cried and shouted as fast as any of those who were actually engaged in it. The noise and cries thus arising on the Highgate, as it was called, drew into the quarrel two or three other parties of gen- tlemen and their servants, besides some single passengers, who, hearing a fray betwixt thesc two distinguished names, took part in it neither for love or hatred. The combat became now very sharp, and although the sword- and-buckler men made more clatter and noise than they did real damage, yet several good cuts were dealt among them ; and those who wore rapiers, a more formidable weapon than the ordinary Scottish swords, gave and received dangerous wounds. Two men were already stretched on the causeway, and the party of Seyton began to give ground, being much inferior inTHE ABBOT. 57 number to the other, with which several of the citizens had united themselves, when young Roland Graeme, beholding their leader, a noble gentleman, fighting bravely, and hard pressed with numbers, could withhold no longer. “ Adam Woodcock,” he said, ‘an you be a man, draw, and let us take part with the Seyton.”” And without waiting a reply, or listening to the falconer’s earnest entreaty that he would leave alone a strife in which he had no concern, the fiery youth sprung from his horse, drew his short sword, and shouting like the rest “A Seyton! a Seyton! Set on! Set on!” thrust forward into the throng, and struck down one of those who was pressing hardest upon the gentleman whose cause he espoused. This sudden rein- forcement gave spirit to the weaker party, who began to renew the combat with much alacrity, when four of the magistrates of the city, distinguished by their velvet cloaks and gold chains, came up with a guard of halberdiers and citizens, armed with long weapons, and well accustomed to such service, thrust boldly forward, and compelled the swordsmen to separate, who imme- diately retreated in different directions, leaving such of the wounded on both sides as had been disabled in the fray lying on the street. The falconer, who had been tearing his beard for anger at his comrade’s rashness, now rode up to him with the horse which he had caught by the bridle, and accosted him with— ‘“*‘ Master Roland—master goose—master madcap—will it please you to get on horse and budge? or will you remain here to be carried to prison, and made to answer for this pretty day’s work ?” The page, who had begun his retreat along with the Sey- tons, just as if he had been one of their natural allies, was by this unceremonious application made sensible that he was act- ing a foolish part; and obeying Adam Woodcock with some sense of shame, he sprung actively on horseback, and upsetting with the shoulder of the animal a city-officer who was making towards him, he began to ride smartly down the street along with his companion, and was quickly out of the reach of the hue and cry. Infact, rencounters of the kind were so common in Edinburgh at that period, that the disturbance seldom ex- cited much attention after the affray was over, unless some per- son of consequence chanced to have fallen, an incident which imposed on his friends the duty of avenging his death on the first convenient opportunity. So feeble, indeed, was the arm of the police, that it was not unusual for such skirmishes to last for hours where the parties were numerous and well J C158 THE ABBOT. matched. But at this time the Regent, a man of great strength of character, aware of the mischief which usually arose from such acts of violence, had prevailed with the magistrates to keep a constant guard on foot for preventing or separating such affrays as had happened in the present case. The falconer and his young companion were now riding down the Canongate, and had slackened their pace to avoid attracting attention, the rather that there seemed to be no ap- pearance of pursuit. Roland hung his head as one who was conscious his conduct had been none of the wisest, whilst his companion thus addressed him: “ Will you be pleased to tell me one thing, Master Roland Greeme, and that is, whether there be a devil incarnate in you or no.” “Truly, Master Adam Woodcock,” answered the page, “I would fain hope there is not.” “Then,” said Adam, ‘I would fain know by what other in- fluence or instigation you are perpetually at one end or the other of some bloody brawl? What, I pray, had you to do with these Seytons and Leslies, that you never heard the names of in your life before ?”’ ‘You are out there, my friend,” said Roland Greme, “I have my own reasons for being a friend to the Seytons.” “They must have been very secret reasons, then,” answered Adam Woodcock, “for I think I could have wagered you had never known one of the name ; and I am apt to believe still that it was your unhallowed passion for that clashing of cold iron, which has as much charm for you as the clatter of a brass pan hath for a hive of bees, rather than any care either for Seyton or for Leslie, that persuaded you to thrust your fool’s head into a quarrel that no ways concerned you. But take this for a warning, my young master, that if you are to draw sword with every man who draws sword on the Highgate here, it will be scarce worth your while to sheathe bilbo again for the rest of your life, since, if I guess rightly, it will scarce endure on such terms for many hours—all which I leave to your serious consideration.” “ By my word, Adam, I honor your advice ; and I promise you, that I will practise by it as faithfully as if I were sworn apprentice to you, to the trade and mystery of bearing myself with all wisdom and safety through the new paths of life that Kam about to be engaged in.” heen Gl therein you will do well,” said the falconer ; “and J erot quarrel with you, Master Roland, for having a grain over { \tA THE ABBOT. 159 much spirit, because I know one may bring to the hand a wild hawk which one never can a dunghill hen—and so betwixt two faults you have the best on’t. But besides your peculiar genius for quarrelling and lugging out your side companion, my dear Master Roland, you have also the gift of peering under every woman's muffler and screen, as if you expected to find an old acquaintance. Though were you to spy one, I should be as much surprised at it, well wotting how few you have seen of these same wild-fowl, as I was at your taking so deep an interest even now in the Seyton.” “Tush, man ! nonsense and folly,” answered Roland Graeme ; “I but sought to see what cyes these gentle hawks have got under their hood.” “ Ay, but it’s a dangerous subject of inquiry,” said the fal- coner ; “ you had better hold out your bare wrist for an eagle to perch upon.—Look you, Master Roland, these pretty wild- geese cannot be hawked at without risk—they have as many divings, boltings, and volleyings, as the most gamesome quarry that falcon ever flew at—And besides, every woman of them is manned with her husband, or her kind friend, or her brother, or her cousin, or her sworn servant at the least—But you heed me not, Master Roland, though I know the game so well—your eye is all on that pretty damsel who trips down the gate before us—by my certes, I will warrant her a blithe dancer either in reel or revel—a pair of silver morisco bells would become these pretty ankles as well as the jesses would suit the fairest Norway hawk.” “Thou art a fool, Adam,” said the page, “‘ And I care not a button about the girl or her ankles—But, what the foul fiend, one must look at something!” ‘Very true, Master Roland Graeme,” said his guide, “ but let me pray you to choose your objects better. Look you, there is scarce a woman walks this Highgate with a silk screen or a pearlin muffler, but, as I said before, she has either gentleman- usher before her, or kinsman, or lover, or husband, at her elbow, or it may be a brace of stout fellows with sword and buckler, not so far behind but what they can follow close—But you heed me no more than a goss-hawk minds a yellow yoldring.” “© yes, I do—I do mind you indeed,” said Roland Graeme ; “but hold my nag a bit—I will be with you in the exchange of a whistle.” So saying, and ere Adam Woodcock could finish the sermon which was dying on his tongue, Roland Greeme, to the falconer’s utter astonishment, threw him the bridle of his jennet, jumped off horseback, and pursued down one of theM66 THE ABBOT. closes or narrow lanes, which, opening under a vault, terminate upon the main street, the very maiden to whom his friend had accused him of showing so much attention, and who had turned down the pass in question. . “Saint Mary, Saint Magdalen, Saint Benedict, Saint Bar- nabas!” said the poor falconer, when he found himself thus suddenly brought to a pause in the midst of the Canongate, and saw his young charge start off like a madman in quest of a damsel whom he had never, as Adam supposed, seen in his life before,—“ Saint Satan and Saint Beelzebub—for this would make one swear saint and devil—what can have come over the lad, with a wanion! And what shall I do the whilst ?-—he will have his throat cut, the poor lad, as sure as I was born at the foot of Roseberry-Topping. Cov’? ! find some one to hold the horses! but they are as sharp here north-away as in canny Yorkshire herself, and quit bridle, quit titt, as we say. An I could but see one of our folks, now, a holly-sprig were worth a gold tassel ; or could I but see one of the Regent’s men—but to leave the horses to a stranger, that I cannot—and to leave the place while the lad is in jeopardy, that I wonot.” We must leave the falconer, however, in the midst of his distress, and follow the hot-headed youth who was the cause of his perplexity. The latter part of Adam Woodcock’s sage remonstrances had been in a great measure lost upon Roland, for whose ben- efit it was intended ; because, in one of the female forms which tripped along the street, muffled in a veil of stripped silk, like the women of Brussels at this day, his eye had discerned some- thing which closely resembled the exquisite shape and spirited bearing of Catherine Seyton.—During all the grave advice which the falconer was dinning in his ears, his eye continued intent upon so interesting an object of observation ; and at length, as the damsel, just about to dive under one of the arched passages which afforded an outlet to the Canongate from tne houses beneath (a passage, graced by a projecting shield of arms, supported by two huge foxes of stone), had lifted her veil for the purpose perhaps of descrying who the horseman was who for some time had eyed her so closely, young Roland saw, under the shade of the silken plaid, enough of the bright azure eyes, fair locks, and blithe features, to induce him, like an in experienced and rash madcap, whose wilful ways never had been traversed by contradiction, nor much subjected to consid- eration, to throw the bridle of his horse into Adam Woodcock’s hand, and leave him to play the waiting gentleman, while heLHE AEBOT. 161 dashed down the paved court after Catherine Seyton—all as aforesaid. Women’s wits are proverbially quick, but apparently those of Catherine suggested no better expedient than fairly to betake herself to speed of foot, in hopes of baffling the page’s vivacity, by getting safely lodged before he could discover where. But a youth of eighteen, in pursuit of a mistress, is not so easily outstripped. Catherine fled across a paved court, decorated with large formal vases of stone, in which yews, cypresses, and other evergreens, vegetated in sombre sullenness, and gave a correspondent degree of solemnity to the high and heavy build- ing in front of which they were placed as ornaments, aspiring towards a square portion of the blue hemisphere, corresponding exactly in extent to the quadrangle in which they were stationed, and all around which rose huge black walls, exhibiting windows in rows of five storys, with heavy architraves over each, bear- ing armorial and religious devices. Through this court Catherine Seyton flashed like a hunted doe, making the best use of those pretty legs which had attracted the commendation of the reflective and cautious Adam Wood- cock. She hastened towards a large door in the centre of the lower front of the court, pulled the bobbin till the latch flew up, and ensconced herself in the ancient mansion. But, if she fled like a doe, Roland Greeme followed with the speed and ardor of a youthful staghound, loosed for the first time on his prey. He kept her in view in spite of her efforts ; for it is remarkable what an advantage, in such a race, the gallant who desires to see, possesses over the maiden who wishes not to be seen—an advantage which I have known counterbalance a great start in point of distance. In short, he saw the waving of her screen, or veil, at one corner, heard the tap of her foot, light as that was, as it crossed the court, and caught a glimpse of her figure just as she entered the door of the mansion. Roland Graeme, inconsiderate and headlong as we have de- scribed him, having no knowledge of real life but from the romances which he had read, and not an idea of checking him- self in the midst of any eager impulse. possessed, besides, of much courage and readiness, never hesitited for a moment to approach the door through which the object of his search had disappeared. He too, pulled the bobbin, and the latch, though heavy and massive, answered to the summons, and arose. The page entered with the same precipitation which had marked his whole proceeding, and found himself in a large hall, or vestt- bule, dimly enlightened by latticed casements of painted glass, IIae THE ABBOT. and rendered yet dimmer through the exclusion o. the sunbeams, owing to the height of the walls of those buildings by which the courtyard was enclosed. The walls of the hall were sur- rounded with suits of ancient and rusted armor, interchanged with huge and massive stone-scutcheons, bearing double tres- sures, fleured and counter-fleured, wheat-sheaves, coronets, and so forth, things to which Roland Graeme gave not a moment’s attention. In fact, he only deigned to observe the figure of Catherine Seyton, who, deeming herself safe in the hall, had stopped to take breath after her course, and was reposing herself for a moment on a large oaken settle which stood at the upper end of the hall. The noise of Roland’s entrance at once disturbed her ; she started up with a faint scream of surprise, and escaped through one of the several folding doors which opened into this apartment as acommon centre. This door, which Roland Greeme instantly approached, opened on a large and well-lighted gallery, at the upper end of which he could hear several voices, and the noise of hasty steps approaching towards the hall or vestibule. A little recalled to sober thought by an appearance of serious danger, he was deliberating whether he should stand fast or retire, when Catherine Seyton re-entered from a side-door, running towards him with as much speed as a few minutes since she had fled from him. “Oh, what mischief brought you hither?” she said ee —fly, or you are a dead _man,—or stay—they come—flight is impossible—say you came to ask for Lord Seyton.” She sprung from him and disappeared through the door by which she had made her second appearance ; and at the same instant, a pair of large folding-doors at the upper end of the gallery flew open with vehemence, and six or seven young gen- tlemen, richly dressed, pressed forward into the apartment, having for the greater part their swords drawn, ‘Who is it,” said one, “dare intrude on us in our own mansion ?” “ Cut him to pieces,” said another ; “let him pay for this day’s insolence and violence — he is some follower of the Rothes.” “No, by Saint Mary,” said another ; “he is a follower of the arch-fiend and ennobled clown Halbert Glendinning, who takes the style of Avenel—once a church-vassal, now a pillager of the church.” It is so,” said’a fourth ; “I know him by the holly-sprig, which is their cognizance. Secure the door, he must answer for this insolence.”’THE ABBOT. 165 Two of the gallants, hastily drawing their weapons, passed on to the door by which Roland had entered the hall, and stationed themselves there as if to prevent his escape. The others advanced on Graeme, who had just sense enough to per- ceive that any attempt at resistance would be alike fruitless and imprudent. At once, and by various voices, none of which sounded amicably, the page was required to say who he was, whence he came, his name, his errand, and who sent him hither, The number of the questions demanded of him at once, afforded a momentary apology for his remaining silent, and ere that brief truce had elapsed, a personage entered the hall, at whose appearance those who had gathered fiercely around Roland, fell back with respect. This was a tall man, whose dark hair was already grizzled, though his eye and haughty features retained all the animation of youth. The upper part of his person was undressed to his Holland shirt, whose ample folds were stained with blood. But he wore a mantle of crimson, lined with rich fur, cast around him, which supplied the deficiency of his dress. On his head he had a crimson velvet bonnet, looped up on one side with a small golden chain of many links, which, going thrice around the hat, was fastened by a medal, agreeable to the fashion amongst the grandees of the time. ‘“Whom have you here, sons and kinsmen,” said he, ‘ round whom you crowd thus roughly ?—Know you not that the shel- ter of this roof should secure every one fair treatment, whe shall come hither either in fair peace, or in open and manly hostility ? ” ‘But here, my lord,” answered one of the youths, knave who comes on treacherous espial! ” “TI deny the charge!” said Roland Greme, boldly, “I came to inquire after my Lord Seyton.” “ A likely tale,” answered his accusers, ‘‘in the mouth of a follower of Glendinning.” “Stay, young men,” said the Lord Seyton, for it was that nobleman himself, “let me look at this youth—By heaven, it is the very same who came so boldly to my side not very many minutes since, when some of my own knaves bore themselves with more respect to their own worshipful safety than to mine! Stand back from him, for he well deserves honor and a friendly welcome at your hands, instead of this rough treatment.” They fell back on all sides, obedient to Lord Seyton’s com mands, ‘who, taking Roland Graeme by the hand, thanked him for his prompt and gallant assistance, adding, that he nothing ”? eee is a164 THE ABBOT. doubted, “ the same interest which he had taken in his cause in the affray, brought him hither to inquire after his hurt.” Roland bowed low in acquiescence. “Or is there anything in which I can serve you, to show my sense of your ready gallantry?” But the page, thinking it best to abide by the apology for his visit which the Lord Seyton had so aptly himself suggested, replied, ‘‘ that to be assured of his lordship’s safety, had been the only cause of his intrusion. He judged,” he added, “ he had seen him receive some hurt in the affray.” “A trifle,’ said Lord Seyton; “I had but stripped my doublet, that the chirurgeon might put some dressing on the paltry scratch, when these rash boys interrupted us with their clamor.” Roland Graeme, making a low obeisance, was now about to depart, for, relieved from the danger of being treated as a spy, he began next to fear, that his companion, Adam Wood- cock, whom he had so unceremoniously quitted, would either bring him into some further dilemma, by venturing into the hotel in quest of him, or ride off and leave him behind altogether. But Lord Seyton did not permit him to escape so easily.— “Tarry,”’ he said, “ young man, and let me know thy rank and name. ‘The Seyton has of late been more wont to see friends and followers shrink from his side,-than to receive aid from strangers—but a new world may come round, in which he may have the chance of rewarding his well-wishers.” ‘My name is Roland Graeme, my lord,” answered the youth, “a page, who, for the present, is in the service of Sir Halbert Glendinning.” ‘“‘T said so from the first,” said one of the young men ; “ my life I will wager, that this is a shaft out of the heretic’s quiver —a stratagem from first to last, to ingyre into your confidence some espial of his own. ‘They know how to teach both boys and women to play the intelligencers.”’ eiiatistalse, ifit be spoken of me,” said’ Roland* “no man in Scotland should teach me such a foul part!” “TI believe thee, boy,” said Lord Seyton, “for thy strokes were too fair to be dealt upon an understanding with those that were to receive them. Credit me, however, I little expected to have help at need from one of your master’s household ; and I would know what moved thee in my quarrel, to thine own en- dangering !” “So please you, my lord,” said Roland, “I think my mas- ter himself would not have stood by, and seen an honorable manTHE ABBOT. borne to earth by odds, if his single arm could help him. Such at least, is the lesson we were taught in chivalry at the Castle of Avenel.” ‘The good seed hath fallen into cood said Seyton ; “ but alas! if thou practise such honorable war in these dishonorable days, when right is everywhere borne down by mastery, thy life, my poor boy, will be but a short ane”? * Let it be short, so it be honorable,” said Roland Greeme ; “and permit me now, my lord, to commend me to your grace, and to take my leave. A comrade waits with my horse in the street. “Take this, however, young man,” said Lord Seyton,* un- doing from his bonnet the golden chain and medal, “and wear it for my sake.” With no little pride Roland Greme accepted the gift, which he hastily fastened around his bonnet, as he had seen gallants wear such an ornament, and renewing his obeisance to the Baron, left the hall, traversed the court, and appeared in the street, just as Adam Woodcock, vexed and anxious at his delay, had determined to leave the horses to their fate, and go in quest of his youthful comrade. “ Whose barn hast thou broken next ?’’ he exclaimed, greatly relieved by his appearance, al- though his countenance indicated that he had passed through an agitating scene. “Ask me no questions,” said Roland, leaping gayly on his horse ; “but see how short time it takes to win a chain of gold,” pointing to that which he now wore. . ‘“ Now, God forbid that thou hast either stolen it, or reft it by violence,” said the falconer ; ‘‘ for, otherwise, I wot not how the devil thou couldst compass it. I have been often here, ay, for months at an end, and no one gave me either chain or medal.” “Thou seest I have got one on shorter acquaintance with the city,” answered the page, “but set thine honest heart at rest ; that which is fairly won and freely given, is neither reft nor stolen.” ‘Marry, hang thee, with thy fanfarona f about thy neck!” said the falconer; “I think water will not drown, nor hemp strangle thee. Thou hast been discarded as my lady’s page, to come in again as my lord’s squire, and for following a noble ground, young man,” * Note J. Seyton or Seton. a TA en given to the gold chains worn by the military men of the pene aa ae = sali aon “ale = ; Spanish origin ; for the fashion of wearing these costly ornaments was much foliowe amongst the conquerers of the New World.166 THE ABBOT. young damsel into some great household, thou gettest a chain and medal, where another would have had the baton across his shoulders, if he missed having the dirk in his body.—But here we come in front of the old Abbey. Bear thy good luck with you when you cross these paved stones, and, by Our Lady, you may brag Scotland.” As he spoke, they checked their horses, where the huge old vaulted entrance to the Abbey or Palace of Holyrood crossed the termination of the street down which they had proceeded. The courtyard of the palace opened within this gloomy porch, showing the front of an irregular pile of monastic buildings, one wing of which is still extant, forming a part of the modern palace, erected in the days of Charles II. At the gate of the porch the falconer and page resigned their horses to the serving-man in attendance; the falconer commanding him, with an air of authority, to carry them safely to the stables.—‘‘ We follow,” he said, “the Knight of Avenel. —We must bear ourselves for what we are here,” said he, ina whisper to Roland, ‘for every one here is looked on as they demean themselves ; and he that is too modest must to the wall, as the proverb says ; therefore cock thy bonnet, man, and let us brook the causeway bravely.” Assuming, therefore, an air of consequence, corresponding to what he supposed to be his master’s importance and quality, Adam Woodcock led the way into the courtyard of the Palace of Holyrood. CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. ——The sky is clouded, Gaspard, And the vex’d ocean sleeps a troubled sleep, Beneath a lurid gleam of parting sunshine. Such slumber hangs o’er discontented lands, While factions doubt, as yet, if they have strength To front the open battle. 5 ALBION— A PogM. THE youthful page paused on the entrance of the courtyard, and implored his guide to give him a moment’s breathing space, Let me but look around me, man,” said he; “ you consider not I have never seen such a scene as this before.—And this is Holyrood—the resort of the gallant and gay, and the fair, and the wise, and the powerful !”’ “ Ay, marry, is it!” said Woodcock ; “but I wish I couldHE ABBOT. aood thee as they do the hawks, for thou starest as wildly as if you sought another fray or another fanfarona. I would’| had thee safely housed, for thou lookest wild as a goss-hawk.” It was indeed no common sight to Roland, the vestibule of a palace, traversed by its various groups,—some radiant with gayety—some pensive, and apparently weighed down by affairs concerning the state, or concerning themselves. Here the hoary statesman, with his cautious yet commanding look, his furred cloak and sable pantoufles ; there the soldier in buff and steel, his long sword jarring against the pavement, and his whiskered upper lip and frowning brow, looking an habitual defiance of danger, which perhaps was not always made good ; there again passed my lord’s serving-man, high of heart, and bloody of hand, humble to his master and his master’s equals, insolent to all others. To these might be added, the poor suitor, with his anx- ious look and depressed mien—the officer, full of his brief authority, elbowing his betters, and possibly his benefactors, out of the road—the proud priest who sought a better benefice —the proud baron who sought a grant of church lands—the robber chief, who came to solicit a pardon for the injuries he had inflicted on his neizhbors—the plundered franklin, who came to seek vengeance for that which he had himself received. Besides there was the mustering and disposition of guards and soldiers—the despatching of messengers, and the receiving them—the trampling and neighing of horses without the gate —the flashing of arms, and rustling of plumes, and jingling of spurs, within it. In short, it was that gay and splendid confusion, in which the eye of youth sees all that is brave and brilliant, and that of experience much that is doubtful, decitful, false and hollow—hopes that will never be gratified—promises which will never be fulfilled—pride in the disguise of humility. —and insolence in that of frank and generous bounty. As, tired of the eager and enraptured attention which the page gave to a scene so new to him, Adam Woodcock en- deavored to get him to move forward, before his exuberance of astonishment should attract the observation of the sharp-witted denizens of the court, the falconer himself became an object of attention to a gay menial in a dark-green bonnet and feather, with a cloak of a corresponding color, laid down, as the phrase then went, by six broad bars of silver lace, and welted with violet and silver. The words of recognition burst from both at once. “What! Adam Woodcock at court!” and ‘ What! Michael Wing-the-wind—and how runs the hackit greyhound bitch now?”168 THE ABBOT. “The waur for the wear, like ourselves, Adam,—eight years this grass—no four legs will carry a dog forever ; but we keep her for the breed, and so she ’scapes Border doom.