The Abbot

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From the library of

O.E. and Mary Maple

Jones

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THE ABBOT.

Printed by James Ballantyne 6^ Co. Edinburgh.

ABBOT

BY THE AUTHOR OF '' WAVERLEY."

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

EDINBURGH :

PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORMEj AND BROWN,

LONDON;

AND FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY,

AND JOHN BALLANTYNE, EDINBURGH.

1820.

» v\ .

K£>>^

cop. a.

INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE

FROM

THE AUTHOR OF '' WAVERLEY,"

TO

CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK,

OF HIS majesty's REGIMENT OF INFANTRY.

Dear Captain,

I am sorry to observe, by your last ia-
vour, that you disapprove of the numerous
retrenchments and alterations which I have
been under the necessity of making on the
Manuscript of your friend, the Benedic-
tine ; and I mllingly make you the me-
dium of apology to many, who have ho-
noured me more than I deserve.

a

U INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE.

I admit that my retrenchments have been
numerous, and leave gaps in the story,
which, in your original manuscript, would
have run well nigh to a fourth volume, as
my printer assures me. I am sensible, be-
sides, that, in consequence of the liberty of
curtailment you have allowed m e, 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 drain, than to wade through a mo-
rass— that the reader should have to sup-
pose what may easily be inferred, than be
obliged to creep through pages of dull ex-
planation. I have struck out, for example,
the whole machinery of the White Lady,
and the poetry by which it is so ably sup-
ported, in the original manuscript. But
you must allow that the public taste gives
little encouragement to those legendary su-
perstitions, which formed the delight alter-
nately and the terror of our predecessors.
In like manner, much is omitted illustra-
tive of the impulse of enthusiasm in favour

INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. Ill

of the ancient religion in JMother Magdalen
and the Abbot. But we do not feel deep
sympathy at this period with what was
once the most powerful and animating prin-
ciple in Europe, with the exception of that
of the Reformation, by which it was suc-
cessfully opposed.

You rightly observe, that these retrench-
ments have rendered the title no longer ap-
plicable to the subject, and that some other
would have been more suitable to the Work,
in its present state, than that of The Ab-
bot, who made so much greater figure in the
original, and for whom your friend, the Be-
nedictine, seems to have inspired you with
a sympathetic respect. I must plead guilty
to this accusation, observing, at the same
time, in manner of extenuation, that though
the objection might have been easily re-
moved, by giving a new title to the Work,
yet, in doing so, I should have destroyed
the necessary cohesion between the pre-
sent history, and its predecessor The IVIo-
NASTERY, which I was unwilling to do, as

2

IV INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE.

the period, and several of the personages,
were the same.

After all, my good friend, it is of little
consequence what the work is called, or on
what interest it tm^ns, providing it catches
the public attention ; for the quality of the
wine, (could we but ensure it) may, accord-
ing to the old proverb, render the bush un-
necessary, or of little consequence.

1 congratulate you upon your having
found it consistent with prudence to esta-
blish your Tilbury, and approve of the co-
lour, and of your boy's livery, (subdued
green and pink.) — As you talk of comple-
ting your descriptive poem on the " Ruins
of Kennaquhair, with notes by an Antiqua-
ry," I hope you have procured a steady
horse. — I remain, with compliments to all
friends, dear Captain, very much
Yours, kc. &c. &c.
The Author of Waverley.

THE ABBOT;

BEING

THE SEQUEL

OF

THE MONASTERY

VOL. I.

THE ABBOT;

BEING

THE SEQUEL
or

THE MONASTERY.

CHAPTER I.

Domum tnamii — lanam fecit.

Ancient Roman Epitapk.
She keepit close the hous, and birlit at the quhele.

Gawain Douglas.

X HE time which passes over our heads so
imperceptibly, makes the same gradual
change in habits, manners, and character,
as in personal appearance. At the revolu-
tion 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

4 THE ABBOT,

which we regard 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 conclusion of that narrative in which
they played a distinguished part, and the
commencement of the present.