—But why stand you gazing there? I promise you my lord has wished for you, and asked for you.” ‘““My Lord of Murray asked for me, and he Regent of the kingdom too!” said Adam. ‘JI hunger and thirst to pay my duty to my good lord; but I fancy his good lordship remem- bers the day’s sport on Carnwath moor; and my Drummelzier falcon that beat the hawks from the Isle of Man, and won his lordship a hundred crowns from the Southern baron whom they called Stanley.” ‘Nay, not to flatter thee, Adam,” said his court-friend, ‘ he remembers nought of thee, or of thy falcon either. He hath flown many a higher flight since that, and struck his quarry too. But come, come hither away ; I trust we are to be good comrades on the old score.” “What!” said Adam, you would have me crush a pot with you ; but I must first dispose of my eyas, where he will neither have girl to chase, nor lad to draw sword upon.” “Is the youngster such a one?” said Michael. “* Ay, by my hood, he flies at all game,” replied Woodcock. “Then had he better come with us,” said Michael Wing-the- wind ; “for we cannot have a proper carouse just now, only I would wet my lips, and so must you. I want to hear the news from Saint Mary’s before you see my lord, and I will let you know how the wind sits up yonder.” While he thus spoke, he led the way to a side-door which opened into the court ; and threading several dark passages with the air of one who knew the most secret recesses of the palace, conducted them to a small matted chamber, where he placed bread and cheese and a foaming flagon of ale before the falconer and his young companion, who immediately did justice to the latter in a hearty draught, which nearly emptied the measure. Having drawn his breath, and dashed the froth from his whiskers, he observed, that his anxiety for the boy had made him deadly dry. “Mend your draught,” said his hospitable friend, again supplying the flagon from a pitcher which stood beside. “I know the way to the buttery-bar. And now mind what I say ae the Earl of Morton came'to my lord ina mighty chafe, What! they keep the old friendship, then?” said Wood- cock.THE ABBOT. “ Ay, ay, man, what else ?” said Michael ; “one hand must Scratch the other. But in a mighty chafe was my Lord of Morton, who, to say truth, looketh on such occasions altogether uncanny, and, as it were, fiendish ; and he says to my lord,— for [ was in the chamber taking orders about a cast of hawks that are to be fetched from Darnaway—they match your long- winged falcons, friend Adam.” “IT will believe that when I see them fly as high a pitch,” replied Woodcock, this professional observation forming a sort of parenthesis. ‘“ However,” said Michael, pursuing his tale, “‘my Lord of Morton, in a mighty chafe, asked my Lord Regent whether he was well dealt with—‘ for my brother,’ said he ‘ should have had a gift to be Commendator of Kennaquhair, and to have all the temporalities erected into a lordship of regality for his benefit ; and here,’ said he, ‘ the false monks have had the insolence to choose a new Abbot to put his claim in my brother’s way ; and moreover, the rascality of the neighborhood have burnt and plundered all that was left in the Abbey, so that my brother will not have a house to dwell in, when he hath ousted the lazy hounds of priests.’ And my lord, seeing him chafed, said mildly to him, ‘These are shrewd tidings, Douglas, but I trust they be not true; for Halbert Glendinning went southward yesterday, with a band of spears, and assuredly, had either of these chances happened, that the monks had presumed to choose an Abbot, or that the Abbey had been burnt, as you say, he had taken order on the spot for the punishment of such inso- lence, and had despatched us a messenger.’ And the Earl of Morton replied—now I pray you, Adam, to notice that I say this out of love to you and your lord, and also for old comrade- ship, and also because Sir Halbert hath done me good, and may again—and also because I love not the Earl of Morton, as indeed more fear than like him—so then it were a foul deed in you to betray me.—‘ But,’ said the Earl to the Regent, ‘ take heed, my lord, you trust not this Glendinning too far—he comes of churl’s blood, which was never true to the nobles’—by Saint Andrew these were his very words.—‘ And besides,’ he said, ‘he hath a brother, monk in Saint Mary’s, and walks all by his guidance, and is making friends on the Border with Buccleuch and with Fernieherst,* and will join hand with them, were there likelihood of a new world.’ And my lord answered, like a free noble lord as he is: ‘Tush! my Lord of Morton, I will be warrant for Glendinning’s faith ; and for his brother, he is a * Both these Border Chieftains were great friends of Queen Mary.170 THE ABBOT. dreamer, that thinks of nought but book and breviary—and if such hap have chanced as you tell of, [ iook to receive from Glendinning the cowl of a hanged monk, and the head of a riotous churl, by way of sharp and sudden justice.—And my Lord of Morton left the place, and, as it seemed to me, some- what malcontent. But since that time, my Lord has asked me more than once whether there has arrived no messenger from the Knight of-Avenel. And all this I have told you, that you may frame your discourse to the best purpose, for it seems to me that my lord will not be well pleased, if aught has hap- pened like what my Lord of Morton said, and if your lord hath not ta’en strict orders with it.” There was something in this communication which fairly blanked the bold visage of Adam Woodcock, in spite of the reinforcement which his natural hardihood had received from the berry-brown ale of Holyrood. “What was it he said about achurl’s head, that grim Lord of Morton?” said the discontented falconer to his friend. ‘‘ Nay, it was my Lord Regent, who said that he expected, if the Abbey was injured, your Knight would send him the head of the ringleader among the rioters.” “ Nay, but is this done like a good Protestant,” said Adam Woodcock, “ or a true Lord of the Congregation? We used to be their white-boys and darlings when we pulled down the con- vents in Fife and Perthshire.” “Ay, but that,” said Michael,‘ was when old mother Rome held her own, and her great folks were determined she should have no shelter for her head in Scotland. But, now that the priests are fled in all quarters, and their houses and lands are given to our grandees, they cannot see that we are working the work of reformation in destroying the palaces of zealous Prot- estants.” ‘ But I tell you Saint Mary’s is not destroyed!” said Wood- cock, in increasing agitation ; ‘some trash of painted windows there were broken—things that no nobleman could have brooked in his house—some stone saints were brought on their marrow bones, like old Widdrington at Chevy-Chase ; but as for fire- raising, there was not so much as a lighted lunt amongst us, save the match which the dragon had to light the burning tow withal, which he was to spit against Saint George ;.navpadk had caution of that.” ‘“ How ! Adam Woodcock,”’ said his comrade, “I trust thou hadst no hand in such a fair work? Look you, Adam, I were loth to terrify you, and you just come from a journey ; but ITHE ABBOT. 171 promise you, Earl Morton hath brought you down a Maiden from Halifax, you never saw the like of her—and she'll clasp you round the neck, and your head will remain in her arms.” ‘“Pshaw!” answered Adam, “TI am too old to have my head turned by any maiden of them all. I know my Lord of Morton will go as far for a buxom lass as any one ; but what the devil took him to Halifax, all the way? and if he has got a gamester there, what hath she to do with my head?” “ Much, much!” answered Michael. “ Herod’s daughter, who did such execution with her foot and ankle, danced not men’s heads off more cleanly than this maiden of Morton.* "Tis an axé, man,—an axe which falls of itself like a sash window, and never gives the headsman the trouble to wield it.” By my faith a shrewd device,” said Woodcock ; “ heaven keep us free on’t! ” The page, seeing no end to the conversation betwixt these two old comrades, and anxious, from what he had heard, con- cerning the fate of the Abbot, now interrupted their confer- ence. ‘““ Methinks,” he said, “ Adam Woodcock, thou hadst better deliver thy master’s letter to the Regent ; questionless he hath therein stated what has chanced at Kennaquhair, in the way most advantageous for all concerned,” “ The boy is right,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, “ my lord will be very impatient.” “The child hath wit enough to keep himself warm,” said Adam Woodcock, producing from his hawking-bag his lord’s letter, addressed to the Earl of Murray, “and for that matter so have I. So, Master Roland, you will e’en please to present this yourself to the Lord Regent; his presence will be better graced by a young page than by an old falconer.” _ “Well said, canny Yorkshire!” replied his friend ; “and. but now you were so earnest to see our good lord Way wouldst thou put the lad into the noose that thou mayest slip tether thyself ?—or dost thou think the maiden will clasp his fair young neck more willingly than thy old sunburnt weasand ?” “Go to,” answered the falconer ; “ thy wit towers high an it could strike the quarry. I tell thee, the youth has naught to fear—he had nothing to do with the gambol—a rare gambol it - species of Guillotine whi gent Morton brought down era Popes nah cetia o METEOR eee alae nian in the tale. He was Pere neteat DH Sees ae Antiquarian Museum of Edinburgh, wes brought to Scotland several years earlier than popular tradition assigns, and is said to have been used for the execution of criminals about twenty years before the Earl of Morton was beheaded, in 1582.,172 THE ABBOT. was, Michael, as madcaps ever played ; and I had made as rare a ballad, if we had had the luck to get it sung to anend. But mum for that—¢ace, as I said before, is Latin for a candle. Carry the youth to the presence, and [ will remain here, with bridle in hand, ready to strike the spurs up to the rowel-heads, in case the hawk flies my way.—lI will soon put Sutra-Edge, | trow, betwixt the Regent and me, if he means me less than fair play.”’ “Come on then, my lad,” said Michael, “since thou must needs take the spring before canny Yorkshire.” So saying, he led the way through winding passages, closely followed by Ro- land Greme, until they arrived at a large winding stone stair, the steps of which were so long and broad, and at the same time so low, as to render the ascent uncommonly easy. When they had ascended about the height of one story, the guide stepped aside, and pushed open the door of a dark and gloomy antechamber ; so dark, indeed, that his youthful companion stumbled, and nearly fell down upon alow step, which was awkwardly placed on the very threshold. “Take heed,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, in a very low tone of voice, and first glancing cautiously round to see if any one listened—‘ Take heed, my young friend, for those who fall on these boards seldom rise again—Seest thou that,” he added, in a still lower voice, pointing to some dark crimson stains on the floor, on which a ray of light, shot through a small aper- ture, and traversing the general gloom of the apartment, fell with mottled radiance—“ Seest thou that, youth ?—walk warily, for men have fallen here before you.” ‘““What mean you,” said the page, his flesh creeping, though he scarce knew why ; ‘Is it blood?” ‘Ay, ay,” said the domestic, in the same whispering tone, and dragging the youth on by the arm—“ Blood it is,—but, this is no time to question, or even to look atit. Blood it is, foully and fearfully shed, as foully and fearfully avenged. The blood,” he added, in a still more cautious tone, “of Seignior David.” Roland Graeme’s heart throbbed when he found himself so unexpectedly in the scene of Rizzio’s slaughter, a catastrophe which had chilled with horror all even in that rude age, which had been the theme of wonder and pity through every cottage and castle in Scotland, and had not escaped that of Avenel. But his guide hurried him forward, permitting no farther ques- tion, and with the manner of one who has already tampered too much with a dangerous subject. A tap which he made at a lowTHE ABBOT. 173 door at one end of the vestibule, was answered by a huissier or usher, who, opening it cautiously, received Michael’s intimation that a page waited the Regent’s leisure, who brought letters from the Knight of Avenel. ‘The Council is breaking up,” said the usher; “but give me the packet ; his Grace the Regent will presently see the messenger. “The packet,” replied’ the pase, “must be delivereaitiny the Regent’s own hands ; such were the orders of my master.” The usher looked at him from head to foot, as if surprised at his boldness, and then replied with some asperity, ‘‘ Say you so, my young master? Thoucrowest loudly to be but a chicken, and from a country barn-yard too.” ‘Were it time or place,” said Roland, “‘ thou shouldst see I can do more than crow ; but do your duty, and let the Regent lanow I wait his pleasure.” “Thou art but a pert knave to tell me of my duty,” said the courtier in office ; “ but I will find a time to show you you are out of yours ; meanwhile, wait there till you are wanted.” So saying, he shut the door in Roland’s face. Michael Wing-the-wind, who had shrunk from his youthful companion during this altercation, according to the established maxim of courtiers of all ranks, and in all ages, now transgressed their prudential line of conduct so far as to come up to him once more. “ Thou art a hopeful young springald,” said he, “and I see right well old Yorkshire had reason in his caution. Thou hast been five minutes in the court, and hast employed thy time so well, as to make a powerful and a mortal enemy out of the usher of the council-chamber. Why, man, you might almost as well have offended the deputy butler.” “ Tcare not what he is,” said Roland Graeme ; ‘I will teach whomever I speak with to speak civilly to me in return. I did aot come from Avenel to be browbeaten in Holyrood.” “Bravo, my lad!” said Michael ; “it is a fine spiritif you e941 but hold it—but see the door opens.” The usher appeared, and, ina more civil tone of voice and manner, said, that his Grace the Regent would receive the K aight of Avenel’s message ; and accordingly marshalledRoland Graeme the way into the apartment, from which the Council had been just dismissed, after finishing their consultations. ‘There was in the room a long oaken table, surrounded by stools of the same wood, with a large elbow chair, covered with crimson velvet, at the head. Writing materials and papers were lying there in apparent disorder ; and one or two of the privy coun- ,THE ABBOT. sellors who had lingered behind, assuming their cloaks, bon nets, and swords, and bidding farewell to the Regent, were de parting slowly by a large door, on the opposite side to tha, through which the page entered. Apparently the Earl of Murray had made some jest, for the smiling countenances of states men expressed that sort of cordial reception which is paid by courtiers to the condescending pleasantries of a prince. The Regent himself was laughing heartily as he said, “ Fare- well, my lords, and hold me remembered to the Cock of the “North.” He then turned slowly round towards Roland Greme, and the marks of gayety real or assumed, disappeared from his countenance, as completely as the passing bubbles leave the dark mirror of a still profound lake into which a traveller has cast a stone ; in the course of a minute his noble features had assumed their natural expression of deep and even melancholy gravity. This distinguished statesman, for as such his worst enemies acknowledged him, possessed all the external dignity, as well as almost all the noble qualities, which could grace the power that he enjoyed ; and had he succeeded to the throne as his legitimate inheritance, it is probable he would have been record- ed as one of Scotland’s wisest and greatestkings. But that he held his authority by the deposition and imprisonment of his sister and benefactress, was a crime which those only can excuse who think ambition an apology for ingratitude. He was dressed plainly in black velvet, after the Flemish fashion, and wore in his high-crowned hat a jewelled clasp, which looped it up on one side, and formed the only ornament of his apparel. He had his poniard by his side, and his sword lay on the council table, Such was the personage before whom Roland Greme now presented himself, with a feeling of breathless awe, very different from the usual boldness and vivacity of his temper. Intact, “he was, from education and nature, forward, but not impudent, and was much more easily controlled by the moral superiority arising from the elevated talents and renown of those with whom he conversed, than by pretensions founded only on rank orexternalshow. He might have braved with indifference the presence of an earl, merely distinguished by his belt and coro- net ; but he felt overawed in that of the eminent soldier and Statesman, the wielder of a nation’s power, and the leader of her armies.—The greatest and wisest are flattered bv the deference of youth—so graceful ; Murray took, with much cour‘esy, and becoming in itself; and the letter from the hands ofTHE ABBOT. rys the abashed and blushing page, and answered with complaisance to the imperfect and half-muttered greeting, which he endeavored to deliver to him on the part of Sir Halbert of Avenel.* He even paused a moment, ere he broke the silk with which the letter was secured, to ask the page his name—so much was he struck with his very handsome features and form. ui Roland Graham,” he said, repeating the words after the hesitating page. ‘What! of the Grahams of the Lennox?” “No, my lord,” replied Roland ; “my parents dwelt in the Debateable Land.” Murray made no further inquiry, but proceeded to read his dispatches ; during the perusal of which his brow began to assume a stern expression of displeasure, as that of one who found something which at once surprised and disturbed him. He sate down on the nearest seat, frowned till his eyebrows almost met together, read the letter twice over, and was then silent for several minutes. At length, raising his head, his eye encountered that of the usher, who in vain endeavored to ex- change the look of eager and curious observation with which he had been perusing the Regent’s features, for that open and un noticing expression of countenance, which, in looking at all, seems as if it saw and marked nothing—a cast of look which may be practised with advantage by all those, of whatever de- gree, who are admitted to witness the familiar and unguarded hours of their superiors. Great men are as jealous of their thoughts as the wife of King Candaules was of her charms, and will as readily punish those who have, however involun- tarily, beheld them in mental déshabille and exposure. “ Leave the apartment, Hyndman,” said the Regent, sternly, “and carry your observation elsewhere. You are too knowing sir, for your post, which, by special order, is destined for men of blunter capacity. So! now you look more like a fool than you did ”’—(for Hyndman, as may easily be supposed, was not a little disconcerted by this rebuke)—‘ keep that confused stare, and it may keep your office. Begone, sir!” The usher departed in dismay, not forgetting to register, amongst his other causes of dislike to Roland Greme, that he had been the witness of this disgraceful chiding. When he had left the apartment, the Regent again addressed the page. “Your name, you say, is Armstrong?” “No,” replied Roland, “my name is Greeme, so please you * {In describing the introduction of Roland Greme to the Regent Murray, I think it very probable that Scott had in mind his own first interview with the Duke of Wellingtog in Paris, after the battle of Waterloo.—J. G. LOCKHART. ]176 THE ABBOT. —Roland Greme, whose forbears were designated of Heather- gill, in the Debateable Land.” “Ay, I knew it was a name from the Debateable Land. Hast thou any acquaintance in Edinburgh ?”’ “My lord,” replied Roland, willing rather to evade this question than to answer it directly, for the prudence of being silent with respect to Lord Seyton’s adventure immediately struck him, “I have been in Edinburgh scarce an hour, and that for the first time in my life.” “What! and thou Sir Halbert Glendinning’s page?” said the Regent. ‘““T was brought up as my Lady’s page,” said the youth “and left Avenel Castle for the first time in my life—at least since my childhood—only three days since.” ' My Uhady’s page !*’ repeated the Earl of Murray, as if speaking to himself: “it was strange to send his Lady’s page on a matter of such deep concernment—Morton will say it is of a piece with the nomination of his brother to be Abbot ; and yet in some sort an inexperienced youth will best serve the turn.—What hast thou been taught, young man, in thy doughty apprenticeship ?”’ ‘To hunt, my lord, and to hawk,” said Roland Graeme. “To hunt conies, and to hawk at ousels!” said the Re- gent, smiling ; “for such are the sports of ladies and their fol- lowers.” Greeme’s cheek reddened deeply as he replied, not without some emphasis, “To hunt red-deer of the first head, and to strike down. herons of the highest soar, my lord, which, in Lothian speech, may be termed, for aught I know, conies and ousels ;—also I can wield a brand and couch a lance, according to our Border meaning ; in inland speech these may be termed water-flags and bulrushes.” “Thy speech rings like metal,” said the Regent, “and I pardon the sharpness of it for the ‘ruth.—Thou knowest, then, what belongs to the duty of a man-at-arms?” | “So far as exercise can teach it without real service in the aeld,” answered Roland Greme; “but our Knight permitted none of his household to make raids, and I never had the good fortune to see a stricken field.” “The good fortune!” repeated the Regent, smiling some- what sorrowfully, “take my word, young man, war is the only game from which both parties rise losers.” “ Not always, my lord!” answered the page, with his char acteristic audacity, “if fame speaks truth.”THE ABBOT. 177 4 ‘“‘ How, sir?” said the Regent, coloring in nis turn, and perhaps suspecting an indiscreet allusion to the height which he himself had attained by the hap of civil war. ‘‘ Because, my lord,” said Roland Graeme, without change of tone, ‘“‘ he who fights well, must have fame in life, or honor in death ; and so war is a game from which no one can rise a loser.” The Regent smiled and shook his head, when at that moment the door opened, and the Earl of Morton presented himself. ‘““T come somewhat hastily,” he said, ‘‘and I enter unan- nounced because my news are of weight—It is as I said; Ed- ward Glendinning is named Abbot, and - ‘““Hush, my lord!” said the Regent, “I know it, but ‘“And perhaps you knew it before I did, my Lord of Mur- ray,” answered Morton, his dark red brow growing darker and redder as he spoke. ‘“Morton,” said Murray, “ suspect me not—touch not mine honor—I have to suffer enough from the calumnies of foes, let me not have to contend with the unjust suspicions of my friends.—We are not alone,” said he, recollecting himself, “ or I could tell you more.” He led Morton into one of the deep embrasures which the windows formed in the massive wall, and which afforded a re- tiring place for their conversing apart. In this recess, Roland observed them speak together with much earnestness, Murray appearing to be grave and earnest, and Morton having a jeal- ous and offended air, which seemed gradually to give way to the assurances of the Regent. As their conversation grew more earnest, they became gradually louder in speech, having perhaps forgotten the pres- ence of the page, the more readily as his position in the apart- ment placed him out of sight, so that he found himself unwill- ingly privy to more of their discourse than he cared to hear. For, page though he was, a mean curiosity after the secrets of others had never been numbered amongst Roland’s failings ; and moreover, with all his natural rashness, he could not but doubt the safety of becoming privy tg the secret discourse of these powerful and dreaded men. Still he could neither stop his ears, nor with propriety leave the apartment ; and while he thought of some means of signifying his presence, he had already heard so much, that, to have produced himself sud- denly would have been as awkward, and perhaps as dangerous, as jn auiet to abide the end of their conference. What he r2 3?THE ABBOT. overheard, however, was but an imperfect part of their com munication ; and although an expert politician, acquainted with the circumstances of the times, would have had little difficulty in tracing the meaning, yet Roland Graeme could only form very general and vague conjectures as to the import of their discourse. “ All is prepared,’’ said Murray, “and Lindesay is setting forward—She must hesitate no longer—thou seest I act by thy counsei, and harden myself against softer considerations.” “True, my lord,” replied Morton, “in what is necessary to gain power, you do not hesitate, but go boldly to the mark. But are you as careful to defend and preserve what you have won ?—Why this establishment of domestics around her ?—has not your sister men and maidens enough to tend her, but you must consent to this superfluous and dangerous retinue ?”’ “For shame, Morton !—a Princess, and my sister, could I do less than allow her due tendance?”’ “ Ay,” replied Morton, “even thus fly all your shafts— smartly enough loosened from the bow, and not unskilfully aimed—but a breath of foolish affection ever crosses in the mid volley and sways the arrow from the mark.” “Say not so, Morton,” replied Murray ; “I have both dared and done “ Yes, enough to gain, but not enough to keep—reckon not that she will think and act thus—you have wounded her deeply, both in pride and in power—it signifies naught, that you would tent now the wound with unavailing salves—as matters stand with you, you must forfeit the title of an affectionate brother, to hold that of a bold and determined statesman.” “Morton!” said Murray, with some impatience, “I brook not these taunts—what I have done I have done—what I must farther do, I must and will—but I am not made of iron like thee, and I cannot but rrmember—Enough of this—my purpose holds.” ‘“ And I warrant me,” said Morton, “the choice of these domestic consolations will rest with : Here he whispered names which escaped Roland Greme’s ear. Murray replied in a similar tone, but so much raised to- wards the conclusion of the sentence, that the page heard these words—‘“ And of him I hold myself secure, by Glendinning’s recommendation.” “Ay, which may be as much trustworthy as his late con- duct at the Abbey of Saint Mary’s—you have heard that his brother’s election has taken place. Your favorite Sir Halbert,THE ABBOT. 179 my Lord of Murray, has as much fraternal affection as your- self,” “ By heaven, Morton, that taunt demanded an unfriendly answer, but I pardon it, for your brother also is concerned ; but this election shall be annulled. [I tell you, Earl of Morton, while I hold the sword of state in my royal nephew’s name, neither Lord nor Knight in Scotland shall dispute my author ity ; and if I bear with insults from my friends, it is only while I know them to be such, and forgive their follies for their faith- fulness.” Morton muttered what seemed to be some excuse, and the Regent answered him in a milder tone, and then subjoined, “ Besides, I have another pledge .than Glendinning’s recom- mendation, for this youth’s fidelity—his nearest relative has placed herself in my hands as his security, to be dealt withal as his doings shall deserve.” “That is something,” replied Morton ; “but yet in fair love and good-will, I must still pray you to keep on your guard. The foes are stirring again, as horse-flies and hornets become busy so soon as the storm-blast is over. George of Seyton was crossing the causeway this morning with a score of men at his back, and had a ruffle with my friends of the house of Leslie—they met at the Tron, and were fighting hard, when the provost, with his guard of partisans, came in thirdsman, and staved them asunder with their halberds, as men part dog and bear. ‘““ He hath my order for such interference,” said the Regent —‘“ Has any one been hurt?” “George ot Seyton himself, by black Ralph Leslie—the devil take the rapier that ran not through from side to side! Ralph has a bloody coxcomb, by a blow from a messan-page whom nobody knew—Dick Seyton of Windygowl is run through the arm, and two gallants of the Leslies have suffered phle- botomy. This is all the gentle blood which has been spilled in the revel ; but a yeoman or two on both sides have had bones broken and ears chopped. The ostlere-wives, who are like to be the only losers by their miscarriage, have dragged the knaves off the street, and are crying a drunken coronach r them.” ann? You take it lightly, Douglas,” said the Regent ; “ these broils and feuds would shame the capital of the great Turk, let alone that of a Christian and reformed state. But, if I live, this gear shall be amended ; and men shall say, when eel sabe my story, that if it were my cruel hap to mse to power by the185 THE ABBOT. dethronement of a sister, I employed it, when gained, for the benefit of the commonweal.”’ “ And of your friends,” replied Morton ; “ wherefore I trust for your instant order annulling the election of this lurdane Abbot, Edward Glendinning.” “ You shall be presently satisfied,” said the Regent ; and stepping forward, he began to call, “So ho, Hyndman! ” when suddenly his eye lighted on Roland Greme—* By my faith, Douglas,” said he, turning to his friend, “ here have been three at counsel !”’ ‘Ay, but only two can keep counsel,” said Morton ; “ the galliard must be disposed of.” “For shame, Morton—an orphan boy !—Hearken thee, my child—Thou hast told me some of thy accomplishments—canst thou speak truth?” “Ay, my lord, when it serves my turn,” replied Greme. “It shall serve thy turn now,” said the Regent ; “ and false- hood shall be thy destruction. How much hast thou heard or understood of what we two have spoken together ? ” “ But little, my lord,” replied Roland Graeme boldly, ‘“‘ which met my apprehension, saving that it seemed to me as if in something you doubted the faith of the Knight of Avenel, under whose roof I was nurtured.” “ And what hast thou to say on that point, young man?” continued the Regent, bending his eyes upon him with a keen and strong expression of observation. “That,” said the page, ‘“‘ depends on the quality of those who speak against his honor whose bread I have long eaten. If they be my inferiors, I say they lhe, and will maintain what I say with my baton ; if my equals, still I say they lie, and will do battle in the quarrel, if they list, with my sword; if my superiors ’—he paused. “Proceed boldly,” said the Regent—‘ What if thy superiors said aught that nearly touched your master’s honor?” ‘““T would say,” replied Graeme, “that he did ill to slander the absent, and that my master was a man whocould render an account of his actions to any one who should manfully demand it of him to his face.” ‘And it were manfully said,” replied the Regent—“ what thinkest thou, my Lord of Morton?” “I think,” replied Morton, “that if the young galliard resemble a certain ancient friend of ours, as much in the craft of his disposition as he does in eye and in brow, there may bea wide diiierence betwixt what he means and what he speaks.” ’THE ABBOT. 181 “And whom meanest thou that he resembles so closely ?”’ said Murray. “Even the true and trusty Julian Avenel,” replied Morton, “But this youth belongs to the Debateable Land,” said Murray. ““It may be so; but Julian was an outlying striker of venison, and made many a far cast when he had a fair doe in chase.” ‘“Pshaw!” said the Regent, “this is but idle talk—Here, thou Hyndman—thou curiosity,” calling to the usher, who now entered,—“ conduct this youth to his companion—You will both,” he said to Graeme, “keep yourselves in readiness to travel on short notice.”—And then, motioning to him courte- ously to withdraw, he broke up the interview. CHAPTER NINETEENTH. It is and is not— ’tis the thing I sought for, Have kneel’d for, risk’d my fame and life for, And yet it is not—no more than the shadow Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polish’d mirror, Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance Which it presents in form and lineament. Oxp Pray. THE usher, with gravity which ill concealeda jealous scowl, conducted Roland Graeme to a lower apartment, where he found his comrade the falconer. The man of office then briefly ac- quainted them that this would be their residence till his Grace’s farther orders; that they were to go to the pantry, to the buttery, to the cellar, and to the kitchen, at the usual hours, to receive the allowances becoming their station,—instructions which Adam Woodcock’s old familiarity with the court made him perfectly understand—“ For your beds,” he said, ‘‘ you must go to the hostelry of Saint MichaePs, in respect the palace is 10w full of the domestics of the greater nobles.” No sooner was the usher’s back turned than Adam exclaimed, with all the glee of eager curiosity, “ And now, Master Roland, the news—the news—come, unbutton thy pouch, and give us thy tidings—What says the Regent? asks he for Adam Wood- cock ?—and is all soldered up, or must the Abbot of Unreason strap for it?” “All is well in that quarter,” said the page; “and for the rest—But, hey-day, what! have you taken the chain and medal off from my bonnet ?”’182 THE ABBOT. ‘* And meet time it was, when yon usher, vinegar-faced rogue that he is, began to inquire what Popish trangam you were wearing—By the mass, the metal would have been confiscated for conscience’ sake, like your other rattle-trap yonder at Avenel, which Mistress Lilias bears about on her shoes in the guise of a pair of shoe-buckles—This comes of carying Popish nicknackets about you.” ‘The jade!” exclaimed Roland Graeme, “has she melted down my rosary into buckles for her clumsy hoofs, which wid set off such a garnish nearly as well as a cow’s might ?—But, hang her, let her keep them—many a dog’s trick have I played old Lilias, for want of having something better to do, and the buckles will serve for a remembrance. Do you remember the verjuice I put into the comfits, when old Wingate and she were to breakfast together on Easter morning ?” “In troth do I, Master Roland—the major-domo’s mouth was as crooked as a hawk’s beak for the whole morning after- wards, and any other page in your room would have tasted the discipline of the porter’s lodge for it. But my Lady’s favor stood between your skin and many a jerking—Lord send you may be the better for her protection in such matters ! ” “TY am at least grateful for it, Adam; and I am glad you~ put me in mind of it.” “Well, but the news, my young master,” said Woodcock, “spell me the tidings—what are we to fly at next ?>—what did the Regent say to you?” ‘“‘ Nothing that I am to repeat again,” said Roland Greme, shaking his head. “Why, hey-day,” said Adam, “ how prudent we are become all of a sudden! You have advanced rarely in brief space, Master Roland. You have well-nigh had your head broken, and you have gained your gold chain, and you have made an enemy, Master Usher to wit, with his two legs like hawks’ perches, and you have had audience of the first man in the realm, and bear as much mystery in your brow, as if you had flown in the court-sky ever since you were hatched. I believe, in my soul, you would run with a piece of the egg-shell on your head like the curlews, which (I would we were after them again) we used to call whaups in the Halidome and its neigh- borhood. But sit thee down, boy; Adam Woodcock was never the lad to seek to enter into forbidden secrets—sit thee down, and J will go and fetch the vivers—I know the butler and the pantler of old.” The good-natured falconer set forth upon his errand, busyingTHE ABBOT. himself about procuring their refreshment; and, during his absence, Roland Greme abandoned himself to the strange, complicated, and yet heart-stirring reflections, to which the events of the morning had given rise. Yesterday he was of neither mark nor likelihood, a vagrant boy, the attendant on a relative of whose sane judgment he himself had not the highes: opinion ; but now he had become, he knew not why, or where fore, or to what extent, the custodier, as the Scottish phrase went, of some important state secret, in the safe keeping of which the Regent himself was concerned. It did not diminish from, but rather added to, the interest of a situation so unex- pected, that Roland himself did not perfectly understand wherein he stood committed by the state secrets, in which he had unwittingly become participator. On the contrary, he felt like one who iooks on a romantic landscape, of which he sees the features for the first time, and then obscured with mist and driving tempest. The imperfect glimpse which the eye catches of rocks, trees, and other objects around him, adds double dignity to these shrouded mountains and darkened abysses, of which the height, depth, and extent, are left to imagination. But mortals, especially at the well-appetized age which precedes twenty years, are seldom so much engaged either by real or conjectural subjects of speculation, but that their earthly wants claim their hour of attention. And with many a smile did our hero, so the reader may term him if he will, hail the re-appearance of his friend Adam Woodcock, bearing on one platter a tremendous portion of boiled beef, and on another a plentiful allowance of greens, or rather what the Scotch call lang-kale. A groom followed with bread, salt, and the other means of setting forth a meal ; and when they had both placed on the oaken table what they bore in their hands, the falconer observed, that since he knew the court, it had got harder and harder every day to the poor gentlemen and yeomen retainers, but that now it was an absolute flaying of a flea for the hide and tallows. Such thronging to the wicket, and such churlish answers, and such bare beef-bones, such a shouldering at the buttery-hatch and cellarage, and naught to be gained beyond small insufficient single ale, or at best with a single straike of malt to counterbalance a double allowance of water—‘ By the mass, though, my young friend,” said he, while he saw the food disappearing fast under Roland’s active exertions, ‘it is not so wel. to lament for former times as to take the advantage of the present, else we are like to lose on both sides.” So saying, Adam Woodcock drew his chair towards theTHE ABBU1. table, unsheathed his knife (for every one carried that ministet of festive distribution for himself), and imitated his young com- panion’s example, who for the moment had lost his anxiety for the future in the eager satisfaction of an appetite sharpened by youth and abstinence. In truth, they made, though the materials were sufficiently simple, a very respectable meal, at the expense of the royal allowance ; and Adam Woodcock, notwithstanding the deliber- ate censure which he had passed on the household beer of the pa.ace, had taken the fourth deep draught of the black jack ere he remembered him that he had spoken in its dispraise. Fling- ing himself jollily and luxuriously back in an old danske elbow- chair, and looking with careless glee towards the page, extend- ing at the same time his right leg, and stretching the other easily over it, he reminded his companion that he had not yet heard the ballad which he had made for the Abbot of Unrea- son’s revel. And accordingly he struck merrily up with “The Pope, that pagan full of pride, Has blinded us full lang vi Roland Graeme, who felt no great delight, as may be sup- posed, in the falconer’s satire, considering its subject, began to snatch up his mantle, and fling it around his shoulders, an action which instantly interrupted the ditty of Adam Woodcock. ‘Where the vengeance are you going now,” he said, “ thou restless boy !—Thou hast quicksilver in the veins of thee toa certainty, and canst no more abide any douce and sensible communing, than,a hoodless hawk would keep perched on my wrist !” “Why, Adam,” replied the page, “if thou must needs know, I am about to take a walk and look at this fair city. One may as well be still mewed up in the old castle of the lake, if one is to sit the live-long night between four walls, and hearken to old ballads.” “Tt is a new ballad—the Lord help thee!” replied Adam, “and that one of the best that ever was matched with a rousing chorus.” “ Be it so,” said the page, “TI will hear it another day, when the rain is dashing against the windows, and there is neither steed stamping, nor spur jingling, nor feather waving in the neighborhood to mar my marking it well. But even now I want to be in the world, and to look about me.” __ “ But the never a stride shall you go without me,” said the talconer, “until the Regent shall take you whole and sound off my hand; and so, if you will, we may go to the hostelrie ofTHE ABBOT. 18 Saint Michael's, and there you will see company enough, but through the casement, mark you me ; for as to rambling through the street to seek Seytons and Leslies, and having a dozen holes drilled in your new jacket with rapier and poniard, I will yield no way to it.” “To the hostelrie of Saint Michael’s, then, with all my heart,” said the page ; and they left the palace accordingly, ren dered to the sentinels at the gate, who had now taken their posts for the evening, a strict account of their names and busi. ness, were dismissed through a small wicket of the close-barred portal, and soon reached the inn or hostelrie of Saint Michael, which stood in a large court-yard, off the main street, close under the descent of the Calton-hill. The place, wide, waste, and uncomfortable, resembled rather an Eastern Caravansary, where men found shelter indeed, but were obliged to supply themselves with everything else, than one of our modern inns : Where not one comfort shall to those be lost, Who never ask, or never feel, the cost. But still, to the inexperienced eye of Roland Grzeme, the bustle and confusion of this place of public resort furnished excitement and amusement. In the large room into which they had rather found their own way than been ushered by mine host, travellers and natives of the city entered and departed, met and greeted, gamed or drank together, forming the strongest contrast to the stern and monotonous order and silence with which matters were conducted in the well-ordered household of the Knight of Avenel. Altercation of every kind, from brawl- ing to jesting, was going on amongst the groups around them, and yet the noise and mingled voices seemed to disturb no one, and indeed to be noticed by no others than by those who com- posed the group to which the speaker belonged. Avid The falconer passed through the apartment to a projecting latticed window, which formed a sort of recess from the room itself ; and having here ensconced himself and his companion, he called for some refreshments ; and a tapster, after he had shouted for the twentieth time, accommodated him with the remains of a cold capon and a neat’s tongue, together with a pewter stoup of weak French vin-de-pays. “Fetch a stoup of brandy-wine, thou knave—We will be jolly to-night, Master Roland,” said he, when he saw himself thus accommodated, ‘and Jet care come to-morrow.” But Roland had eaten too la*ely to enjoy the good cheer ; and feeling his curiosity much sharper than his appetite, he made it his choice to look out of the lattice, which overhung a186 THE ABBOT. large yard, surrounded by the stables of the hostelrie, and fed his eyes on the busy sight beneath, while Adam Woodcock, after he had compared his companion to the * Laird of Macfar- lane’s geese, who liked their play better than their meat,” dis- posed of his time with the aid of cup and trencher, occasionally humming the burden of his birth-strangled ballad, and beating time to it with his fingers on the little round table. In this exercise he was frequently interrupted by the exclamations of his companion, as he saw something new in the yard beneath, to attract and interest him. It was a busy scene, for the number of gentlemen and nobles who were now crowded into the city, had filled all spare stables and places of public reception with their horses and military attendants. ‘There were some score of yeomen, dressing their own or their masters’ horses in the yard, whistling, singing, laughing, and upbraiding each other, in a style of wit which the good order of Avenel Castle rendered strange to Roland Greme’s ears. Others were busy repairing their own arms, or cleaning those of their masters. One fellow, having just bought a bundle of twenty spears, was sitting in a corner, employed in painting the white staves of the weapons with yellow and vermilion. Other lackeys led large stag-hounds, or wolf-dogs, of noble race, carefully muzzled to prevent accidents to pas- sengers. All came and went, mixed together and separated, under the delighted eye of the page, whose imagination had not-even conceived a scene so gayly diversified with the objects he had most pleasure in beholding ; so that he was perpetually breaking the quiet reverie of honest Woodcock, and the mental progress which he was making in his ditty, by exclaiming, “Took here, Adam—look at the bonny bay horse—Saint Anthony, what a gallant forehand he hath got !—and see the goodly gray, which yonder fellow in the frieze-jacket is dress- ing as awkwardly as if he had never touched aught but a cow— I would I were nigh him to teach him his trade !—And lo you, Adam, the gay Milan armor that the yeoman is scouring, all steel and silver, like our Knight’s prime suit, of which old Wingate makes such account—And see to yonder pretty wench, Adam, who comes tripping through them all with her milk-pail —I warrant‘me she has had a long walk from the loaning ; she has a stammel waistcoat, like your favorite Cicely Sunderland, Master Adam !”’ ‘By my hood, lad,” answered the falconer, “it is well for thee thou wert brought up where grace grew. Even in the Castle of Avenel thou wert a wild-blood enough, but hadst thouTHE ABBOT. 187 been nurtured here, within a flight-shot of the Court; thou hadst been the veriest crack-hemp of a page that ever wore feather in thy bonnet or steel by thy side: truly, I wish it may end well with thee.” “Nay, but leave thy senseless humming and drumming old Adam, and come to the window ere thou hast drenched thy senses in the pint-pot there. See here comes a merry minstrel with his crowd, and a wench with him, that dances with bells at her ankles ; and see the yeoman and pages leave their horses and the armor they were cleaning, and gather round, as is very natural, to hear the music. Come, old Adam, we will thither too.” “ You shall call me cutt if I do go down,” said Adam ; “you are near as good minstrelsy as the stroller can make, if you had but the grace to listen to it.” “ But the wench in the stammel waistcoat is stopping too, Adam—by heaven, they are going to dance! Frieze-jacket wants to dance with stammel waistcoat, but she is coy and recusant.”’ Then suddenly changing his tone of levity into one of deep interest and surprise, he exclaimed, “ Queen of Heaven! what is it that I see!” and then remained silent. The sage Adam Woodcock, who was in a sort of languid degree amused with the page’s exclamations, even while he professed to despise them, became at length rather desirous to set his tongue once’ more a-going, that he might enjoy the superiority afforded by his own intimate familiarity with all the circumstances which excited in his young companion’s mind so much wonderment. ‘Well, then,” he said at last, “ what is it youdo see, Master Roland, that you have become mute all of a sudden ?” Roland returned no answer. ““T say, Master Roland Graeme,” said the falconer, “it is manners in my country for a man to speak when he is spoken to.” Roland Greme remained silent. “The murrain is in the boy,” said Adam Woodcock, “ he has stared out his eyes, and talked his tongue to pieces, I think.” ‘The falconer hastily drank off his can of wine, and came to Roland, who stood like a statue, with his eye eagerly bent on the courtyard, though Adam Woodcock was unable to detect amongst the joyous scenes which ‘t exhibited aught that could deserve such devoted attention.188 THE ABBOT. “The lad is mazed!”’ said the falconer to himself. But Roland Greme had good reasons for his surprise, though they were not such as he could communicate to his companion. The tauch of the old minstrel’s instrument, for he had already begun to play, had drawn in several auditors from the street, when one entered the gate of the yard, whose appearance ex- clusively arrested the attention of Roland Greme. He was of his own age, or a good deal younger, and from his dress and bearing might be of the same rank and calling, having all the air of coxcombry and pretension, which accorded with a hand- some, though slight and low figure, and an elegant dress, in part hid by a large purple cloak. As he entered, he cast a glance up towards the windows, and, to his extreme astonish- ment, under the purple velvet bonnet and white feather, Roland recognized the features so deeply impressed on his memory, the bright and clustered tresses, the laughing full blue eyes, the well-formed eyebrows, the nose, with the slightest possible inclination to be aquiline, the ruby lip, of which an arch and half-suppressed smile seemed the habitual expression—in short, the form and face of Catherine Seyton ; in man’s attire, how- ever, and mimicking, as it seemed, not unsuccessfully, the bearing of a youthful but forward page. ‘Saint George and Saint Andrew!” exclaimed the amazed Roland Graeme to himself, ‘was there ever such an audacious quean !—she seems a little ashamed of her mummery too, for she holds the lap of her cloak to ‘her face, and her color is heightened—but, Saint Maria, how she threads the throng, with as firm and bold a step as if she had never tied petticoat round her waist !—Holy saints! she holds up her riding-rod as if she would lay it about some of their ears, that stand most in her way—by the hand of my father! she bears herself like the very model of pagehood.—Hey ! what! sure she will not strike frieze-jacket in earnest?’ But he was not long left in doubt ; for the lout whom he had before repeatedly noticed, standing in the way of the bustling page, and maintaining his place with clownish obstinacy or stupidity, the advanced riding-rod was without a moment’s hesitation, sharply applied to his shoulders, in a manner which made him spring aside, rubbing the part of the body which had received so unceremonious a hint that it was in the way of his betters. The party injured growled forth an oath or two of indignation, and Roland Graeme began to think of flying down stairs to the assistance of the translated Catherine ; but the laugh of the yard was against frieze-jacket,THE ABBOT. 89 which indeed, had, in those days, small chance of faut play ina quarrel with velvet and embroidery ; so that the fellow, who was a menial in the inn, slunk back to finish his task of dressing the bonney gray, laughed at by all, but most by the wench in the stammel waistcoat, his fellow-servant, who, to crown his disgrace, had the cruelty to cast an applauding smile upon the author of the injury, while, with a freedom more like the milkmaid of the town than her of the plains, she accosted him with—‘Is there any one you want here, my pretty gentle- man, that you seem in such haste?” “I seek a sprig of a lad,” said the seeming gallant, “ witha sprig of holly in his cap, black hair and black eyes, green jacket, and the air of a country coxcomb—I have sought him through every close and alley in the Canongate, the fiend gore him !” “Why, God-a-mercy, Nun!” muttered Roland Graeme, much bewildered. ‘“T will inquire him presently out for your fair young worship,” said the wench of the inn. ‘“‘ Do,” said the gallant squire, “‘ and if you bring me to him, you shall have a groat to-night, and a kiss on Sunday when you have on a cleaner kirtle.”’ ‘What, God-a-mercy, Nun!” again muttered Roland, “ this is a note above E Ja.” In a moment after, the servant entered the room, and ushered in the object of his surprise. While the disguised vestal looked with unabashed brow, and bold and rapid glance of her eye, through the various parties in the large old room, Roland Graeme, who felt an internal awkward sense of bashful confusion, which he deemed altogether unworthy of the bold and dashing character to which he aspired, determined not to be browbeaten and put down by this singular female, but to meet her with a glance of recognition so siy, so penetrating, so expressively humorous, as should show her at once he was in possession of her secret and master of her fate, and should compel her to humble herself towards him, at least into the look and manner of respectful and deprecating ob- servance. This was extremely well planned ; but just as Roland had called up the knowing glance, the suppressed smile, the shrewd intelligent look, which was to ensure+4pert Y imph, he encoun- tered the bold, firm, and steady gr4own Dis brother or sister- page, who, casting on hima falcr, 4, and recognizing him at once as the object of his search? walked up with the most qi.Igo THE ABBOT. unconcerned look, the most free and undaanted composure, and hailed him with “You, Sir Holly-top, I would speak with ou.” The steady coolness and assurance with which these words were uttered, although the voice was the very voice he had heard at the old convent, and although the features more nearly resembled those of Catherine when seen close than when viewed from a distance, produced, nevertheless, such a confusion in Roland’s mind, that he became uncertain whether he was not still under a mistake from the beginning ; the knowing shrewdness which should have animated his visage faded into a sheepish bashfulness, and the half-suppressed but most intel- ligible smile, became the senseless giggle of one who laughs to cover his own disorder of ideas. “Do they understand a Scotch tongue in thy country, Holly- top?” said this marvellous specimen of metamorphosis. “I said I would speak with thee.” “What is your business with my comrade, my young chick of the game?” said Adam Woodcock, willing to step in to his companion’s assistance, though totally at a loss account for the sudden disappearance of all Roland’s usual smartness and presence of mind. “Nothing to you, my old cock of the perch,” replied the gallant ; “go mind your hawk’s castings. I guess by your bag and your gauntlet that you are squire of the body to a sort of kites.” He laughed as he spoke, and the laugh reminded Roland so irresistibly of the hearty fit of risibility, in which Catherine had indulged at his expense when they first met in the old nunnery that he could scarce help exclaiming, “Catherine Seyton, by Heavens !””—He checked the exclamation, however, and only said, “I think, sir, we two are not totally strangers to each other.” ‘“We must have met in our dreams then,” said the youth ; ‘and my days are too busy to remember what I think on at nights.” “Or apparently to remember upon one day those whom you may have seen on the preceding eve,” said Roland Greme. The youth in his turn cast on him a look of. some surprise, as he replied, “I kis pefjo more of what you mean than does the horse I ride on— jp qioya be offence in your words, you shall find me as ready to tawajr, totny lad in Lothian.” “You know well,” satu soland, “though it pleases you to 3THE ABBOT 191 use the language of a Stranger, that with you 1 have no purpose to quarrel.” “Let me do mine errand, then, and page. “Step hither this way, hearing.” They walked into the recess of tl had left upon the youth’s entrance into the apartment. The messenger then turned his back on the company, after casting a hasty and sharp glance around to see if they were observed, Roland did the same, and tl 1€ page in the purple mantle thus addressed him, taking at the same time from under his cloak a Short but beautifully wrought sword, with the hilt and orna- ments upon the sheath of silver, massively chased and over- gilded—T bring you this weapon from a friend, who gives it you under the solemn condition, that you will not unsheathe it until you are commanded by your rightful Sovereign. For your wrath of temper is known, and the presumption with which you intrude yourself into the quarrels of others ; and, therefore, this is laid upon you as a penance by those who wish you well, and whose hand will influence your destiny for good or for evil. This is what I was charged to tell you. So if you will give a fair word for a fair sword, and pledge your promise, with hand and glove, good and well ; and if not, I will carry back Caliburn to those who sent it.” " And may I not ask who these are?” said Roland Graeme, admiring at the same time the beauty of the weapon thus offered him. “My commission in no way leads me to answer such a question,”’ said he of the purple mantle. “ But if Iam offended,” said Roland, “ may I not draw to defend myself ? ” “ Not ‘47s weapon,” answered the sword-bearer ; “‘ but you have your own at command, and, besides, for what do you wear your poniard ?” “For no good,” said Adam Woodcock, who had now ap- proached close to them, “ and that I can witness as well as any one.” ‘Stand back, fellow,” said the messenger ; ‘‘ thou hast an intrusive curious face, that will come by a buffet if it is found where it has no concern.” ‘““A buffet, my young Master Malapert ?” said Adam, draw- ing back, however ; “best keep down fist, or, by Our Lady, buffet will beget buffet ! ‘“ Be patient, Adam Woodcock,” said Roland Grame ;—‘ and be rid of you,” said the out of that old leathern fist’s 1€ window, which Roland )192 THE ABBOT. let me pray you, fair sir, since by such addition you choose fo the present to be addressed, may I not barely unsheathe this fair weapon, in pure simplicity of desire to know whether so tair a hilt and scabbard are matched with a befitting blade?” “ By no manner of means,” said the messenger: “at a word, you must take it under the promise that you never draw it until you receive the commands of your lawful sovereign, or you must leave it alone.” “Under that condition, and coming from your friendly hand, I accept of the sword,” said Roland, taking it from his hand ; “but credit me, that if we are to work together in any weighty amprise, as | am ‘nduced to believe, some confidence and open- ness on your part will be necessary to give the right impulse to my zeal—I press for no more at present, it is enough that you understand me.” “T understand you?” said the page, exhibiting the appear- ance of unfeigned surprise in his turn—“ Renounce me if Ido! —here you stand jiggeting, and sniggling, and looking cunning, as if there were some mighty matter of intrigue and common understanding betwixt you and me, whom you never set your eyes on before!” “What!” said Roland Greme, “will you deny that we have met before?” “Marry that I will, in any Christian court,” said the other age. “ And will you also deny,” said Roland, “that it was recom- mended to us to study each other’s features well, that in what- ever disguise the time might impose upon us, each should rec- ognize in the other the secret agent of a mighty work? Do not you remember, that Sister Magdalen and Dame Bridget—” The messenger here interrupted him, shrugging up his shoulders, with alook of compassion, “ Bridget and Magdalen! why this is madness and dreaming! Hark ye, Master Holly- top, your wits are gone on wool-gathering ; comfort yourself with a caudle, thatch your brain-sick noddle with a woollen night-cap, and so God be with you!” As he concluded this polite parting address, Adam Wood- cock, who was again seated by the table on which stood the now empty can, said to him, “ Will you drink a cup, young man in the way of courtesy, now you have done your expat ed listen to a good song?” and without waiting for an Aer he commenced his ditty— “The Pope, that pagan full of pride, Hath blinded us full lang——”THE ABBOT. 193 made some innovation uld have recollected the It is probable that the good wine had in the falconer’s brain, otherwise he wo danger of introducing anything like political or polemical pleasantry into a public assemblage, at a time when men’s minds were in a state of great irritability. Todo him justice, he perceived his error, and stopped short so soon as he saw that the word Pope had at once interrupted the separate con- versations of the various parties which were assembled in the apartment ; and that many began to draw themselves up, bridle, look big, and prepare to take part in the impending brawl ; while others, more decent and cautious persons, hastily paid down their lawing, and prepared to leave the place ere bad should come to worse. And to worse it was soon likely to come ; forno sooner did Woodcock’s ditty reach the ear of the stranger page, than, up- lifted his riding-rod, he exclaimed, ‘‘ He who speaks irreverently of the Holy Father of the church j n my presence, is the cub of a heretic wolf-bitch, and I will switch him as I would a mongrel 3 cur, ‘And I will break thy young pate,” said Adam, “if thou darest to lift a finger to me.” And then, in defiance of the young Drawcansir’s threats, with a stout heart and dauntless accent, he again uplifted the stave. “The Pope, that pagan full of pride, Hath blinded ¥ But Adam was able to proceed no farther, being himself un- fortunately blinded by a stroke of the impatient youth’s switch across his eyes. Enraged at once by the smart and the in- dignity, the falconer started up, and darkling as he was, for his eyes watered too fast to permit his seeing anything, he would soon have been at close grips with his insolent adversary, had not Roland Greme, contrary to his nature, played for once the prudent man and the peacemaker, and thrown himself betwixt them, imploring Woodcock’s patience. “ You know not,” he said, “with whom you have to do,—And thou,’ addressing the messenger, who stood scornfully laughing at Adam’s rage, “get thee gone, whoever thou art ; if thou be’st what I guess thee, thou well knowest there are earnest reasons why thou shouldst.”’ ae “Thou hast hit it right for once, Holly-top,” said the gal- lant, “though I guess you drew your bow at a venture.— Here, host, let this yeoman have a pottle of wine to wash the smart out of his eyes—and there is a French crown for him.” So 13194 THE ABBOT. saying, he threw the piece of money on the table, a id left the apartment, with a quick yet steady pace, looking firmly at right and left, as if to defy interruption : and snapping his fingers at two or three respectable burghers, who, declaring it was a shame that any one should be suffered to rant and ruffle in defence of the Pope, were laboring to find the hilts of their swords, which had got for the present unhappily entangled in the folds of their cloaks. But, as the adversary was gone ere any of them had reached his weapon, they did not think it necessary to un- sheathe cold iron, but merely observed to each other, “ This is more than masterful violence, to see a poor man stricken in the face just for singing a ballad against the whore of Babylon! If the Pope’s champions are to be bangsters in our very change- houses, we shall soon have the old shavelings back again.” “ The provost should look to it,” said another, ‘‘ and have some five or six armed with partisans, to come in upon the first whistle, to teach these gallants their lesson. For, look you, neighbor Lugleather, it is not for decent householders like our- selves to be brawling with the godless grooms and pert pages of the nobles, that are bred up to little else save bloodshed and blasphemy.” “ For all that, neighbor,” said Lugleather, “1 would have curried that youngster as properly as ever,] curried a lamb’s hide, had not the hilt of my bilbo been for the instant beyond my grasp; and before I could turn my girdle, gone was my master !”’ “ Ay,” said the others, “the devil go with him, and peace abide with us—I give my rede, neighbors, that we pay the law- ing, and be stepping homeward, like brother and brother ; for old Saint Giles’s is tolling curfew, and the street grows danger- ous at night.” With that the good burghers adjusted their cloaks, and prepared for their departure, while he that seemed the briskest of the three, laying his hand on his Andrea Ferrara, observed “that they that spoke in praise of the Pope on the Highgate of Edinburgh, had best bring the sword of Saint Peter to defend them.’ While the ill humor excited by the insolence of the young aristocrat was thus evaporating in empty menace, Roland Greme had to control the far more serious indignation of Adam Woodcock. ‘Why, man, it was but a switch across the maz- zard—blow your nose, dry your eyes, and you will see all the better for it.” “ By this light, which I cannot see,” said Adam Woodcock, =DTHE ABBOT 195 “thou hast been a false friend to me, young man—neither Pains up my rightful quarrel, nor letting me fight it out my- self, “Fy for shame, Adam Woodcock,” replied the youth, determined to turn the tables on him, and become in turn the counsellor of good order and peaceable demeanor—“ T Say, fy for shame !—Alas, that you will speak thus! Here are you sent with me to prevent my innocent youth getting into snares . “I wish your innocent youth were cut short witl with all my heart,” said Adam the admonition tended. —* And instead of setting before me,’ continued Roland “an example of patience and sobriety becoming the falconer of Sir Halbert Glendinning, you quaff me off I know not how many flagons of ale, besides a gallon of wine, and a full measure of strong waters.” “It was but one small pottle,” said poor Adam, whom con- sciousness of his own indiscretion now reduced to a merely de- fensive warfare. ‘It was enough to pottle you handsomely, however,” said the page— And then, instead of going to bed to sleep off your liquor, must you sit singing your roistering songs about popes and pagans, till you have got your eyes almost switched out of your head ; and but for my interference, whom your drunken ingratitude accuses of deserting you, yon galliard would have cut your throat, for he was whipping out a whinger as broad as my hand, and as sharp as a razor—And these are lessons for an inexperienced youth !—Oh, Adam! out upon you! out upon you!” ‘Marry, amen, and with all my heart,” said Adam ; “out upon my folly for expecting anything but. impertinent raillery from a page like thee, that if he saw his father in a scrape, would laugh at him instead of lending him aid.” ; “ Nay, but I will lend you aid,” said the page, still laughing, “ that is, I will lend thee aid to thy chamber, good Adam, where thou shalt sleep off wine and ale, ire and indignation, and awake the next morning with as much fair wit as nature has blessed thee withal. Only one thing I will warn thee, good Adam, that henceforth and forever when thou railest at me for being somewhat hot at hand, and rather too prompt to out with poniard or so, thy admonition shall serve as a pro- logue to the memorable adventure of the switching of Saint Michael’s,”’ 1 a halter, , Who began to see which way196 THE ABBOT. With such condoling expressions he got the crest-fallen fal. coner to his bed, and then retired to his own pallet, where it was some time ere he could fallasleep. Ifthe messenger whom he had seen were really Catherine Seyton, what a masculine virago and termagant must she be! and stored with what an ‘nimitable command of insolence and assurance !—The brass on her brow would furbish the front of twenty pages ; “and I should know,” thought Roland, “ what that amounts to—And yet, her features, her look, her light gait, her laughing eye, the art with which she disposed the mantle to show no more of her limbs than needs must be seen—I am glad she had at least that grace left—the voice, the smile—it must have been Cath- erine Seyton or the devil in her likeness! One thing is good, I have silenced the eternal predications of that ass Adam Woodcock, who has set up for being a preacher and a governor over me so soon as he has left the hawks’ mew behind him.” And with this comfortable reflection, joined to the happy indifference which youth hath for the events of the morrow, Roland Greme fel] fast asleep. CHAPTER TWENTIETH. Now have you reft me from my staff, my guide, Who taught my youth, as men teach untamed falcons, To use my strength discreetly—I am reft Of comrade and of counsel. Op Pray. In the gray of the next morning’s dawn there was a loud knocking at the gate of the hostelry ; and those without, pro- claiming that they came in the name of the Regent, were instantly admitted. A moment or two afterwards Michael Wing-the-wind stood by the bedside of our travellers. “Up! up!” he said, “there is no slumber where Murray hath work ado.” Both sleepers sprang up, and began to dress themselves. “ You, old friend,” said Wing-the-wind to Adam Woodcock, ‘““must to horse instantly, with this packet to the Monks of Kennaguhair ; and with this,” delivering them as he spoke, “to the Knight of Avenel.”’ ‘ As much as commanding the monks to annul their election, I’]] warrant me, of an Abbot,” quoth Adam Woodcock, as heTHE ABBOT. 197 put the packets into his bag, “and charging my master to see it done—To hawk at one brother with another is less than fair play, methinks.” “ Fash not thy beard about it, old boy,” said Michael, “ but betake thee to the saddle presently ; for if these orders are not obeyed there will be bare walls at the Kirk of Saint Mary’s, and it may be at the Castle of Avenel to boot ; for I hear my Lord of Morton loud with the Regent, and we are ata pass that we cannot stand with him anent trifles.”’ * But,” said Adam, “ touching the Abbot of Unreason—whar Say they to that outbreak ?—An they be shrewishly disposed, I were better pitch the packets to Satan. and take the other side of the Border for my bield.” “Oh, that was passed over as a jest, since there was little harm done.—But, hark thee, Adam, continued the comrade, “if there was a dozen vacant abbacies in your road, whether of jest or earnest, reason or unreason, draw thou never one of their mitres over thy brows—The time is not fitting, man !— oO) besides, our Maiden longs to clip the neck of a fat church- man, “She shall never shear mine in that capacity,” said the falconer, while he knotted the kerchief in two or three double folds around his sunburnt bull-neck, calling out at the same time, ‘‘ Master Roland, Master Roland, make haste! we must back to perch and mew, and, thank Heaven more than our own wit, with our bones whole, and without a stab in the stomach.,”’ “Nay, but,” said Wing-the-wind, “ the page goes not back with you, the Regent has other employment for him.” ‘Saints and sorrows!” exclaimed the falconer— Master Roland Graeme to remain here, and I to return to Avenel !— Why, it cannot be—the child cannot manage himself in this wide world without me, and I question if he will stoop to any other whistle than mine own; there are times I myself can hardly bring him to my lure.” It was at Roland’s tongue’s end to say something concern- ing the occasion they had for using mutually each other’s pru- dence, but the real anxiety which Adam evinced at parting with him took away his disposition to such ungracious raillery. The falconer did not altogether escape, however, for in turning his face towards the lattice his friend Michael caught a glimpse of it, and exclaimed, “TI prithee, Adam Woodcock, what hast thou been doing with these eyes of thine? They are swelled to the starting from the socket.”198 THE ABBOT. “ Naught in the world,” said he, after casting a deprecating glance at Roland Greme, “but the effect of sleeping in this d d truckle without a pillow.” “Why, Adam Woodcock, thou must be grown strangely dainty,” said his old companion ; ‘‘T have known thee sleep all night with no better pillow than a bush of ling, and start up with the sun, as gleg as a falcon; and now thine eyes resemble——”’ “Tush, man, what signfies how mine eyes look now?” said Adam,—‘“‘let us but roast a crab-apple, pour a pottle of ale on it, and bathe our throats withal, thou shalt see a change in me,” “ And thou wilt be in heart to sing thy jolly ballad about the Pope,” said his comrade. “ Ay that I will,” replied the falconer, “that is, when we have left this quiet town five miles behind us, if you will take your hobby and ride so far on my way.” “Nay, that I may not,” said Michael—‘‘I can but stop to partake your morning draught, and see you fairly to horse—I will see that they saddle them and toast the crab for thee with- out loss of time.” During his absence the falconer took the page by the hand— “ May I never hood hawk again,” said the good-natured fellow, “if T am not as sorry to part with you as if you were a child of mine own, craving pardon for the freedom—lI cannot tell what makes me love you so much, unless it be for the reason that I loved the vicious devil of a brown galloway-nag whom my mas- ter the Knight called Satan, till Master Warden changed his his name to Seyton ; for he said it was over boldness to call a beast after the King of Darkness : “ And,” said the page, “it was over boldness in him, I trow, to call a vicious brute after a noble family.” “Well,” proceeded Adam, “Seyton or Satan, I loved that rag over every other horse in the stable—There was no sleeping on his back—he was for ever fidgeting, bolting, rearing, biting, kicking, and giving you work to do, and maybe the measure of your baci on the heather to the boot of it all. And TI think ] love you better than any lad in the castle for the self-same qualities.” “Thanks, thanks, kind Adam. I regard myself bound to you for the good estimation in which you hold me.” “ Nay, interrupt me not,” said the falconer—“ Satan was a good nag—But I say I think I shall call the two eyases after you, the one Roland, and the other Greme ; and while AdamTHE ABBOT. 199 Woodcock lives, be sure you have a friend—Here is to thee my dear son.” Roland most heartily returned the grasp of the hand, and Woodcock, having taken a deep draught, continued his farewell speech. “There are three things I warn you against, Roland, now ‘hat you are to tread this weary world without my experience to assist you. In the first place, hever draw a dagger on slight occasion-—every man’s doublet is not so well stuffed as a certain abbot’s that you wot of. Secondly, fly not at every pretty girl, like a merlin at a thrush—you will not always win a gold chain for your labor—and, by the way, here I return to you your tanfarona—keep it close, it is weighty, and may benefit you at a pinch more ways than one. ‘Thirdly, and to conclude, as our worthy preacher says, beware of the pott! -pot—it has drenched the judgment of wiser men than you. I could bring some in- stances of it, but I daresay it needeth not ; for if you should for- get your own mishaps, you will scarce fail to remember mine— And so farewell, my dear son.” Roland returned his good wishes, and failed not to send his humble duty to his kind Lady, charging the falconer, at the same time, to express his regret that he should have offended her, and his determination so to bear him in the world that she would not be ashamed of the generous protection she had afforded him. The falconer embraced his young friend, mounted his stout, round-made, trotting nag, which the serving-man, who had attended him, held ready at the door, and took the road to the southward. A sullen and heavy sound echoed from the horse’s feet, as if indicating the sorrow of the good-natured rider. Every hoof-tread seemed to tap upon Roland’s heart as he heard his comrade withdraw with so little of his usual alert activity, and felt that he was once more alone in the world. He was roused from his reverie by Michael Wing-the-wind who reminded him that it was necessary they should instantly re- turn to the palace, as my Lord Regent went to the Sessions early in the morning. They went thither accordingly, and Wind-the-wind, a favorite’ old domestic, who was admitted nearer to the Regent’s person and privacy than many whose posts were more ostensible, soon introduced Graeme into a small matted chamber, where he had an audience of the present head of the troubled State of Scotland. The Earl of Murray was clad in a sad-colored morning-gown, with a cap and slippers of the same cloth, but, even in this easy déshabille, held his200 THE ABBOT. sheathed rapier in his hand, a precaution which he adopted when receiving strangers, rather in compliance with the earnest remonstrances of his friend and partisans than from any per- sonal apprehensions of hisown. He answered with a silent nod the respectful obeisance of the page, and took one or two turns through the small apartment in silence, fixing his keen eye on Roland, as if he wished to penetrate into his very soul. At length he broke silence. “ Your name is, I think, Julian Graeme?” “Roland Greeme, my lord, not Julian,” replied the page. “ Right—I was misled by some trick of my memory——Roland Greme, from the Debateable Land.—Roland, thou knowest the duties which belong to a lady’s service?” “YT should know them, my lord,” replied Roland, “ having been bred so near the person of my Lady of Avenel ; but I trust never more to practise them, as the Knight hath promised " “Be silent, young man,” said the Regent ; ‘“‘I am to speak, and you to hear and obey. It is necessary that, for some space at least, you shall again enter into the service of a lady, who, in rank, hath no equal in Scotland; and this service accom- plished, I give thee my word as Knight and Prince, that it shall open to you a course of ambition, such as may well gratify the aspiring wishes of one whom circumstances entitle to entertain much higher views than thou. I will take thee into my house- hold, and near to my person, or, at your own choice, I will give you the command ofa foot-company—either is a preferment which the proudest laird in the land might be glad to ensure for a second son.” ‘May I presume to ask, my lord,” said Roland, observing the Earl paused for a reply, “to whom my poor services are in the first place destined ?” ‘You will be told hereafter,” said the Regent ; and then, as if overcoming some internal reluctance to speak farther himself, he added “or why should I not myself tell you that you are about to enter into the service of a most illustrious—most un- happy lady—into the service of Mary of Scotland.”’ “Of the Queen, my lord?” said the page, unable to repress his surprise. OE her who was the Queen !” said Murray, with a singular mixture of displeasure and embarrassment in his tone of voice. ele be aware, young man, that her son reigns in her stead, He sighed from an emotion, partly natural, perhaps, and partly assumed.THE ABBOT. 201 ‘“* And am I to attend upon her grace in her place of impris- onment, my lord?” again demanded the page, with a straight- forward and hardy simplicity, which somewhat disconcerted the sage and powerful statesman. ‘She is not imprisoned, ” answered Murray angrily ; “ God forbid she should—she is only sequestrated from state affairs, and from the business of the public, until the world be so effectually settled, that she may enjoy her natural and unccn- trolled freedom, without her royal disposition being exposed to the practices of wicked and designing men. It is for this pur- pose,” he added, ‘that while she is to be furnished, as right is, with such attendance as may befit her present secluded state, it becomes necessary that those placed around her are persons on whose prudence I can have reliance. You see, therefore, you are at once called on to discharge an office most honor- able in itself, and so to discharge it that you may make a friend of the Regent of Scotland. ‘Thou art, I have been told, a singularly apprehensive youth ; and I perceive by thy look that thou dost already understand what I would say on this matter. In this schedule your particular points of duty are set down at length—but the sum required of you is fidelity—I mean fidelity to myself and to the state. You are, therefore, to watch every attempt which is made, or inclination displayed, to open any communication with any of the lords who have become banders in the west—with Hamilton, Seyton, with Fleming, or the like. It is true that my gracious sister, reflect- ing upon the ill chances that have happed to the state of this poor kingdom, from evil counsellors who have abused her royal nature in time past, hath determined to sequestrate herself from state affairsin future. But it is our duty, as acting for and in the name of our infant nephew, to guard against the evils which may arise from any mutation or vacillation in her royal resolutions. Wherefore, it will be thy duty to watch, and report to our lady mother, whose guest our sister is for the present, whatever n.ay infer a disposition to withdraw her person from the place of security in which she is lodged, or to open communication with those without. if however, your observation should detect anything of weight, and which may exceed mere suspicion, fail not to send notice by an especial messenger to me directly, and this ring shall be thy warrant to order horse and man on such service.—And now begone. If there be half the wit in thy head that there is apprehension in thy look, thou fully comprehendest all that I would say—Serve me faithfully, and sure as I am belted earl, thy reward shall be great.202 THE ABBOT. Roland Graeme made an obeisance, and was about to depart. The Earl signed to him to remain. ‘I have trusted thee deeply,” he said, “ young man, for thou art the only one of her suite who has been sent to her by my own recommendation, Her gentlewomen are of her own nomination—it were too hard to have barred her that privilege, though some there were who reckoned it inconsistent with sure policy. Thou art young and handsome. Mingle in their follies, and see they cover not deeper designs under the appearance of female levity—ii they de mine, do thou countermine. For the rest, bear all decorum ard respect to the person of thy mistress—she is a princess, though a most unhappy one, and hath been a queen! though now. alas! no longer such. Pay, therefore, to her all honor and respect, consistent with thy fidelity to the King and me— and now, farewell.—Yet stay—you, travel with Lord Lindesay, a man of the old world, rough and honest, though untaught ; see that thou offend him not, for he is not patient of raillery, and thou, I have heard, art a crack-halter.” This he said with a smile, then added, ‘“‘ I could have wished the Lord Lindesay’s mission had been intrusted to some other and more gentle noble.”’ “ And wherefore should you wish that, my lord?” said Morton, who even then entered the apartment; “the council have decided for the best—we have had but too many proofs of this lady’s stubbornness of mind, and the oak that resists the sharp steel axe, must be riven with the rugged iron wedge. __And this is to be her page >My Lord Regent hath doubt- less instructed you, young man, how you shall guide yourself in these matters : I will add but a little hint on my part. You are going to the castle of a Douglas, where treachery never thrives—the first moment of suspicion will be the last of your life. My kinsman, William Douglas, understands no raillery, and if he once have cause to think you false, you will waver in the wind from the castle battlements ere the sun set upon his anger.—And is the lady to have an almoner withal ?” “ Occasionally, Douglas,” said the Regent ; “it were hard to deny the spiritual consolation which she thinks essential fo her salvation.” _“ You are ever too soft-hearted, my lord—What! a fase priest to communicate her lamentations, not only to our un- friends in Scotland, but to the Guises, to Rome, to Spain, and I know not where!” 7 “ Fear not, said the Regent, “ we will take such order that no treachery shall happen.”THE ABBOT. 202 “Look to it then,” said Morton specting the wench you have consented she shall receive as a waiting-woman—one of a family, which, of all others, has ever been devoted to her, and inimical to us. Had we not been wary, she would have been purveyed of a page as much to her purpose as her waiting-damsel. I hear a rumor that an old mad Romish pilgrimer, who passes for at least half a saint =mong them, was employed to find a fit subject.” We have escaped that danger at least,” said Murray, “and converted it into a point of advantage, by sending this boy o: Glendenning’s—and for her waiting-damsel, you cannot grudge her one poor maiden instead of her four noble Marys and all their silker train?” “I caré not so much for the waiting-maiden,” said Morton, “but I cannot brook the almoner—I think priests of all per- suasions are much like each other—Here is John Knox, who made such a noble puller-down, is ambitious of becoming a setter-up, and a founder of schools and colleges out of the Ab- bey lands, and bishops’ rents, and other spoils of Rome, which the nobility of Scotland have won with their sword and bow, and with which he would endow new hives to sing the old drone.” ‘John isa man of God,” said the Regent, ‘and his scheme is a devout imagination.” The sedate smile with which this was spoken, left it impos- sible to conjecture whether the words were meant in approba- tion, or in derision, of the plan of the Scottish Reformer. Turning then to Roland Greme, as if he thought he had been long enough a witness of this conversation, he bade him get him presently to horse, since my Lord of Lindesay was already mounted. The page made his reverence, and left the apartment. Guided by Michael Wing-the-wind, he found his horse ready saddled and prepared for the journey in front of the palace porch, where hovered about a score of men-at-arms, whose leader showed no small symptoms of surly impatience. ‘Ts this the jackanape page for whom we have waited thus long?” said he to Wing-the-wind.—“‘ And my Lord Ruthven will reach the castle long before us.” | Michael assented, and added, that the boy had been de- tained by the Regent to receive some parting instructions. The leader made an inarticulate sound in his throat, expressive of sullen acquiescence, and calling to one of his domestic attend. ants, “ Edward,” said he, “take the gallant into your charge, and let him speak with no one else.” “you know my mind re-Boa THE ABBOT. He then addressed, by the title of Sir Robert, an elderly and respectable-looking gentleman, the only one of the party who seemed above the rank of a retainer or domestic, and ob- served, that they must get to horse with all speed. During this discourse, and while they were riding slowly along the street of the suburb, Roland had time to examine more accurately the looks and figure of the Baron who was at their head. Lord Lindesay of the Byres was rather touched than stricken with years. His upright stature and strong limbs still showed him fully equal to all the exertions and fatigues of war. His thick eyebrows, now partially grizzled, lowered over large eyes full of dark fire, which seemed yet darker from the uncommon depth at which they were set in his head. His features, nat- urally strong and harsh, had their sternness exaggerated by one or two scars received in battle. These features, naturally cal- culated to express the harsher passions, were shaded by an open steel cap, with a projecting front but having no visor, over the gorget of which fell the black and grizzled beard of the grim old Baron, and totally hid the lower part of his face. The rest of his dress was a loose buff-coat, which had once been lined with silk and adorned with embroidery, but which seemed much stained with travel, and damaged with cuts, received probably in battle. It covered a corselet, wnich had once been of polished steel, fairly gilded, but was now somewhat injured with rust. A sword of antique make and uncommon size, framed to be wielded with both hands, a kind of weapon which was then beginning to go out of use, hung from his neck in a baldrick, and was so disposed as to traverse his whole person, the huge hilt appearing over his left shoulder, and the point reaching well nigh to the right heel, and jarring against his spur as he walked. ‘This unwieldy weapon could only be un- sheathed by pulling the handle over the left shoulder—for no human arm was long enough to draw it in the usual manner. The whole equipment was that of a rude warrior, negligent of his exterior even to misanthropical sullenness ; and the short, harsh, haughty tone, which he used towards his attendants, be- longed to the same unpolished character. The personage who rode with Lord Lindesay, at the head of the party, was an absolute contrast to him, in manner, form, and features. His thin and silky hair was already white, though he seemed not above forty-five or fifty years old. His tone of voice was soft and insinuating—his form thin, spare, and bent by an habitual stoop—his pale cheek was expressive of shrewd-THE ABBOT. ness and intelligence—his eye was quick though placid, and his whole demeanor mild and conciliatory. He rode an ambling nag, such as were used by ladies, clergymen, or others of peace- ful professions—wore a riding-habit of black velvet, with a cap and feather of the same hue, fastened up by a golden medal— and for show, and as a mark of rank rather than for use, Car- ried a walking-sword (as the short light rapiers were called), without any other arms, offensive or defensive. The party had now quitted the town, and proceeded, at a steady trot, towards the west.—As they prosecuted their jour- ney, Roland Graeme would gladly have learned something of its purpose and tendency, but the countenance of the personage next to whom he had been placed in the train discouraged all approach to familiarity. The Baron himself did not look more grim and inaccessible than his feudal retainer, whose grisly beard fell over his mouth like the portcullis before the gate of a castle, as if for the purpose of preventing the escape of any word, of which absolute necessity did not demand the utter- ance. ‘The rest of the train seemed under the same taciturn influence, and journeyed on without a word being exchanged amongst them—more like a troop of Carthusian friars than a party of military retainers. Roland Graeme was surprised at this extremity of discipline ; for even in the household of the Knight of Avenel, though somewhat distinguished for the ac- curacy with which decorum was enforced, a journey was a period of license, during which jest and song, and everything within the limits of becoming mirth and pastime, were freely permitted. This unusual silence was, however, so far acceptable, that it gave him time to bring any shadow of judgment which he pos- sessed to council on his own situation and prospects, which would have appeared to any reasonable person in the highest degree dangerous and perplexing. é It was quite evident that he had, through various circum- stances not under his own control, formed contradictory con- nections with both the contending factions, by whose strife the kingdom was distracted, without being properly an adherent cf either. It seemed also clear, that the same situation in the household of the deposed Queen, to which he was now pro- moted by the influence of the Regent, had been destined to him by his enthusiastic grandmother, Magdalen Greme ; for on this subject, the words which Morton had dropped had been a ray of light ; yet it was no less clear that these two persons, the one the declared enemy, the other the enthusiastic votary, of the Catholic religion,—the one at the head of the King’sAAG THE ABBOT. new government, the other, who regarded that government as a criminal usurpation,—must have required and expected very different services from the individual whom they had thus united in recommending. It required very little reflection to foresee that these contradictory claims on his services might speedily place him in a situation where his honor as well as his life might be endangered. But it was not in Roland Greme’s na- ture to anticipate evil before it came, or to prepare to combat difficulties before they arrived. “I will see this beautiful and unfortunate Mary Stuart,’ said he, “‘of whom we have heard so much, and then there will be time enough to determine whether I will be kingsman or queensman. None of them can say I have given word or promise to either of their factions ; for they have led me up and down like a blind Billy, without giving me any light into what I was to do. But it was lucky that grim Douglas came into the Regent’s closet this morning, otherwise I had never got free of him without plighting my troth to do all the Earl would have me, which seemed, after all, but foul play to the poor imprisoned lady, to place her page as an espial on her.”’ Skipping thus lightly over a matter of such consequence, the thoughts of the harebrained boy went a wool-gathering after more agreeable topics. Now he admired the Gothic towers of Barnbougle, rising from the sea-beaten rock, and overlooking one of the most glorious landscapes in Scotland—and now he began to consider what notable sport for the hounds and the hawks must be afforded by the variegated ground over which they travelled—and now he compared the steady and dull trot at which they were then prosecuting their journey, with the de- light of sweeping over hill and dale in pursuit of his favorite sports. “As, under the influence of these joyous recollections, he gave his horse the spur, and made him execute a gambade, he instantly incurred the censure of his grave neighbor, who hinted to him to keep the pace, and move quietly and in order, unless he wished such notice to be taken of his eccentric move. ments as was likely to be very displeasing to him. The rebuke and the restraint under which the youth now found himself, brought back to his recollection his late good- humored and accommodating associate and guide, Adam Wood- cock ; and from that topic his imagination made a short flight to Avenel Castle, to the quiet and unconfined life of its in- habitants, the goodness of his early protectress, not forgetting the denizens of its. stables, kennels, and hawk-mews. In a brief space, all these subjects of meditation gave way to theLHE ABBOT. 204 eae resemblance of that riddle of womankind, Ca:herine Seyton, who appeared before the eye of his mind—now in her female form, now in her male attire—now in both at once—like some strange dream, which presents to us the same individual under two different characters at the same instant. Her mysterious present also recurred to his recollection—the sword which he now wore at his side, and whichhe was not to draw save by command of his legitimate Sovereign! But the key of this mystery he judged he was likely to find in the issue of his pres: ent journey. With such thoughts passing through his mind, Roland Graeme accompanied the party of Lord Lindesay to the Queen’s Ferry, which they passed in vessels that lay in readiness for them. They encountered no adventure whatever in their pas- sage, excepting one horse being lamed in getting into the boat, an accident very common on such occasions, until a few years ago, when the ferry was completely regulated. What was more peculiarly characteristic of the olden age, was the discharge of a culverin at the party from the battlements of the old castle of Rosythe, on the north side of the Ferry, the lord of which happened to have some public or private quarrel with the Lord Lindesay, and took this mode of expressing his resentment. The insult, however, as it was harmless, remained unnoticed and unavenged, nor did anything else occur worth notice until the band had come where Lochleven spread its magnificent sheet of waters to the beams of a bright summer’s sun. The ancient castle, which occupies an island nearly in the centre of the lake, recalled to the page that of Avenel, in which he had been nurtured. But the lake was much larger, and adorned with several islets besides that on which the fortress was situated ; and instead of being embosomed in hills, like that of Avenel, had upon the southern side only a splendid mountain- ous screen, being the descent of one of the Lomond hills, and on the other was surrounded by the extensive and fertile plain of Kinross. Roland Graeme looked with some degree of dis- may on the water-girdled fortress, which then, as now, consisted only of one large donjon keep, surrounded with a court-yard, with two round flanking-towers at the angles, which containea within its circuit some other buildings of inferior importance. A few old trees, clustered together near the castle, gave some relief to the air of desolate seclusion ; but yet the page, while he gazed upon a building so sequestrated, could not but feel for the situation of a captive Princess doomed to «well there, as well as for his own. “I must have been born,” he thought,S68 THE ABBOT. “under the star that presides over ladies and lakes of wate for I cannot by any means escape from dwelling in the other. But if they allow me not the fair freedom of my sport and exer- cise, they shall find it as hard to confine a wild-drake, as a youth who can swim like one.” The band had now reached the edge of the water, and one of the party advancing displayed Lord Lindesay’s pennon, way- ing it repeatedly to and fro, while that Baron himself blew a clamorous blast on his bugle. A banner was presently dis- played from the roof of the castle in reply to these signals, and one or two figures were seen busied as if unmooring a boat which lay close to the islet. “It will be some time ere they can reach us with the boat,” said the companion of the Lord Lindesay ; ‘should we not do well to proceed to the town, and array ourselves in some better order, ere we appear before ” “You may do as you list, Sir Robert,” replied Lindesay, “I have neither time nor temper to waste on such vanities. She has cost me many a hard ride, and must not now take offence at the threadbare cloak and soiled doublet that I am arrayed in. It is the livery to which she has brought all Scot- land.” “ Do not speak so harshly,” said Sir Robert ; “if she hath done wrong, she hath dearly abied it; and in losing all real power, one would not deprive her of the little external homage due at once to a lady and a princess.” “Tsay to you once more, Sir Robert Melville,” replied Lindesay, “do as you will—for me, I am now too old to dink myself as a gallant to grace the bower of dames.” “The bower of dames, my lord!” said Melville, looking at the rude old tower—‘‘is it yon dark and grated castle, the prison of a captive Queen, to which you give so gay a name?” ‘ Name it as you list,” replied Lindesay ; “had the Regent desired to send an envoy capable to speak to a captive Queen there are many gallants in his court who would have courted the occasion to make speeches out of Amadis of Gaul, or the Mirror of Knighthood. But when he sent blunt old Lindesay he knew he would speak to a misguided woman, as her former misdoings and her present state rendered necessary. I sought not this employment—it has been thrust upon me; and I will not cumber myself with more form in the discharge of it, than needs must be tacked to such an occupation.” So saying, Lord Lindesay threw himself from horseback, and wrapping his riding-cloak around him, lay down at lazyTHE ABBOT. 209 length upon the sward, to await the arrival of the boat, which was now seen rowing from the castle towards the shore. Sir Robert Melville, who had also dismounted, walked at short turns to and fro upon the bank, his arms crossed on his breast, often looking to the castle, and displaying in his countenance a mixture of sorrow and of anxiety. The rest of the jlarty sate like statues on horseback, without moving so much as the points of their lances, which they held upright in the air. As soon as the boat approached a rude quay or landing- place, near to which they had stationed themselves, Lord Lin- desay started up from his recumbent posture, and asked the person who steered, why he had not brought a larger boat with him to transport his retinue. ‘So please you,” replied the boatman, “because it is the order of our lady, that we bring not to the castle more than four persons.” “Thy lady is a wise woman,” said Lindesay, “ to suspect me of treachery !—Or, had I intended it, what was to hinder us from throwing you and your comrades into the lake, and filling the boat with my own fellows ? ” The steersman, on hearing this, made a hasty signal to his men to back their oars, and hold off from the shore which they were approaching.” “Why, thou ass,” said Lindesay, thou didst not think that I meant thy fool’s head serious harm? Hark thee, friend— with fewer than three servants I will go no whither—Sir Rob- ert Melville will require at least the attendance of one domes- tic ; and it will be at your peril and your lady’s to refuse us admission, come hither as we are on matters of great national concern?’ The steersman answered with firmness, but with great civility of expression, that his orders were positive to bring no more than four into the island, but he offered to row back to obtain a revisal of his orders. “To so, my friends,” said Sir Robert Melville, after he had in vain endeavored to persuade his stubborn companion to con- sent to a temporary abatement of his train, “row back to the castle, sith it will be no better, and obtain thy lady’s orders o to transport the Lord Lindesay, myself, and our retinue hither.” i . “ And hearken,” said Lord Lindesay, take with you this page, who comes as an attendant on your lady’s guest—Dis- mount, sirrah,” said he, addressing Roland, “ and embark with them in that boat.”’ I4She THE ABBOT. “ And what is to become of my horse?” said Greme, ° I am answerable for him to my master.” “TJ will relieve you of the charge,” said Lindesay ; “thou wilt have little enough to do with horse, saddle, or bridle, for ten years to come—Thou mayest take the halter an thou wit— it may stand thee in a turn.” “Tf I thought so,” said Roland—but he was interrupted by Sir Robert Melville, who said to him good-humoredly, “ Dis- pute it not, young friend—resistance can do no good, but may well run thee into danger.” Roland Greeme felt the justice of what he said, and, though neither delighted with the matter or manner of Lindesay’s address, deemed it best to submit to necessity, and to embark without farther remonstrance. ‘The men plied theiroars. The quay, with the party of horse stationed near it, receded from the page’s eyes—the castle and islet seemed to draw near in the same proportion, and in a brief space he landed under the shadow of a huge old tree which overhung the landing-place. The steersman and Greme leapt ashore ; the boatmen remained lying on their oars ready for farther service. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. Could valor aught avail or people’s love, France had not wept Navarre’s brave Henry slain ; If wit or beauty could compassion move, The Rose of Scotland had not wept in vain. ELEGY IN A RoyaAL Mauso_zuM.—Lewis. AT the gate of the courtyard of Lochleven appeared the stately form of the Lady of Lochleven, a female whose early charms had captivated James V., by whom she became mother of the celebrated Regent Murray. As she was of noble birth (being a daughter of the house of Mar) and of great beauty, her intimacy with James did not prevent her being afterwards sought in honorable marriage by many gallants of the time, among whom she had preferred Sir William Douglas of Lochleven. But well has it been said. ———“ Our pleasant vices, Are made the whips to scourge us ’’— The station which the Lady of Lochleven now held as the wife of a man of high rank and interest, and the mother of a lawfulTHE ABBOT. 211 family, did not prevent her nourishing a painful sense of degra- dation, even while she was proud of the talents, the power, and the station of her son, now prime ruler of the state, but still a pledge of her illicit intercourse. ‘“ Had James done to her,” she said, in her secret heart, “ the justice he owed her, she had seen in her son, as a source of unmixed delight and of unchas. tened pride, the lawful monarch of Scotland, and one of the ablest who ever swayed the sceptre. The House of Mar, not inferior in antiquity or grandeur to that of Drummond, would then have also boasted a Queen among its daughters, and escaped the stain attached to female frailty, even when it has a royal lover for its apology.” While such feelings preyed on a bosom naturally proud and severe, they had a corresponding effect on her countenance, where, with the remains of great beauty, were mingled traits indicative of inward discontent and peevish melancholy. It perhaps contributed to increase this habitual temperament, that the Lady Lochleven had adopted uncommonly rigid and severe views of religion, imitating in her ideas of reformed faith the very worst errors of the Ceiholics, in limiting the benefit of the gospel to those who profess heir own speculative tenets. In every respect, the unfortunate Queen Mar, now the compulsory guest, or rather prisoner, of this sulle. iady, was obnoxious to her hostess. Lady Lochleven dislike d her as the daughter of Mary of Guise, the legal possessor cf those rights over James’s heart and hand, of which she cone:tved herself to have been injuriously deprived ; and yet more so as the profes- sor of a religion which she detested worse thva Paganism. Such was the dame, who, with stately rien, and sharp yet handsome features, shrouded by her black velvet coif, interro- gated the domestic who steered her barg: to the shore, what had become of Lindesay and Sir Robert Melville. The man related what had passed, and she smiled scornfully as she replied, “‘ Fools must be flattered, not foughten with.—Row back —make thy excuse as thou canst—say Lord Ruthven hath already reached this castle, and that he is impatient for Lord Lindesay’s presence. Away with thee, Randal—yet stay— what galopin is that thou hast brought hither ? jude “So please you, my lady, he is the page who is to wait 9) n git: Ay, the new male minion,” said the Lady Luchleven ; “ the female attendant arrived yesterday. I shall havea well: ordered house with this lady and her retinue ; but I trust they will soon find some others to undertake such a charge. Beave THE ABBOT. gone, Randal—and you” (to Roland Greme) “follow me to the garden.” She led the way with a slow and stately step to the small garden, which, enclosed by a stone wall ornamented with statues, and an artificial fountain in the centre, extended its dull parterres on the side of the courtyard, with which it com- municated by a lowand and arched portal. Within the narrow circuit of its formal and limited walks, Mary Stuart was now learning to perform the weary part of a prisoner, which, with little interval, she was doomed to sustain during the remainder of her life. She was followed in her slow and melancholy exercise by two female attendants ; butin the first glance which Roland Greme bestowed upon one so illustrious by birth, so distinguished by her beauty, accomplishments, and misfortunes, he was sensible of the presence of no other than the unhappy Queen of Scotland. Her face, her form, have been so deeply impressed upon the imagination, that even at the distance of nearly three centuries, it is unnecessary to remind the most ignorant and uninformed reader of the striking traits which characterize that remarkable countenance, which seems at once to combine our ideas of the majestic, the pleasing, and the brilliant, leaving us to doubt whether they express most happily the queen, the beauty, or the accomplished woman. Who is there, that, at the very mention of Mary Stuart’s name, has not her countenance before him, familiar as that of the mistress of his youth, or the favorite daughter of his advanced age? Even those who feel themselves compelled to believe all, or much, of what her enemies laid to her charge, cannot think without a sigh upona countenance expressive of anything rather than the foul crimes with which she was charged when living, and which still con- tinue to shade, if not to blacken, her memory. That brow, so truly open and regal—those eyebrows, so regularly graceful. which yet were saved from the charge of regular insipidity by the beautiful effect of the hazel eyes which they overarched, and which seem to utter a thousand histories—the nose, with all its Grecian precision of outline—the mouth so well proportioned, so sweetly formed, as if designed to speak nothing but what was delightful to hear—the dimpled chin—the stately swan-like neck, form a countenance, the like of which we know not to have existed in any other character moving in that class of life, where the actresses as well as the actors command general and undivided attention. It is in vain to say that the portraits which exist of this remarkable woman are not like each other ;THE ABBOT. 213 for, amidst their discrepancy, each possesses general features which the eye at once acknowledges as peculiar to the vision which our imagination has raised while we read her history for the first time, and which has been impressed upon it by the numerous prints and pictures which we have seen. Indeed we cannot look on the worst of them, however deficient in point of execution, without saying that it is meant for Queen Mary ; and no small instance it is of the power of beauty, that her charms should have remained the subject not merely of admiration, but of warm and chivalrous interest, after the lapse of such a length of time. We know that by far the most acute of those who, in latter days, have adopted the unfavorable view of Mary’s char- acter, longed, like the executioner before his dreadful.task was performed, to kiss the fair hand of her on whom he was about to perform so horrible a duty. Dressed, then, in a deep mourning robe, and with all those charms of face, shape, and manner, with which faithful tradition has made each reader familiar, Mary Stuart advanced to meet the Lady of Lochleven, who, on her part, endeavored to conceal dislike and apprehension under the appearance of respectful in- difference. ‘The truth was, that she had experienced repeatedly the Queen’s superiority in that species of disguised yet cutting sarcasm, with which women can successfully avenge themselves for real and substantial injuries. It may be well doubted, whether this talent was not as fatal to its possessor as the many others enjoyed by that highly gifted, but most unhappy female ; for, while it often afforded her a momentary triumph over her keepers, it failed not to exasperate their resentment; and the satire and sarcasm in which she had indulged were frequently retaliated by the deep and bitter hardships which they had the power of inflicting. It is well known that her death was at length hastened by a letter which she wrote to Queen Elizabeth. in which she treated her jealous rival, and the Countess ot Shrewsbury, with the keenest irony and ridicule. As the ladies met together, the Queen said, bending her head at the same time, in return to the obeisance of the Lady Loch- leven, ‘We are this day fortunate—we enjoy the company of our amiable hostess at an unusual hour, and during a period which we have hitherto been permitted to give to our private exercise. But our good hostess knows well she has at all times access to our presence, and need not observe the useless cere- mony of requiring our permission.” : “T am sorry my presence is deemed an intrusion by your Grace,” said the Lady of Lochleven. “I came but to announce uyat4 THE ABBOT. the arrival of an addition to your train,” motioning with her hand towards Roland Greeme ; ‘‘a circumstance to which i:adies are seldom indifferent.” “Oh! I crave your ladyship’s pardon ; and am bent to the earth with obligations for the kindness of my nobles—or my sovereigns shall I call them ?—who have permitted me such a respectable addition to my personal retinue.” ‘They have indeed studied, Madam,” said the Lady of Loch- leven, ‘‘to show their kindness towards your Grace—something at the risk perhaps of sound policy, and I trust their doiggs will not be misconstrued.” “Impossible!” said the Queen ; “ the bounty which permits the daughter of so many kings, and who yet is Queen of the realm, the attendance of two waiting-women and a boy, is a grace which Mary Stuart can never sufficiently acknowledge. Why ! my train will be equal to that of any country dame in this your kingdom of Fife, saving but the lack of a gentleman usher, and a pair or two of blue-coated serving-men. But I must not forget, in my selfish joy, the additional trouble and charges to which this magnificent augmentation of our train will put our kind hostess, and the whole house of Lochleven. .It is this prudent anxiety, I am aware, which clouds your brows, my worthy lady. But be of good cheer ; the crown of Scotland has many a fair manor, and your affectionate son and my no less affectionate brother, will endow the good knight your husband with the best of them, ere Mary should be dis- missed from this hospitable castle from vour Ladyship’s lack of means to support the charges.” “The Douglases of Lochleven, madam,” answered the lady, “have known for ages how to discharge their duty to the State, without looking for reward, even when the task was both irksome and dangerous.” “ Nay! but, my dear Lochleven,”’ said the Queen, ‘you are over scrupulous—I pray you accept of a goodly manor; what should support the Queen of Scotland in this her princely court, saving her own crown-lands—and who should minister to the wants of a mother, save an affectionate son like the Ear] of Murray, who possesses so wonderfully both the power and inclination ?—Or said you it was the danger of the task which clouded your smooth and hospitable brow >No doubt, a pagé is a formidable addition to my body-guard of females ; and I bethink me it must have been for that reason that my Lord of Lindesay refused even now to venture within the reach of a force so formidable, without being attended by a Competent retinue.”THE ABBOT. are The Lady Lochleven started, and looked something sur- prised ; and Mary suddenly changing her manner from the smooth ironical affectation of mildness to an accent of austere command, and drawing up at the same time her fine person, said, with the full majesty of her rank, “ Yes! Lady of Loch- -even ; I know that Ruthven is already in the castle, and that Lindesay waits on the bank the return of your barge to bring him hither along with Sir Robert Melville. For what purpose do these nobles come—and why am I not in ordinary decency apprised of their arrival?” “Their purpose, madam,” replied the Lady of Lochleven, “they must themselves explain—but a formal annunciation were needless, where your Grace hath attendants who can play the espial so well.” “ Alas! poor Fleming,” said the Queen, turning to the elder of the female attendants, “‘ thou wilt be tried, condemned, and gibbeted, for a spy in the garrison, because thou didst chance to cross the great hall while my good Lady of Lochleven was parleying at the full pitch of her voice with her pilot Randal. Put black wool in thy ears, girl, as you value the wearing of them longer. Remember, in the Castle of Lochleven, ears and tongues are matters not of use, but for show merely. Our good hostess can hear, as well as speak, for us all. We excuse your farther attendance, my lady hostess,” she said, once more ad- dressing the object of her resentment, “and retire to prepare for an interview with our rebel lords. We will use the ante chamber of our sleeping apartment as our hall of audience. You, young man,” she proceeded, addressing Roland Greeme, and at once softening the ironical sharpness of her manner inte eood-humored raillery, ‘“ you, who are all our male attendance, from our Lord High Chamberlain down to our least galopin, follow us to prepare our court.”’ She turned, and walked slowly towards the castle. The Lady of Lochleven folded her arms, and smiled in bitter resent ment as she watched her retiring steps. “The whole male attendance!” she muttered, repeating the Queen’s last words, “and well for thee had it been had thy train never been larger ;” then turning to Roland, in whose way she had stood while making this pause, she made room for him to pass, saying at the same time, “Art thou aieaay eaves-dropping ? follow thy mistress, minion, and, if thou wilt, ‘e]] her what I have now said.” Roland Graeme hastened after his royal mistress and her ttendants, who had just entered a postern-gate communicating216 THE ABBOT. betwixt the castle and the small garden. They ascended a winding-stair as high as the second storey, which was in a great measure occupied by a suite of three rooms, opening into each other, and assigned as the dwelling of the captive Princess. The outermost was a small hall or anteroom, within which opened a large parlor, and from that again the Queen’s bed- room. Another small apartment, which opened into the same parlor, contained the beds of the gentlewomen in waiting. Roland Greme stopped, as became his station, in the outer- most of these apartments, there to await such orders as might be communicated to him. From the grated window of the room he saw Lindesay, Melville, and their followers disembark ; and observed that they were met at the castle gate by a third noble, to whom Lindesay exclaimed, in his loud harsh voice, ‘“ My Lord of Ruthven, you have the start of us!” At this instant, the page’s attention was called to a burst of hysterical sobs from the inner apartment, and to the ‘hurried ejaculations of the terrified females, which led him almost instantly to hasten to their assistance. When he entered, he saw that the Queen had thrown herself into the large chair which stood nearest the door, and was sobbing for breath in a strong fit of hysterical affection. ‘The elder female supported her in her arms, while the younger bathed her face with water and with tears alternately. ‘“Hasten, young man!”’ said the elder lady, in alarm, “ iy —- call in assistance—-she is swooning ! ” But the Queen ejaculated in a faint and broken voice, “ Stir not, I charge you!—call no one to witness—I am_ better—I shall recover instantly.” And, indeed, with an effort which seemed like that of one struggling for life, she sate up in her chair, and endeavored to resume her composure, while her features yet trembled with the violent emotion of body and mind which she had undergone. “Iam ashamed of my weak- ness, girls,” she said, taking the hands of her attendants - “ but it is over—and I am Mary Stuart once more. The savage tone of that man’s voice—my knowledge of his insolence—the name which he named—the purpose for which they come, may excuse a moment’s weakness—and it shall be a moment’s only. ’ She snatched from her head the curch or cap, which had been disordered during her hysterical agony, shook down the thicn clustered tresses of dark brown which had been before veiled under it—and drawing her slender fingers across the labyrinth which they formed, she arose from the chair, and stood like the inspired image of a Grecian prophetess, in a mood whichTHE ABBOT. 217 partook at once of sorrow and pride, of smiles and of tears. “We are ill appointed,” she said, “to meet our rebel subjects ; but, as far as we may, we will strive to present ourselves as becomes their Queen. Follow me, my maidens,” she said - “what says thy favorite song, my Fleming? ‘My maids, come to my dressing-bower, And deck my nut-brown hair ; Where’er ye laid a plait before, Look ye lay ten times mair.’ Alas!” she added, when she had repeated with a smile these lines of an old ballad, ‘‘ violence has already robbed me of the ordinary decorations of my rank ; and the few that nature gave me have been destroyed by sorrow and by fear.’”’ Yet while she spoke thus, she again let her slender fingers stray through the wilderness of the beautiful tresses which veiled her kingly neck and swelling bosom, as if, in her agony of mind, she had not altogether lost the consciousness of her unrivalled charms. Roland Grzeme, on whose youth, inexperience, and ardent sense of what was dignified and lovely, the demeanor of so fair and high-born a lady wrought like the charm ofa magician, stood rooted to the spot with surprise and interest, longing to hazard his life in a quarrel so fairas that which Mary Stuart’s must needs be. She had been bred in France—she was pos- sessed of the most distinguished beauty—she had reigned a Queen, and a Scottish Queen, to whom knowledge of character was as essential as the use of vital air. In all these capacities, Mary was, of all women on the earth, most alert at perceiving and using the advantages which her charms gave her over al- most all who came within the sphere of their influence. She cast on Roland a glance which might have melted a heart of stone. ‘My poor boy,” she said, with a feeling partly real, partly politic, “thou art a stranger to us—sent to this doleful captivity from the society of some tender mother, or sister, or maiden, with whom you had freedom to tread a gay measure round the Maypole. I grieve for you; but you are the ony male in my limited household—wilt thou obey my orders?” “To the death, madam,” said Greme, in a determined tone. “Then keep the door of mine apartment,” said the Queen ; “keep it till they offer actual violence, or till we shall be fitly arrayed to receive these intrusive visitors.” “J will defend it till they pass over my body,” said Roland Greme ; any hesitation which he had felt concerning the line of conduct he ought to pursue being completely swept away by the impulse of the moment.218 THE ABBOT. “Not so, my good youth,” answered Mary ; “ not so, I com mand thee. If I have one faithful subject beside me, much need, God wot, I have to care for his safety. Resist them but till they are put to the shame of using actual violence, and then give way, [charge you. Remember my commands.” And with a smile expressive at once of favor and of authority, she turned from him, and, followed by her attendants, entered the bedroom. The youngest paused for half a second ere she followed her companion, and made a signal to Roland Graeme with her hand. He had been already long aware that this was Catherine Seyton —a circumstance which could not much surprise a youth of quick intellects, who recollected the sort of mysterious discourse which had passed betwixt the two matrons at the deserted nun- nery, and on which his meeting with Catherine in this place seemed to cast so much light. Yet such was the engrossing effect of Mary’s presence, that it surmounted for the moment even the feelings of a youthful lover; and it was not until Catherine Seyton had disappeared, that Roland began to con- sider in what relation they were to stand to each other. ‘She held up her hand to me in a commanding manner,” he thought ; ‘“perhaps she wanted to confirm my purpose for the execution of the Queen’s commands; for I think she could scarce purpose to scare me with the sort of discipline which she administered to the groom in the frieze-jacket, and to poor Adam Woodcock. But we will see to that anon ; meantime, let us do justice to the trust reposed in us by this unhappy Queen. I think my Lord of Murray will himself own that it is the duty of a faithful page to defend his lady against intrusion on her privacy.” Accordingly, he stepped to the little vestibule, made fast, with lock and bar, the door which opened from thence to the large staircase, and then sat himself down to attend the result. He had not long to wait—a rude and strong hand first essayed to lift the latch, then pushed and shook the door with violence and, when it resisted his attempt to open it, exclaimed, “ Undo the door there, you within!” ! ‘Why, and at whose command,” said the page, “am 1 to undo the door of the apartments of the Queen of Scotland ? ” Another vain attempt, which made hinge and bolt jingle showed that the impatient applicant without would willingly have entered altogether regardless of his challenge ; but at length an answer was returned. “ Undo the door, on your peril—the Lord Lindesa y comes to speak with the Lady Mary of Scotland.”THE ABBOT. 219 “The Lord Lindesay, as a Scottish noble,’ answered the page, “must await his sovereign’s leisure.” An earnest altercation ensued amongst those without, in which Roland distinguished the remarkable harsh voice of Lindesay in reply to Sir Robert Melville, who appeared to have been using some soothing language—“ No! no! no! I tell thee, no! I will place a petard against the door rather than be balked by a profligate woman, and bearded by an insolent footboy.” “ Yet, at least,” said Melville, “let me try fair means in the first instance. Violence to a lady would stain your scutcheon forever. Or await till my Lord Ruthven comes.” ‘““T will await no longer,” said Lindesay ; “it is high time the business was done, and we on our return to the council. But thou mayest try thy fair play, as thou callest it, while I cause my train to prepare the petard. I came hither provided with as good gunpowder as blew up the Kirk of Field.” ‘“* For God’s sake, be patient,” said Melville ; and approach- ing the door, he said, as speaking to those within, ‘‘ Let the Queen know, that I, her faithful servant, Robert Melville, do entreat her, for her own sake, and to prevent worse conse- quences, that she will undo the door, and admit Lord Lindesay, who brings a mission from the Council of State.” ‘‘T will do your errand to the Queen,” said the page, report to you her answer.”’ He went to the door of the bedchamber, and tapping against it gently, it was opened by the elderly lady, to whom he com- municated his errand, and returned with directions from the Queen to admit Sir Robert Melville and Lord Lindesay. Roland Greme returned to the vestibule, and opened the door accord- ingly, into which the Lord Lindesay strode, with the air of a soldier who has fought his way into a conquered fortress ; while Melville, deeply dejected, followed him more slowly. “J draw you to witness, and to record,” said the page to this last, “that, save for the especial commands of the Queen, I would have made good the entrance, with my best strength, and my best blood, against all Scotland.” “Be silent, young man,” said Melville, in a tone of grave rebuke ; “add not brands to fire—this is no time to make a flourish of thy boyish chivalry.” ee “ She has not appeared even yet,” said Lindesay, who had now reached the midst of the parlor or audience-room ; “how call you this trifling ?”’ bk ‘t Patience, my lord,” replied Sir Robert, “time presses not -—_and Lord Ruthven hath not as yet descended,” fangAe THE ABBOT. At this moment the door of theinner apartment opened, ani Queen Mary presented herself, advancing with an air of peculiar grace and majesty, and seeming totally unruffled, either by the visit, or by the rude manner in which it had been enforced. Her dress was a robe of black velvet ; a small ruff, open in front, gave a full view of her beautifully formed chin and neck, but veiled the bosom. On her head she wore a small cap of lace, and a transparent white veil hung from her shoulders over the long black robe, in large loose folds, so that it could be drawn at pleasure over the face and person. She wore a cross of gold around her neck, and had her rosary of gold and ebony hang- ing from her girdle. She was closely followed by her two ladies, who remained standing behind her during the conference. Ever Lord Lindesay, though the rudest noble of that rude age, was surprised into something like respect by the unconcerned and majestic mien of her, whom he had expected to find frantic with impotent passion, or dissolved in useless and vain sorrow, or overwhelmed with the fears likely in such a situation to assail fallen royalty. , “We fear we have detained you, my Lord of Lindesay,” said the Queen, while she courtesied with dignity in answer to his reluctant obeisance ; ‘“‘ but a female does not willingly receive her visitors without some minutes spent at the toilette. Men, my lord, are less dependent on such ceremonies.”’ Lord Lindesay, casting his eye down on his own travel- stained and disordered dress, muttered something of a hasty journey, and the Queen paid her greeting to Sir Robert Melville, with courtesy, and even, as it seemed, with kindness. There was then a dead pause, during which Lindesay looked towards the door, as if expecting with impatience the colleague of their embassy. The Queen alone was entirely unembarrassed, and, as if to break the silence, she addressed Lord Lindesay, with a glance at the large and cumbrous sword which he wore, as already mentioned, hanging from his neck. ‘ You have there a trusty and a weighty travelling com- panion, my lord. I trust you expected to meet with no enemy here, against whom such a formidable weapon could be neces- sary? It is, methinks, somewhat a singular ornament for a court, though I am, as I well need to be, too much of a Stuart to fear a sword.” “It is not the first time, madam,” replied Lindesay, bringing round the weapon so as to rest its point on the ground, and leaning one hand on the huge cross-handle, “it is not the first time that this weapon had intruded itself into the presence of the House of Stuart.”THE ABBOT. 221 “ Possibly, my lord,” replied the Queen, “ it may have done service to my ancestors—Your ancestors were men of loyalty.” ‘Ay, madam,” replied he, “ service it hath done ; but such as kings love neither to acknowledge nor to reward. It was the service which the knife renders to the tree when trimming it to the quick, and depriving it of the superfluous growth of rank and unfruitful suckers, which rob it of nourishment.” ‘You talk riddles, my lord,” said Mary ; “I will hope the explanation carries nothing insulting with it.” “You shall judge, madam,” answered Lindesay. “ With this good swerd was Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, girded on the memorable day when he acquired the name of Bell-the- Cat, for dragging from the presence of your great-grandfather, the third James of the race, a crew of minions, flatterers, and favorites, whom he hanged over the bridge of Lauder, as a warning to such reptiles how they approached a Scottish throne. With this same weapon, the same inflexible champion of Scot- tish honor and nobility slew at one blow Spens of Kilspindie, a courtier of your grandfather, James the Fourth, who had dared to speak lightly of him in the royal presence. They fought near the brook of Fala; and Bell-the-Cat, with this blade, sheared through the thigh of his opponent, and lopped the limb as easily as a shepherd’s boy slices a twig from a sapling.” “My lord,” replied the Queen, reddening, “my nerves are too good to be alarmed even by this terrible history—May I ask how a blade so illustrious passed from the House of Douglas to that of Lindesay ?—Methinks it should have been preserved as a consecrated relic, by a family who have held all that they could do against their king, to be done in favor of their country.” “Nay, madam,” said Melville, anxiously interfering, “ask not that question of Lord Lindesay—And you, my lord, for shame—for decency—forbear to reply to it.” ‘Tt is time that this lady should hear the truth, ’ Lindesay. ) “ And be assured,” said the Queen, ‘that she will be moved to anger by none that you can tell her, my lord. ‘here are cases in which just scorn has always the mastery over just anger.” ee Then know,” said Lindesay, “ that upon the field of Car- berry Hill, when that false and infamous traitor and murderer, James, sometime Earl of Bothwell and nicknamed Duke of Orkney, offered to do personal battle with any of the associated y replied222 THE ABBOT. nobles who came to drag him to justice, I accepted his chal lenge, and was by the noble Earl of Morton gifted with his good sword, that I might therewith fight it out—Ah! so help me Heaven, had his presumption been one grain more, or his cowardice one grain less, I should have done such work with this good steel on his traitorous corpse, that the hounds and carrion-crows should have found their morsels daintily carved to their use!” The Queen’s courage well-nigh gave way at the mention of Bothwell’s name—a name connected with such a train of guilt, shame, and disaster. But the prolonged boast of Lindesay gave her time to rally herself, and to answer with an appearance of cold contempt—“ It is easy to slay an enemy who enters not the lists. But had Mary Stuart inherited her father’s sword as well as his sceptre, the boldest of her rebels should not upon that day have complained that they had no one to cope withal. Your lordship will forgive me if I abridge this conference. A brief description of a bloody fight is long enough to satisfy a lady’s curiosity ; and unless my lord of Lindesay has something more important to tell us than of the deeds which old Bell-the- Cat achieved, and how he would himself have emulated them, had time and tide permitted, we will retire to our private apart- ment, and you, Fleming, shall finish reading to us yonder little treatise, Des Rodomontades Espagnolles.” ‘““Tarry, madam,” said Lindesay, his complexion reddening in his turn; “I know your quick wit too well of old to have sought an interview that you might sharpen its edge at the expense of my honor. Lord Ruthven and myself, with Sir Robert Melville as a concurrent, come to your Grace on the part of the Secret Council, to tender to you what much concerns the safety of your own life and the welfare of the State.” “The Secret Council ?” said the Queen; “ by what powers can it subsist or act, while I, from whom its holds its character, am here detained under unjust restraint? But it matters not— what concerns the welfare of Scotland shall be acceptable to Mary Stuart, come from whatever quarter it will—and for what concerns her own life, she has lived long enough to be weary of it, even at the age of twenty-five-——Where is your colleague, my lord ?—why tarries he?” “He comes, madam,” said Melville, and Lord Ruthven en- ered at the instant, holding in his hand a packet. As the Queen returned his salutation she became deadly pale, but in- stantly recovered herself by dint of strong and sudden resolu- tion, just as the noble, whose appearance seemed to excite suchTHE ABBOT. 223 émotions in her bosom, entered the apartment in company with George Dougias, the youngest son of the Knight of Lochleven, who, during the absence of his father and brethren, acted as Seneschal cf the Castle, under the direction of the elder Lady Lochleven, his father’s mother. CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND., I give this heavy weight from off my head, . 7 Be 1 Ard this unwieldy sceptre from my hand ; With mine own tears I wash away my balm, With my own hand I give away my crown, With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duteous oaths. RicHARD II. Lorp RUTHVEN had the look and bearing which became a soldier and a statesman, and the martial cast of his form and features procured him the popular epithet of Greysteil, by which he was distinguished by his intimates, after the hero of a metrical romance then generally known. His dress, which was a buff- coat embroidered, had a half military character, but exhibited nothing of the sordid negligence which distinguished that of Lindesay. But the son of an ill-fated sire, and the father of a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his look that cast of inauspicious melancholy, by which the physiognomists of that time pretended to distinguish those who were predestined to a violent and unhappy death. The terror which the presence of this nobleman impressed on the Queen’s mind, arose from the active share he had borne in the slaughter of David Rizzio ; his father having presided at the perpetration of that abominable crime, although so weak from long and wasting illness, that he could not endure the weight of his armor, having arisen from a sick-bed to commit a murder in the presence of his Sovereign. On that occasion his son also had attended and taken an active part. It was little to be wondered at, that the Queen, considering her condition when such a deed of horror was acted in her presence, should retain an instinctive terror for the principal actors in the murder She returned, however, with grace the salutation of Lord Ruth ven, and extended her hand to George Douglas, who kneeled, and kissed it with respect ; the first mark of a subject’s homage224 THE ABBOT. which Roland Grame had seen any of them render to the captive Sovereign. She returned his greeting in silence, and there was a brief pause, during which the steward of the castle, a man of a sad brow and a severe eye, placed, under George Douglas’s directions, a table and writing materials ; and the page, obedient to his mistress’s dumb signal, advanced a large chair to the side on which the Queen stood, the table thus forming a sort of bar which divided the Queen and her personal followers from her unwelcome visitors. The steward then withdrew after a low reverence. When he had closed the door behind him, the Queen broke silence—“ With your favor, my lords, I will sit—my walks are not indeed extensive enough at present to fatigue me greatly, yet I find repose something more necessary than usual.” She sat down accordingly, and, shading her cheek with her beautiful hand, looked keenly and impressively at each of the nobles in turn. Mary Fleming applied her kerchief to her eyes, and Catherine Seyton and Roland Graeme exchanged a glance, which showed that both were too deeply engrossed with senti- ments of interest and commiseration for their royal mistress, to think of anything which regarded themselves. ‘““T wait the purpose of your mission, my lords,” said the Queen, after she had been seated for about a minute without a word being spoken,—‘‘ I wait your message from those you call the Secret Council.—I trust it is a petition of pardon, and a desire that I will resume my rightful throne, without using with due severity my right of punishing those who have dispossessed me of it.” “ Madam,” replied Ruthven, “it is painful for us to speak harsh truths to a Princess who has long ruledus. But we come to offer, not to implore, pardon. Ina word, madam, we have to propose to you, on the part of the Secret Council, that you sign these deeds, which will contribute greatly to the pacifica- tion of the State, the advancement of God’s word. and the wel- fare of your own future life.” “Am I expected to take these fair words on trust, my lord? or may I hear the contents of these reconciling papers, ere I am asked to sign them? ” “ Unquestionably, madam ; it is our purpose and wish, you should read what you are required to sign,” replied Ruthven. “Required?” replied the Queen, with some emphasis ; “but the phrase suits well the matter—read, my lord.” ; The Lord Ruthven proceeded to read a formal instrument, running in the Queen’s name, and setting forth that she had -THE ABBOT. 226 been called, at an early age, to the administration of the crown and realm of Scotland, and had toiled diligently therein, until she was in body and spirit so wearied out and disgusted, that she was unable any longer to ensure the travail and pain of State affairs ; and that since God had blessed her with a fair and hopeful son, she was desirous to ensure to him, even while she yet lived, his succession to the crown, which was his by right of hereditary descent. “Wherefore,” the instrument proceeded, ‘‘ we, of the motherly affection we bear to our said son, have renounced and demitted, and by these our letters, of free good-will, renounce and demit, the Crown, government, and guiding of the realm of Scotland, in favor of our said son, that he may succeed to us as native prince thereof, as much as if we had been removed by disease, and not by our own proper act. And that this demission of our royal authority may have the more full and solemn effect, and none pretend ignorance, we give, grant, and commit, full and free and plain power to our trusty cousins, Lord Lindesay of the Byres, and William Lord Ruthven, to appear in our name before as many of the nobility, clergy, and burgesses, as may be assembled at Stirling, and there, in our name and behalf, publicly, and in their pres- ence, to renounce the Crown, guidance, and government, of this our kingdom of Scotland.”’ The Queen here broke in with an air of extreme surprise. ‘How is this, my lords?” she said: “Are my ears turned rebels, that they deceive me with sounds so extraordinary ?— And yet it is no wonder that, having conversed so long with rebellion, they should now force its language upon my under- standing. Say [I am mistaken, my lords—say, for the honor of yourselves and the Scottish nobility, that my right trusty cousins of Lindesay and Ruthven, two barons of warlike fame and ancient line, have not sought the prison-house of their kind mistress for such a purpose as these words seem to imply. Say, for the sake of honor and loyalty, that my ears have deceived me: “No, madam,” said Ruthven gravely, “your ears do zot deceive you—they deceived you when they were closed against the preachers of the evangele, and the honest advice of your faithful subjects ; and when they were ever open to flattery of pickthanks and traitors, foreign cubiculars and domestic minions. The land may no longer brook the rule of one who cannot rule herself ; wherefore, I pray you to comply with the last remain- ing wish of your subjects and counsellors, and spare yourself and us the farther agitation of matter so painful.” 15268 THE ABBOT. “ And is this 2 my loving subjects require of me, Lay lord?” gaid Mary, in a tone of bitter irony. “Do they really stint themselves to the easy boon that I should yield up the crown, which is mine by birthright, to an infant which is scarcely more than a year old—fling down my sceptre, and take up a distaff? —Oh no! it is too little for them to ask—That other roll of parchment contains something harder to be complied with, and which may more highly task my readiness to comply with the petitions of my lieges.” “This parchment,” answered Ruthven, in the same tone of inflexible gravity, and unfolding the instrument as he spoke, “is one by which your Grace constitutes your nearest in blood, and the most honorable and trustworthy of your ‘subjects, James, Earl of Murray, Regent of the kingdom during the minority of the young King. He already holds the appoint- ment from the Secret Council.” The Queen gave a sort of shriek, and, clapping her hands together, exclaimed, “Comes the arrow out of his quiver ?— out of my brother’s bow?—Alas! I looked for his return from France as my sole, at least my-readiest, chance of deliverance. —And yet, when I heard that he had assumed the government, I guessed he would shame’to wield it in my name.” “T must pray your answer, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, “to the demand of the Council.” “The demand of the Council!” said the Queen; “say rather the demand of a set of robbers, impatient to divide the spoil they have seized. ‘To such a demand, and sent by the mouth of a traitor, whose scalp, but for my womanish mercy, should long since have stood on the city gates, Mary of Scot- land has no answer.” “T trust, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, ‘‘ my being unaccept- able to your presence will not add to your obduracy of resolu- tion. It may become you to remember that the death of the minion Rizzio cost the house of Ruthven its head and leader. My father, more worth than a whole province of such vile syco- phants, died in exile, and broken-hearted.” The Queen clasped her hands on her face, and, resting her arms on the table, stooped down her head and wept so bitterly, that the tears were seen to find their way in streams between the white and slender fingers with which she endeavored to conceal them. “My lords,” said Sir Robert Melville, “this is too much rigor. Under your lordship’s favor, we came hither, not to re- vive old griefs, but to find the mode of avoiding new ones.” )THE ABBOT. 224 ‘Sir Robert Melville,” said Ruthven, “we best know for what purpose we were delegated hither, and wherefore you were somewhat unnecessarily sent to attend us.” ‘Nay, by my hand,” said Lord Lindesay, “ I know not why we were cumbered with the good knight, unless he comes in place of the lump of sugar which pothicars put into their who’e- some but bitter medicaments, to please a froward child—a needless labor, methinks, where men have the means to make them swallow the physic otherwise.” ‘Nay, my lords,” said Melville, “ye best know your own secret instructions. I conceive I shall best obey mine in striv- ing to mediate between her Grace and you.” “ Be silent, Sir Robert Melville,” said the Queen, arising, and her face still glowing with agitation as she spoke. “ My kerchief, Fleming—I shame that traitors should have power to move me thus.—Tell me, proud lords,” she added, wiping away the tears as she spoke, “ by what earthly warrant can liege subjects pretend to challenge the rights of an anointed Sov- ereign—to throw off the allegiance they have vowed, and to take away the crown from the head on which Divine warrant hath placed it?” “Madam,” said Ruthven, “1 will deal plainly with you. Your reign, from the dismal field of Pinkiecleugh, when you were a babe in the cradle, till now that ye stand a grown dame before us, hath been such a tragedy of losses, disasters, civil dissensions, and foreign wars, that the like is not to be found in our chronicles. The French and English have, with one consent, made Scotland the battle-field on which to fight out their own ancient quarrel.—For ourselves, every man’s hand hath been against his brother, nor hath a year passed over without rebellion and slaughter, exile of nobles, and oppressing of the commons. We may endure it no longer, and therefore, as a prince, to whom God hath refused the gift of hearkening to wise counsel, and on whose dealings and projects no bless- ing hath ever descended, we pray you to give way to otherrule and governance of the land, that a remnant may yet be saved to this distracted realm.” ‘My lord,” said Mary, “it seems to me that you fling on my unhappy and devoted head those evils, which, with far more justice, I may impute to your own turbulent, wild, and untame- able dispositions—the frantic violence with which you, the Magnates of Scotland, enter into feuds against each other, sticking at no cruelty to gratify your'wrath, taking deep revenge for the slightest offences, and setting at defiance those wise law258 THE ABBOT. which your ancestors made for staunching of such cruelty, ré- belling against the lawful authority, and bearing yourselves as if there were no king in the land; or rather as if each were king in his own premises. And now you throw the blame on me——on me, whose life has been embittered—whose sleep has been broken—whose happiness has been wrecked by your dis- sensions. Have I not myself been obliged to traverse wilds and mountains, at the head of a few faithful followers, to main- tain peace and to put down oppression? Have I not worn harness on my person, and carried pistols at my saddle ; fain to lay aside the softness of a woman, and the dignity of a Queen, that I might show an example to my followers ?” “We grant, madam,” said Lindesay, “that the affrays occa- sioned by your misgovernment, may sometimes have startled you in the midst of a masque or galliard ; or it may be that such may have interrupted the idolatry of the mass, or the jesuitical counsels of some French ambassador. °But the long- est and severest journey which your Grace has taken in my memory, was from Hawick to Hermitage Castle ; and whether it was for the weal of the state, or for your own honor, rests with your Grace’s conscience.” The Queen turned to him with inexpressible sweetness of tone and manner, and that engaging look which Heaven had assigned her, as if to show that the choicest arts to win men’s affections may be given in vain. “ Lindesay,” she said, “you spoke not to me in this stern tone, and with such scurril taunt, yon fair summer evening, when you and I shot at the butts against the Earl of Mar and Mary Livingstone, and won of them the evening’s collation, in the privy garden of Saint Andrew’s. The Master of Lindesay was then my friend, and vowed to be my soldier. How I have offended the Lord of Lindesay [ know not, unless honors have changed man- METS.” Hardhearted as he was, Lindesay seemed struck with this unexpected appeal, but almost instantly replied, “‘ Madam, it is well known that your Grace could in those days make fools of whomever approached you. I pretend not to have been wiser than others. But gayer men and better courtiers soon jostled aside my rude homage, and I think that your Grace cannot but remember times, when my awkward attempts to take the man- ners that pleased you, were the sport of the court-popinjays, the Marys and the Frenchwomen.”’ “My lord, I grieve if I have offended you through idle xayety,” said the Queen ; “and can but say it was most unwit-NVI TAN! HUE HANTS on i i TA A aT Let KA Une lie ' i} ' We HH is | ABDICATION, 1 “4 = = — eH < SCENETHE ABBOT. 22g tingly done. Youare fully revenged ; for through gayety,” she said with a sigh, “will I never offend any one no more.”’ “Our time is wasting, madam,” said Lord Ruthven » $1] must pray vour decision on this weighty matter which I have submitted to you.” ‘What, my lord!” said the Queen, ‘upon the instant, and without a moment’s time to deliberate ?—Can the Counc} , as they term themselves, expect this of me?” “Madam,” replied Ruthven, “ the Council hold the opinion, that since the fatal term which passed betwixt the night, of King Henry’s murder and the day of Carberry-hill, your Grace should have held you prepared for the measure now proposed, as the easiest escape from your numerous dangers and diff- culties.” “Great God!” exclaimed the Queen ; “and isit as a boon that you propose to me, what every Christian king ought to re- gard as a loss of honor. equal to the loss of life!—You take from me my crown, my power, my subjects, ny wealth, my state. What, in the name of every saint, can you offer, or do you offer, in requital of my compliance?” “We give you pardon,” answered Ruthven, sternly— we give you space and means to spend your remaining life in pen- itence and seclusion—we give you time to make your peace with Heaven, and to receive the pure Gospel, which you have ever rejected and persecuted.” | The Queen turned pale at the menace which this speech, as well as the rough and inflexible tones of the speaker, seemed distinctly to infer—‘ And if I do not comply with your request so fiercely urged, my lord, what then follows?” She said this in a voice in which female and natural fear was contending with the feelings of insulted dignity.—There was a pause, as if no one cared to return to the question a distinct answer. At length Ruthven spoke: “There is little need to tell to your Grace, who are well read both in the laws and in the chronicles of the realm, that murder and adultery are crimes for which ere now queens themselves have suffered death.” “ And where, my lord, or how, found you an accusation sv horrible against her who stands before you?” said Queen Mary. “The foul and odious calumnies which have poisoned the general mind of Scotland, and have placed me a helpless prisoner in your hands, are surely no proof of guilt ?”” “We need look for no farther proof,” replied the stern Lord Ruthven, “than the shameless marriage betwixt the widow of the murdered and the leader of the band of murderers !—They230 THE ABBOT. that joined hands in the fated month of May, had already united hearts and counsel in the deed which preceded that marriage but a few brief weeks.” “ My lord, my lord!” said the Queen, eagerly, “ remember well there were more consents than mine to that fatal union, that most unhappy act of a most unhappy life. The evil steps adopted by sovereigns are often the suggestion of bad coun- sellors ; but these counsellors are worse than fiends who tempt and betray, if they themselves are the first to call their unfor- tunate princes to answer for the consequences of their own ad- vice.—Heard ye never of a bond by the nobles, my lord, rec- ommending that ill-fated union to the ill-fated Mary? Me- thinks, were it carefully examined, we should see that the names of Morton, and of Lindesay, and of Ruthven, may be found in that bond, which pressed me to marry that unhappy man.—Ah! stout and loyal Lord Herries, who never knew guile or dishonor, you bent your noble knee to mé in vain, to warn me of my danger, and wert yet the first to draw thy good sword in my cause when I suffered for neglecting thy counsel ! Faithful knight and true noble, what a difference betwixt thee and those counsellors of evil, who now threaten my life for hav- ing fallen into the snares they spread for me!” “ Madam,” said Ruthven, ‘“ we know that you are an orator ; and perhaps for that reason the Council has sent hither men, whose converse hath been more with the wars, than with the language of the schools or the cabals of state. We but desire to know if, on assurance of life and honor, ye will demit the rule of this kingdom of Scotland ?” “ And what warrant have I,” said the Queen, “that ye will keep treaty with me, if I should barter my kingly estate for seclusion, and leave to weep in secret ?”’ ‘Our honor and our word, madam,” answered Ruthven. “ They are too slight and unsolid pledges, my lord,” said the Queen ; “add at least a handful of thistle-down to give them weight in the balance.” “Away, Ruthven,” said Lindesay ; “she was ever deaf to counsel, save of slaves and sycophants; let her remain by her refusal, and abide by it!” : “ Stay, my lord,” said Sir Robert Melville, “ or rather permit me to have but a few minutes’ private audience with her Grace. If my presence with you could avail aught, it must be as a mediator—do not, I conjure you, leave the castle, or break off the conference, until I bring you word how her Grace shall finally stand disposed.”THE ABBOT. 231 ? We will remain in the hall,” said Lindesay, “ for half-an. hour's space ; but in despising our words and our pledge of honor, she has touched the honor of my name—let her look herself to the course she has to pursue. Ifthe half-hour should pass away without her determining to comply with the demands of the nation, her career will be brief enough.” With little ceremony the two nobles left the apartment, traversed the vestibule, and descended the winding stairs, the c-ash of Lindesay’s huge sword being heard as it rang against each step in his descent. George Douglas followed them, after exchanging with Melville a gesture of surprise and sym- pathy. As soon as they were gone, the Queen, giving way to grief, fear, and agitation, threw herself into the seat, wrung her hands, and seemed to abandon herself to despair. Her female attend- ants, weeping themselves, endeavored yet to pray her to be composed, and Sir Robert Melville, kneeling at her feet, made the same entreaty. After giving way to a passionate burst of sorrow, she at length said to Melville, ‘ Kneel not to me, Mel- ville—mock me not with the homage of the person, when the heart is far away—Why stay you behind with the deposed, the condemned? her who has but few hours perchance to live ? You have been favored as well as the rest; why do you con- tinue the empty show of gratitude and thankfulness any longer than they?” “Madam,” said Sir Robert Melville, ‘‘so help me Heaven at my need, my heart is as true to you as when you were in your highest place.” “True to me! true to me!” repeated the Queen, with some scorn ; “tush, Melville, what signifies the truth which walks hand in hand with my enemies’ falsehood ?—thy hand and thy sword have never been so weil acquainted that I can trust thee in aught where manhood is required —Oh, Seyton, for thy bold father, who is both wise, true, and valiant!” Roland Greme could withstand no longer his earnest de- sire to offer his services to a princess so distressed and so beautiful. ‘If one sword,” he said, ‘‘ madam, can do anything to back the wisdom of this grave counsellor, or to defend your rightful cause, here ismy weapon, and here is my hand ready to draw and use it.” And raising his sword with one hand, he laid the other upon the hilt. ae ag As he thus held up the weapon, Catherine Seyton exclaimea, ‘Methinks I see a token from my father, madam ;”’ and im- mediately crossing the apartment, she took Roland Graeme by )232 THE ABBOT. the skirt of the cloak, and asked him earnestly whence he had that sword. The page answered with surprise, “ Methinks this is no pres- ence in which to jest—Surely, damsel, you yourself best know whence and how I obtained the weapon.” “Ts this a time for folly? ” said Catherine Seyton ; sheathe the sword instantly !” “Tf the Queen commands me,” said the youth, looking towards his royal mistress. “For shame, maiden!” said the Queen; “ wouldst thou instigate the poor boy to enter into useless strife with the two most approved soldiers in Scotland ?” “Tn your Grace’s cause,” replied the page, “I will venture my life upon them!” And as he spoke, he drew his weapon partly from the sheath, and a piece of parchment, rolled around the blade, fell out and dropped onthe floor. Catherine Seyton caught it up with eager haste. “Tt is my father’s handwriting,” she said, ‘and doubtless conveys his best duteous advice to your Majesty ; I know that it was prepared to be sent in this weapon, but I expected another messenger.”’ “By my faith, fair one,” thought Roland, “ and if you knew not that I had such a secret missive about me, I was yet more ignorant.” The Queen cast her eye upon the scroll, and remained a few minutes wrapped in deep thought. ‘“ Sir Robert Melville,” she at length said, “this scroll advises me to submit myself to necessity, and to subscribe the deeds these hard men have brought with them, as one who gives way to the natural fear inspired by the threats of rebels and murderers. You, Sir Robert, are a wise man, and Seyton is both sagacious and brave. Neither, I think, would mislead me in this matter.” “Madam,” said Melville, “if 1 have not the strength of body ot the Lord Herries or Seyton, I will yield to neither in zeal for your Majesty’s service. I cannot fight for you like these lords, but neither of them is more willing to die for your ser- vice.” f “1 believe it, my old and faithful counsellor,” said the Queen, ‘‘ and believe me, Melville, I did thee but a moment’s injustice. Read what my Lord Seyton hath written to us, and give us thy best counsel.” pee glanced over the parchment, and instantly replied— Qh! my dear and royal mistress, only treason itself could give you other advice than Lord Seyton has here expressed. ** un-THE ABBOT. 233 He, Herries, Huntly, the English Ambassador Throgmorton: and others, your friends, are all alike of opinion, that whatever deeds or instruments you execute within these walls, must lose all force and effect, as extorted from your Grace by duresse, by sufferance of present evil, and fear of men, and harm to ensue on your refusal. Yield, therefore, to the tide, and be assured, that in subscribing what parchments they present to you, you bind yourself to nothing, since your act o f signature wants that which alone can make it valid, the free will of the granter.” “ Ay, so says my Lord Seyton,” replied Mary ; “yet me- ‘hinks, for the daughter of so long a line of sovereigns to resign ner birthright, because rebels press upon her with threats, argues little of royalty, and will read ill for the fame of Mary in future chronicles. Tush! Sir Robert Melville, the traitors may use black threats and bold words, bu they will not dare to put their hands forth on our person.” “Alas! madam, they have already dared so far and in curred such peril by the lengths which they have gone, that they are but one step from the worst and uttermost.” “Surely,” said the Queen, her fears again predominating, “Scottish nobles would not lend themselves to assassinate a helpless woman?” “Bethink you, madam,” he replied, “ what horrid spectacles have been seen in our day; and what act is so dark, that some Scottish hand has not been found to dare it? Lord Lindesay, besides his natural sullenness and hardness of temper, is the near kinsman of Henry Darnley, and Ruthven has his own deep and dangerous plans. The Council, besides, speak of proofs by writ and word, of a casket with letters—of I know not what.” “Ah! good Melville,” answered the Queen, “were I as sure of the evenhanded integrity of my judges, as of my own innocence—and yet . “Oh! pause, madam,” said Melville ; “even innocence must sometimes for a season stoop to injurious blame. Besides, you are here——”’ He looked round and paused. “Speak out, Melville,” said the Queen, “never one ap- proached my person who wished to work me evil ; and es this poor page, whom I have to-day seen for the first time in my life, I can trust safely with your communication. os ‘““Nay, madam,’’ answered Melville, - in such emergence, and he being the bearer of Lord Seyton’s message, I will — ‘ure to say, before him and these fair ladies, whose truth and fidelity I dispute not—I say I will venture to say, that there are234 THE ABBOT. other modes besides that of -open trial, by which deposed sovereigns often die; and that, as Machiavel saith, there is but one step betwixt a king’s prison and his grave.” “Oh! were it but swift and easy for the body,” said the unfortunate Princess, “‘ were it but a safe and happy change for the soul, the woman lives not that would take the step so soon as I—But, alas! Melville, when we think of death, a thousand sins, which we have trod as worms beneath our feet, rise up against us as flaming serpents. Most injuriously do they accuse me of aiding Darnley’s death ; yet, blessed Lady! I afforded too open occasion for the suspicion—I espoused Bothwell.” “Think not of that now, madam,” said Melville, “ think rather of the immediate mode of saving yourself and son. Comply with the present unreasonable demands, and trust that better times will shortly arrive.” ; “Madam,” said Roland Greme, “if it pleases you that I should do so, I will presently swim through the lake, if they refuse me other conveyance to the shore; I will go to the courts successively of England, France, and Spain, and will show you have subscribed these vile instruments from no stronger impulse than the fear of death, and I will do battle against them that say otherwise.” The Queen turned her round, and with one of those sweet smiles which, during the era of life’s romance, overpay every risk, held her hand towards Roland, but without speaking a word. He kneeled reverently, and kissed it, and kh lle again resumed his plea. “Madam,” he said, “time presses, and you must not let those boats, which I see they are even now preparing, put torth on the lake. Here are enough of witnesses—your ladies—this bold youth—myself, when it can serve your cause effectually, for I would not hastily stand committed in this matter—but even without me here is evidence enough to show, that you have yielded to the demands of the Council through force and fear, but from no sincere and unconstrained assent. ‘Their boats are already manned for their return—oh! permit your old servant to recall them.” ‘ “ Melville,” said the Queen, ‘thou art an ancient courtier —when didst thou ever know a Sovereign Prince recall to his presence subjects who had parted from him on such terms as those on which these envoys of the Council left us, and who yet were recalled without submission or apology ?—Let it cost me both life and crown, I will not again command them to my presence.”THE ABBOT. 236 “ Alas! madam, that empty form should make a barrier! if I rightly understand, you are not unwilling to listen to real and advantageous counsel—but your scruple is saved—lI hear them returning to ask your final resolution. Oh! take the ad- vice of the noble Seyton, and you may once more command those who now usurp a triumph over you. But hush! I hear them in the vestibule.” 3 As he concluded speaking, George Douglas opened the door of the apartment, and marshalled in the two noble envoys. “ We come, madam,” said the Lord Ruthven, “to request your answer to the proposal of the Council.” “ Your final answer,” said Lord Lindesay; “for with a refusal you must couple the certainty that you have precipitated your fate, and renounced the last opportunity of making peace with God, and ensuring your longer abode in the world.” “My lords,” said Mary, with inexpressible grace and dignity, ‘the evils we cannot resist we must submit to—I will subscribe these parchments with such liberty of choice as my condition permits me. Were I on yonder shore, with a fleet jennet and ten good and loyal knights around me, I would subscribe my sentence of eternal condemnation as soon as the resignation of my throne. But here, in the Castle of Lochleven, with deep water around me—and you, my lords, beside me,—I have no freedom of choice.—Give me the pen, Melville, and bear wit- ness to what I do, and why I do it.” “Tt is our hope your Grace will not suppose yourself com- elled by any apprehensions from us,” said the Lord Ruthven, to execute what must be your own voluntary deed.” The Queen had already stooped towards the table, and placed the parchment before her, with the pen between her fingers, ready for the important act of signature. But when Lord Ruthven had done speaking, she looked up, stopped short, and threw down the pen. “If,” she said, “Iam ex- pected to declare I give away my crown of free will, or other- wise than because I am compelled to renounce it by the threat of worse evils to myself and my subjects, I will not put my name to such an untruth—not to gain full possession of Eng- land, France, and Scotland !—all once my own, in possession, or by;right.”’ : Beware, madam,” said Lindesay, and, snatching hold of the Queen’s arm with his own gauntleted hand, he pressed it, in the rudeness of his passion, more closely, perhaps, than he was himself aware of,—‘ beware how you contend with those who are the stronger, and have the mastery of your fate !236 THE ABBOT. He held his grasp on her arm, bending his eyes on her with a stern and intimidating look, till both Ruthven and Melvalle cried shame ; and Douglas, who had hitherto remained in a state of apparent apathy, had made a stride from the door, as if to interfere. ‘The rude Baron then quitted his hold, disguis- ing the confusion which he really felt at having indulged his passion to such extent, under a sullen and contemptuous smile, The Queen immediately began, with an expression of pain, to bare the arm which he had grasped, by drawing up the sleeve of her gown, and it appeared that his gripe had left the purple marks of his iron fingers upon her flesh—‘“ My lord,” she said, “asa knight and gentleman, you might have spared my frail arm so severe a proof that you have the greater strength on your side, and are resolved to use it—But I thank you for it— it is the most decisive token of the terms on which this day’s business is to rest—I draw you to witness, both lords and ladies,” she said, showing the marks of the grasp on her arm, “that I subscribe these instruments in obedience to the sign manual of my Lord of Lindesay, which you may see imprinted on mine arm.” * Lindesay would have spoken, but was restrained by his col- eague Ruthven, who said to him, ‘ Peace, my lord. Let the Lady Mary of Scotland ascribe her signature to what she will, it is our business to procure it, and carry it to the Council. Should there be debate hereafter on the manner in which it was adhibited, there will be time enough for it.” Lindesay was silent accordingly, only muttering within his beard, “I meant not to hurt her ; but I think women’s flesh be as tender as new fallen snow.”’ The Queen meanwhile subscribed the rolls of parchment with a hasty indifference, as if they had been matters of slight consequence, or of mere formality. When she had performed this painful task, she arose, and, having courtesied to the lords, was about to withdraw to her chamber. Ruthven and Sir Robert Melville made, the first a formal reverence, the second an obeisance, in which his desire to acknowledge his sympathy was obviously checked by the fear of appearing in the eyes of his colleagues too partial to his former mistress. But Lindesay stood motionless, even when they were preparing to withdraw. At length, as if moved by a sudden impulse, he walked round the table which had hitherto been betwixt them and the Queen, kneeled on one knee, took her hand, kissed it, let it fall, and * Note K. Restgnation of Queen Mary.THE ABBOT. 237 arose—“ Lady,” he said, “thou art a noble creature, even though thou hast abused God’s choicest gifts. I pay that de- votion to thy manliness of spirit, which I would not have paid to the power thou hast long undeservedly wielded—I kneel to Mary Stuart, not to the Queen.” ‘*’'he Queen and Mary Stuart pity thee alike, Lindesay,” said Mary—“alike they pity, and they forgive thee. An honored soldier hadst thou been by a king’s side—leagued with rebels, what art thou but a good blade in the hands of a ruffian?— Farewell, my Lord Ruthven, the smoother but the deeper traitor.—Farewell, Melville — Mayest thou find masters that can understand state policy better, and have the means to re- ward it more richly, than Mary Stuart.——Farewell, George of Douglas—make your respected grand-dame comprehend that we would be alone for the remainder of the day—God wot, we have need to collect our thoughts.” All bowed and withdrew ; but scarce had they entered the vestibule, ere Ruthven and Lindesay were at variance. ‘“ Chide not with me, Ruthven,” Lindesay was heard to say, in answer to something more indistinctly urged by his colleague—“‘ Chide not with me, for I will not brook it! You put the hangman’s office on me in this matter, and even the very hangman hath leave to ask some pardon of those on whom he does his office. I would I had as deep cause to be this lady’s friend as I have to be her enemy—thou shouldst see if I spared limb and life in her quarrel.” “ Thou art a sweet minion,” said Ruthven, “ to fight a lady’s quarrel, and all for a brent brow and a tear in the eye! Such toys have been out of thy thoughts this many a year.” “Do me right, Ruthven,” said Lindesay. ‘You are like a polished corselet of steel; it shines more gaudily, but it 1s not a whit softer—nay, it is five times harder than a Glasgow breast- plate of hammered iron. Enough. We know each other.” They descended the stairs, were heard to summon their boats, and the Queen signed to Roland Greme to retire to the vesti- bule, and leave her with her female attendants. ,THE ABBOT. CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. Give me a morsel on the greensward rather, Coarse as you will the cooking—Let the fresh spring Bubble beside my napkin—and the free birds, Twittering and chirping, hop from bough to bough, To claim the crumbs I leave for perquisites— Your prison feasts I like not. THE WOODSMAN, A DRAMA. A RECESS in the vestibule was enlightened by a small win- dow, at which Roland Greme stationed himself to mark the departure of the lords. He could see their followers muster- ing on horseback under their respective banners—the western sun glancing on their corselets and steel caps as they moved to and fro, mounted or dismounted, at intervals. On the nar- row space betwixt the castle and the water, the Lords Ruthven and Lindesay were already moving slowly to their boats, ac- companied by the Lady of Lochleven, her grandson, and their principal attendants. ‘They took a ceremonious leave of each other, as Roland could discern by their gestures, and the boats put off from their landing-place ; the boatmen stretched to their oars, and they speedily diminished upon the eye of the idle gazer, who had no better employment than to watch their mo- tions. Such seemed also the occupation of the Lady Lochleven and George Douglas, who, returning from the landing-place, looked frequently back to the boats, and at length stopped as if to observe their progress under the window at which Roland Greme was stationed.—As they gazed on the lake, he could hear the lady distinctly say, “ And she has bent her mind to save her life at the expense of her kingdom?” “Her life, madam!” replied her son; “I know not who would dare to attempt it in the castle of my father. Had I dreamt that it was with such purpose that Lindesay insisted on bringing his followers hither, neither he nor they should have passed the iron gate of Lochleven Castle.” “ T speak not of private slaughter, my son, but of open trial, condemnation, and execution ; for with such she has been threat- ened, and to such threats she has given way. Had she not more of the false Guisian blood than of the royal race of Scotland in her veins, she had bidden them defiance to their teeth—But it is all of the same complexion, and meanness isTHE ABBOT. 239 the natural companion of profligacy.—I am aischarged, for sooth, from intruding on her gracious presence this evening. Go thou, my son, and render the usual service of the meal to this unqueenec Queen.” ‘So please you, lady mother,’ greatly to approach her presence.” “Thou art right, my son; and therefore I trust thy pru- dence, even because I have noted thy caution. She 1s like an isle on the ocean, surrounded with shelves and quicksands ; its verdure fair and inviting to the eye, but the wreck of many a goodly vessel which hath apprehended it too rashly. But for thee, my son, I fear naught ; and we may not, with our honor, suffer her to eat without the attendance of one of us. She may die by the judgment of Heaven, or the fiend may have power over her in her despair; and then we would be touched in honor to show, that in our house, and at our table, she had all fair play and fitting usage.” Here Roland was interrupted by a smart tap on the shoulders reminding him sharply of Adam Woodcock’s adventure of the preceding evening. He turned round, almost expecting to see the page of Saint Michael’s hostelrie. He saw, indeed, Cath- erine Seyton ; but she was in female attire, differing, no doubt, a great deal in shape and materials from that which she had worn when they first met, and becoming her birth as the daughter of a great baron, and her rank as the attendant on a princess. ‘So, fair page,” said she, ‘‘ eaves-dropping 1s one of your page-like qualities, I presume.” “‘ Fair sister,” answered Roland, in the same tone, “if some friends of mine be as well acquainted with the rest of our mystery as they are with the arts of swearing, swaggering, and switching, they need ask no page In Christendom for farther insight into his vocation.” “ Unless that pretty speech infer that you have yourself had the discipline of the switch since we last met, the probability whereof I nothing doubt, I profess, fair page, I am ata loss to conjecture your meaning. But there is no time to dehate it now—they come with the evening meal. Be pleased, Sir Page, to do your duty. Four servants entered bearing dishes, preceded by the same stern old steward whom Roland had already seen, and followed by George Douglas, already mentioned as the grandson of the Lady of Lochleven, and who, acting as seneschal, represented, upon this occasion, his father, the Lord of the Castle. H e entered with his arms folded on his bosom, and his looks bent d said Douglas, ‘‘I care not240 THE ABBOT. on the ground. With the assistance of Roland Graeme, a table was suitably covered in the next or middle apartment, on which the domestics placed their burdens with great reverence, the steward and Douglas bending low when they had seen the table properly adorned, as if their royal prisoner had sat at the board in question. The door opened, and Douglas, raising his eyes hastily, cast them again on the earth, when he perceived it was only the Lady Mary Fleming who entered. “Her Grace,” she said, “ will not eat to-night.’’ “Let us hope she may be otherwise persuaded,” said Douglas ; “ meanwhile, madam, please to see our duty per: formed.” A servant presented bread and salt on a silver plate, and the old steward carved for Douglas a small morsel in succes- sion from each of the dishes presented, which he tasted, as was then the custom at the tables of princes, to which death was often suspected to find its way in the disguise of food. “The Queen will not then come forth to-night?” said Douglas. “She has so determined,” replied the lady. “Our farther attendance then is unnecessary—we leave you to your supper, fair ladies, and wish you good even.” He retired slowly as he came, and with the same air of deep dejection, and was followed by the attendants belonging to the castle. The two ladies sate down to their meal, and Roland Graeme, with ready alacrity, prepared to wait upon them, Catherine Seyton whispered to her companion, who replied with _ the question spoken in a low tone, but looking at the page— “Is he of gentle blood and well nurtured ? ” The answer which she received seemed satisfactory, for she said to Roland, “Sit down, young gentleman, and eat with your sisters in captivity.” “ Permit me rather to perform my duty in attending them,” said Roland, anxious to show he was possessed of the high tone of deference prescribed by the rules of chivalry towards the fair sex, and especially to dames and maidens of quality. “You will find, Sir Page,” said Catherine, “you will have little time allowed you for your meal ; waste it not in ceremony, or you may rue your politeness ere to-morrow morning.” “ Your speech is too free, maiden,” said the elder lady ; ~ the modesty of the youth may teach you more fitting fashions towards one whom to-day you have seen for the first time.” Catherine Seyton cast down her eyes, but not till she had given a single glance of inexpressible archness towards Roland,roe SE Py Ry THE ABBOT. 241 whom her more grave companion now addressed in a tone of protection. ‘‘ Regard her not, young gentleman—she knows little of the world, save the forms of a country nunnery—take thy place at the board-end, and refresh thyself after thy journey.” Roland Graeme obeyed willingly, as it was the first food he had that day tasted ; for Lindesay and his followers seemed regardless of human wants. Yet, notwithstanding the sharp- ness of his appetite, a natural gallantry of disposition, the desire of showing himself a well-nurtured gentleman, in all courtesies towards the fair sex, and, for aught I know, the pleasure of assisting Catherine Seyton, kept his attention awake, during the meal, to all those nameless acts of duty and service which gallants of that age were accustomed to render. He carved with neatness and decorum, and selected duly what- ever was most delicate to place before the ladies. Ere they could form a wish, he sprung from the table, ready to comply with it—poured wine—tempered it with water—removed and exchanged trenchers, and performed the whole honors of the table, with an air at once of cheerful diligence, profound respect, and graceful promptitude. When he observed that they had finished eating he hastened to offer to the elder lady the silver ewer, basin, and napkin, with the ceremony and gravity which he would have used tow- ards Mary herself. He next with the same decorum, having supplied the basin with fair water, presented it to Catherine Seyton. Apparently, she was determined to disturb his self- possession if possible; for, while in the act of bathing her hands, she contrived, as it were by accident, to flirt some drops of water upon the face of the assiduous assistant. But if such was her mischievous purpose she was completely disappointed ; for Roland Graeme, internally piquing himself on his self-com- mand, neither laughed nor was discomposed ; and all that the maiden gained by her frolic was a severe rebuke from her com- panion, taxing her with mal-address and indecorum. Catherine replied not, but sat pouting, something in the humor of a spoilt child, who watches the opportunity of wreaking upon some one or other its resentment for a deserved reprimand. The Lady Mary Fleming, in the mean while, was naturally well pleased with the exact and reverent observance of the page, and said to Catherine, after a favorable glance at Roland Grame,—“ You might well say, Catherine, our companion in captivity was well born and gentle nurtured. I would not make him vain by my praise, but his ae enable us to dispense IB42 THE ABBOT. with those which George Douglas condescends net to afford us, save when the Queen is herself in presence.” “Umph! I think hardly,” answered Catherine. “George Douglas is one of the most handsome gallants in Scotland, and tis pleasure to see him even still, when the gloom of Lochleven Castle has shed the same melancholy over him, that it has done over everything else. When he was at Holyrood, who would have said the young sprightly George Douglas would have been contented to play the locksman here in Lochleven, with no gayer amusement than that of turning the key on two or three helpless women ?—a strange office for a knight of the Bleeding Heart—why does he not leave it to his father or his brothers? ”’ ‘“‘ Perhaps, like us, he has no choice,” answered the Lady Fleming. ‘ But, Catherine, thou hast used thy brief space at court well, to remember what George Douglas was then.” ‘“‘T used mine eyes, which I suppose was what I was designed to do, and they were worth using there. When I was at the nunnery, they were very useless appurtenances ; and now I am at Lochleven, they are good for nothing, save to look over that eternal work of embroidery.” “Vou speak thus, when you have been but a few brief hours amongst us—was this the maiden who would live and die in a dungeon, might she but have permission to wait on her gracious Oueen? ‘““Nay, if you chide in earnest, my jest is ended,” said Catherine Seyton. “I would not yield in attachment to my poor god-mother, to the gravest dame that ever had wise saws upon her tongue, and a double-starched ruff around her throat —you know I would not, Dame Mary Fleming, and its putting shame on me to say otherwise.” “She will challenge the other court lady,” thought Roland Greme ; “she will to a certainty fling down her glove, and if Dame Mary Fleming hath but the soul to lift it, we may have a combat in the lists !””—-But the answer of Lady Mary Fleming was such as turns away wrath. “Thou art a good child,” she said, “‘my Catherine, and a faithful ; but Heaven pity him who shall have one day a crea- ture so beautiful to delight him, and a thing so mischievous to torment him—thou art fit to drive twenty husbands stark mad,” “Nay,” said Catherine, resuming the full career of her care- less good-humor, “‘he must be half-witted beforehand, that gives me such an opportunity. But I am glad you are not angryTHE ABBOT. 243 with me in sincerity,” casting herself as she spoke into the arms of her friend, and continuing with a tone of apologetic fondness, while she kissed her on either side of the face ; “vou know, my dear Fleming, that I have to contend both with my father’s lofty pride, and with my mother’s high spirit—God bless them! they have left me these good qualities, having small portion to give besides, as times go—and so I am wilful and saucy ; but let me remain only a week in this castle, and oh, my dear Fleming, my spirit will be as chastised and as humble as thine own.” Dame Mary Fleming’s sense of dignity, and love of form, could not resist this affectionate appeal. She kissed Catherine Seyton in her turn affectionately ; while, answering the last part of her speech, she said, “Now Our Lady forbid, dear Catherine, that you should lose aught that is beseeming of what becomes so well your light heart and lively humor. Keep but your sharp wit on this side of madness, and it cannot but be a blessing to us. But Jet me go, mad wench—lI hear her Grace touch her silver call.” And, extricating herself from Catherine’s grasp, she went towards the door of Queen Mary’s apartment, from which was heard the low tone of a silver whistle, which, now only used by the boatswains in the navy, was then, for want of bells, the ordinary mode by which ladies, even of the very highest rank, summoned their domestics. When she had made two or three steps towards the door, how- ever, she turned back, and advancing to the young couple whom she left together, she said, in a very serious though a low tone, “TJ trust it is impossible that we can, any of us, or in any cir- cumstances, forget that, few as we are, we form the household of the Queen of Scotland ; and that, inher calamity, all boyish mirth and childish jesting can only serve to give a great triumph to her enemies, who have already found their account in ob)- jecting to her the lightness of every idle folly that the young and the gay practised in her court.” So saying, she left the apartment. Catherine Seyton seemed much struck with this remonstrance She suffered herself to drop into the seat which she had quitted when she went to embrace Dame Mary Fleming, and for some time rested her brow upon her hands ;_ while Roland Greme looked at her earnestly, with a mixture of emotions which perhaps he himself could neither have analysed nor €x- plained. As she raised her face slowly from the posture to which a momentary feeling of self-rebuke had depressed it, her eyes encountered those of Roland, and hecame gradually am-264 THE ABBOT. mated with their usual spirit of malicious drollery, which not unnaturally excited a similar expression in those of the equally volatile page. They sat for the space of two minutes, each looking at the other with great seriousness on their features, and much mirth in their eyes, until at length Catherine was the first ta break silence. “May I pray you, fair sir,’ she began, very demurely, “ to tell me what you see in my face to arouse looks so extremely sagacious and knowing as those with which it is your worship’s pleasure to honor me? It would seem as there were some wondertu! confidence and intimacy betwixt us, fair sir, if one is to judge from your extremely cunning looks ; and so help me Our Lady, as i never saw you but twice in my life before.” ‘And where were those happy occasions,”’ said Roland, “ if I may be bold enough to ask the question ?”’ “At the nunnery of Saint Catherine’s,” said the damsel, in the first instance ; and, in the second, during five minutes of a certain raid or foray which it was your pleasure to make into the lodging of my lord and father, Lord Seyton, from which, to my surprise, as probably to your own, you returned with a token of friendship and favor, instead of broken bones, which were the more probable reward of your intrusion, considering the prompt ire of the house of Seyton. Iam deeply mortified,” she added, ironically, “that your recollection should require refreshment on a subject so important; and that my memory should be stronger than yours on such an occasion is truly humiliating.” ‘Vour own memory is not so exactly correct, fair mistress,” answered the page, “seeing you have forgotten meeting the third, in the hostelrie of St. Michael’s, when it pleaséd you to lay your switch across the face of my comrade, in order, I war- rant, to show that, in the house of Seyton, neither the prompt ire of its descendants, nor the use of the doublet and hose, are subject to Salique law, or confined to the use of the males.” “Fair sir,” answered Catherine, looking at him with great steadiness and some surprise, “unless your fair wits have for- saken you, I am at a loss what to conjecture of your meaning.” ‘“‘By my troth, fair mistress,” answered Roland, “and were I as wise a warlock as Michael Scott, I could scarce riddle the dream you read me. Did I not see you last night in the hos- telrie of St. Michael’s ?—Did you not bring me this sword, with ‘command not to draw it save at the command of my native and rightful Sovereign? And have I not done as you required me? Oris the sword a piece of lath—my word a bulrush—niyTHE ABBOT. ve memory adream—and my eyes good for naught—espiais which corbies might pick out of my head ?” — And if your eyes serve you not more truly on other occa- sions than in your vision of St. Michael,” said Catherine, “I know not, the pain apart, that the corbies would do you any great injury in the deprivation—But hark, the bell—hush, for God’s sake, we are interrupted i The damsel was right ; for no sooner had the dull toll of the castle bell begun to resound through the vaulted apartment, than the door of the vestibule flew open, and the steward, with his severe countenance, his gold chain, and his white rod, entered the apartment, followed by the same train of domestics who had placed the dinner on the table, and who now, with the same ceremonious formality, began to remove it. The steward remained motionless as some old picture, while the domestics did their office ; and when it was accomplished, everything removed from the table, and the board itself taken from its tressels and disposed against the wall, he said aloud, without addressing anyone in particular, and somewhat in the tone of a herald reading a proclamation, ‘‘ My noble lady, Dame Margaret Erskine, by marriage Douglas, lets the Lady Mary of Scotland and her attendants to wit, thata servant of the true evangele, her reverend chaplain, will to-night, as usual, expound, lecture, and catechise, according to the forms of the congregation of gospellers.”’ “Hark you, my friend Mr. Dryfesdale,” said Catherine, “I understand this announcement is a nightly form of yours. Now, I pray you to remark, that the Lady Fleming and I—for I trust your insolent invitation concerns us only—have chosen Saint Peter’s pathway to Heaven, so I see no one whom your godly exhortation, catechise, or lecture, can benefit, excepting this poor page, who, being in Satan’s hand as well as yourself, had better worship with you than remain to cumber our better- advised devotions.” The page was well-nigh giving a round denial to the assertions which this speech implied, when, remembering what had passed betwixt him and the Regent, and seeing Catherine’s finget raised in a monitory fashion, he felt himself, as on former Oc: casions at the Castle of Avenel, obliged to submit to the task of dissimulation, and followed Dryfesdale down to the castle chapel, where he assisted in the devotions of the evening. The chaplain was named Elias Henderson. He was a man in the prime of life, and possessed of good natural parts, care- fully improved by the best education which those times afforded.THE ABBOT. To these qualities were added a faculty of close and terse easoning ; and, at intervals, a flow of happy illustration and natural eloquence. ‘The religious faith of Roland Greeme, as we have already had opportunity to observe, rested on no secure basis, but was entertained rather in obedience to his grandmother’s behests, and his secret desire to contradict the chaplain of Avenel Castle, than from any fixed or steady reliance which he placed on the Romishcreed. His ideas had been of late considerably enlarged by the scenes he had passed through ; and feeling that there was shame .in not understand- ing something of those political disputes betwixt the professors of the ancient and of the reformed faith, he listened with more attention than it had hitherto been in his nature to yield on such occasions, to an animated discussion of some of the principal points of difference betwixt the churches. So passed away the first day in the Castle of Lochleven ; and those which followed it were, for some time, of a very monotonous and uniform tenor. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. ’Tis a weary life this—— Vaults overhead, and grates and bars around me, And my sad hours spent with as sad companions, Whose thoughts are broodng o’er their own mischances, Far, far too deeply to take part in mine. Tur WooDSMAN. THE course of life to which Mary and her little retinue were doomed, was in the last degree secluded and lonely, varied only as the weather permitted or rendered impossible the Queen’s usual walk in the garden oron the battlements. The greater part of the morning she wrought with her ladies at those pieces of needlework,many of which still remain proofs of her indefatigable application. t such hours the page was permitted the free- dom of the castle and islet; nay, he was sometimes invited to attend George Douglas when he went a-sporting upon the lake, or on its margin; opportunites of diversion which were only clouded by the remarkable melancholy which always seemed to brood on that gentleman’s brow, and to mark his whole de- meanor,—a sadness so profound, that Roland never observed him to smile, or to speak any word unconnected with the imme. diate object of their exercise.THE ABBOT. 244 The most pleasant part of Roland’s day, was the occasional space which he was permitted to pass in personal attendance on the Queen and her ladies, together with the regular dinner- time, which he always spent with Dame Mary Fleming and Catherine Seyton. At these periods, he had frequent occasion to admire the lively spirit and inventive imagination of the latter damsel, who was unwearied in her contrivances to amuse her mistress, and to banish, for a time at least, the melancholy which preyed onher bosom. She danced, she sung, she recited tales of ancient and modern times, with that heartfelt exertion of talent, of which the pleasure lies not in the vanity of dis- playing it to others, but in the enthusiastic consciousness that we possess it ourselves. And yet these high accomplishments were mixed with an air of rusticity and harebrained vivacity, which seemed rather to belong to some village maid, the coquette of the ring around the Maypole, than to the high-bred descendant of an ancient baron. A touch of audacity, altogether short of effrontery, and far less approaching to vulgarity, gave as it were a wildness to all that she did; and Mary, while de- fending her from some of the occasional censures of her grave companion, compared her to a trained singing-bird escaped from a cage, which practises in all the luxuriance of freedom, and in full possession of the greenwood bough, the airs which it had learned during its earlier captivity. The moments. which the page was permitted to pass in the presence of this fascinating creature danced so rapidly away, that, brief as they were, they compensated the weary dulness of all the rest of the day. The space of indulgence, however, was always brief, nor were any private interviews betwixt him and Catherine permitted, or even possible. Whether it were some special precautions respecting the Queen’s household, or whether it were her general ideas of propriety, Dame Fleming seemed particularly attentive to prevent the young people from holding any separate correspondence together, and bestowed, for Catherine’s sole benefit in this matter, the full stock of pru- dence and experience which she had acquired, when mother of the Queen’s maidens of honor, and by which she had gained their hearty hatred. Casual meetings, however, could not be prevented, unless Catherine had been more desirous of sme ning, or Roland Greme less anxious In watching for them. smile, a gibe,a sarcasm, disarmed of its severity by the arch look with which it was accompanied, was all that time permitted to pass between themon such occasions. But such passing Inter: views neither afforded means nor opportunity to renew the248 THE ABBOT. discussion of the circumstances attending their earlier acquaint: ance, nor to permit Roland to investigate more accurately the mysterious apparition of the page in the purple velvet cloak at the hostelrie of Saint Michael’s. The winter months slipped heavily away, and spring was already advanced, when Roland Graeme observed a gradual change in the manners of his fellow-prisoners. Having no business of his own to attend to, and being, like those of his age, education, and degree, sufficiently curious concerning what passed around, he began by degrees to suspect, and finally to be convinced, that there was something in agitation among his companions in captivity, to which they did not desire that he should be privy. Nay, he became almost certain that, by some means unintelligible to him, Queen Mary held correspondence beyond the walls and waters which surrounded her prison-house, and that she nourished some secret hope of deliverance or escape. In the conversations betwixt her and her attendants, at which he was necessarily present, the Queen could not always avoid showing that she was acquainted with the events which were passing abroad in the world, and which he only heard through her report. He observed that she wrote more and worked less than had been her former custom, and that, as if desirous to lull suspicion asleep, she changed her manner to- wards the Lady Lochleven into one more gracious, and which seemed to express a resigned submission to ‘her lot. ” Ehey think I am blind,” he said to himself, “and that I am unfit to be trusted because I was so young, or it may be because I was sent hither by the Regent. Well !—be it so—they may be glad to confide in me in the long run ; and Catherine Seyton, for as saucy as she is, may find me as safe a confident as that sullen Douglas, whom she is always running after. It may be they are angry with me for listening to Master Elias Henderson ; but it was their own fault for sending me there ; and ifthe man speaks truth and good sense, and preaches only the word of God, he is as likely to be right as either Pope or Councils.” It is probable that in his last conjecture, Roland Graeme had hit upon the real cause why the ladies had not intrusted him with their councils. He had of late had several conferences with Henderson on the subject of religion, and had given him to understand that he stood in need of his instructions, although he had not thought there was either prudence or necessity for confessing that hitherto he had held the tenets of the Church of Rome. Elias Henderson, a keen Propagator of the reformed fa‘th,THE ABBOT. 249 had sought the seclusion of Lochleven Castle, with the express purpose and expectation of making converts from Rome amongst the domestics of the dethroned Queen, and confirming the faith of those who already held the Protestant doctrines, Perhaps his hopes soared a little higher, and he might nourish some expectation of a proselyte more distinguished in the person of the deposed Queen. But the pertinacity with which she and her female attendants refused to see or listen to him, rendered such hope, if he nourished it, altogether abortive. The opportunity, therefore, of enlarging the religious infor. mation of Roland Greme, and bringing him to a more due sense of his duties to Heaven, was hailed by the good man as a door opened by Providence for the salvation of asinner. He dreamed not, indeed, that he was converting a Papist, but such was the ignorance which Roland displayed upon some material points of the reformed doctrine, that Master Henderson, while praising his docility to the Lady Lochleven and her grandson, seldom failed to add, that his venerable brother, Henry Warden, must be now decayed in strength and in mind, since he found a catechumen of his flock so ill-grounded in the principles of his belief. For this, indeed, Roland Graeme .thought it was unnecessary to assign the reason, which was his having made it a point of honor to forget all that Henry Warden taught him, as soon as he was no longer compelled to read it over as a lesson acquired by rote. The lessons of his new instructor, if not more impressively delivered, were received by a more willing ear, and a more awakened understanding, and the solitude of Lochleven Castle was favorable to graver thoughts than the page had hitherto entertained. He wavered yet, indeed, as one who was almost persuaded ; but his attention to the chaplain’s instructions procured him favor even with the stern old dame herself ; and he was once or twice, but under great precaution, permitted to go to the neighboring village of Kinross, situated on the mainland, to execute some ordinary commission of his unfortunate mistress. For some time Roland Grame might be considered as stand- ing neuter betwixt the two parties who inhabited the water- girdled Tower of Lochleven ; but, as he rose in the opinion ie the Lady of the Castle and her chaplain, he perceived, with creat grief, that he lost ground in that of Mary and her femaie allies. He came gradually to be sensible that he was regarded asa spy upon their discourse, and that, instead of the ease hea which they had formerly conversed in his presence, withou250 THE ABBOT. suppressing any of the natural feelings of anger, of sorrow, or mirth, which the chance topic of the moment happened to call forth, their talk was now guardedly restricted to the most in- different subjects, and a studied reserve observed even in their mode of treating these. This obvious want of confidence was accompanied with a correspondent change in their personal demeanor towards the unfortunate page. The Queen, who had at first treated him with marked courtesy, now scarce spoke to him, save to convey some necessary command for her service. ‘The Lady Fleming restricted her notice to the most dry and distant expressions of civility, and Catherine Seyton became bitter in her pleasantries, and shy, cross, and pettish, in any intercourse they had together. What was yet more provoking, he saw, or thought he saw, marks of intelligence betwixt George Douglas and the beautiful Catherine Seyton ; and, sharpened by jealousy, he wrought himself almost into a certainty, that the looks which they exchanged conveyed mat- ters of deep and serious import. ‘‘ No wonder,” he thought, “ if, courted by the son of a proud and powerful baron, she can no longer spare a word or look to the fortuneless page.” In aword, Roland Greme’s situation became truly disagree- able, and his heart naturally enough rebelled against the injus- tice of this treatment, which deprived him of the only comfort which he had received for submitting to a confiriement in other respects irksome. He accused Queen Mary and Catherine Seyton (for concerning the opinion of Dame Fleming he was indifferent) of inconsistency in being displeased with him on account of the natural consequences of an order of his own. Why did they send him to hear this overpowering preacher? The Abbot Ambrosius, he recollected, understood the weak- ness of their Popish cause better when he enjoined him to re- peat within his own mind, aves, and credos, and paters, all the while old Henry Warden preached or lectured, that so he might secure himself against lending even a momentary ear to his heretical doctrine. “ But I will endure this life no longer,” said he to himself, manfully ; “do they suppose I would betray my mistress, because I see cause to doubt of her religion ?—that wouid bea serving, as they say, the devil for God’s sake. I will forth into the world—he that serves fair ladies, may at least expect kind looks and kind words ; and I bear not the mind of a gentleman, to submit to cold treatment and suspicion, and a life-long captivity besides. I will speak to George Douglas to: morrow when we go out a-fishing.” A sleepless night was spent in agitating this magnanimousTHE ABBOT 2s4 resolution, and he arose in the morning not perfectly decided in his own mind whether he should abide by