Two circumstances only had embittered
their union,' which was otherwise as happy
as mutual affection could render it. The
first of these was indeed the common cala-
mity of Scotland, being the distracted state
of that unhappy country, where every man's
sword was directed against his neighbour's
bosom. Glendinning had proved what Mur-
ray 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 unbiassed 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 sum-

THE ABBOT. 5

moned to attend his patron on distant ex-
peditions, or on perilous enterprizes, or to
assist him with his counsel in 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 produced no children to
occupy the attention of the Lady of Ave-
nel, while she was thus deprived of her
husband's domestic society.

On such occasions she lived almost en-
tirely secluded from the world, within the
walls of her paternal mansion. Visiting
amongst neighbours was a matter entirely
out of the question, unless on occasion of
solemn festival, and then it was chiefly
confined to near kindred. Of these the
Lady of Avenel had none who surviv^ed,
and the dames of the neighbouring 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

6 THE ABBOT.

up to mushroom eminence by the caprici-
ous favour of Murray.

This pride of ancestry, which rankled in
the bosom of the more ancient gentry, was
more openly expressed by their ladies, and
was, moreover, embittered not a little by
the political feuds of the time, for most of
the Southron chiefs were friends to the au-
thority of the Queen, and very jealous of
the power of Murray. The Castle of Ave-
nel 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 knows that the fort-
ress was built upon an islet in a small
lake, and was only accessible by a cause-
way, intersected by a double ditch defend-
ed by two draw-bridges, so that without ar-
tillery, it might in these days be consider-
ed as impregnable It was only necessary,
therefore, to secure against surprise, and
the service of six able men within the cas-

THE ABBOT. 7

tie was sufficient for that purpose. If
more serious danger threatened, an ample
garrison was supplied by the male inhabit-
ants of a little hamlet, which, under the
auspices of Halbert Glendinning, had ari-
sen on a small piece of level ground, be-
twixt 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 get inhabitants, as he
was not only a kind and beneficent over-
lord, but well qualified, both by his experi-
ence in arm.s, his high character for wisdom
and integrity, and his favour with the pow-
erful Earl of Murray, to protect and defend
those who dwelt under his banner. In lea-
ving his castle for any length of time, he
had, therefore, the consolation to reflect,
that this village afforded, on the sligiitest
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

8 THE ABBOT.

same places of shelter, and left the enemy
to work their will on their miserable cot-
tages.

One guest only resided generally, if not
constantly, at the Castle of Avenel. This
was Henry Warden, who now felt himself
less able to the stormy task imposed on the
reforming clergy ; and having by his zeal
given personal offence to many of the lead-
ing nobles and chiefs, did not consider him-
self as perfectly safe, unless when within
the walls of the strong mansion of some as-
sured friend. He ceased 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 Ken-
naquhair. Answers, replies, duplies, tri-
plies, quadruplies, followed thick upon each
other, and displayed, as is not unusual in
controversy, fully as much zeal as Christian
charity. The disputation very soon be-

THE ABBOT. 9

came as celebrated as that of John Knox
and the Abbot of Corseraguel, raged nearly
as fiercely, and, foraught I know, the pieces
to which it gave rise may be as precious in
the eyes of bibliographers.' But the en-
grossing 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 shewed any interest except
in that which concerned his religious pro-
fession, made his presence rather add to
than diminish the gloom which hung over
the Castle of Avenel. To superintend the
tasks of her 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 battle-
ments of the castle, or upon the causeway,
or occasionally, but more seldom, upon the
banks of the little lake, consumed the rest
of th^ day. But so great was the insecu-
rity of the period, that when she ventured

A %

10 THE ABBOT.

to extend her walk beyond the hamlet, the
warder on the watch-tower was directed to
keep a sharp out-look in every direction,
and four or five men held themselves in
readiness to mount and sally forth from
the village at 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 Glen-
dinning, 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 inten-
tions 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
it was always likely he might in that case
meet with more enemies than friends upon
the road. The precise day, therefore, of

THE ABBOT. 11

Sir Halbert's return was not fixed, but that
which his lady's fond expectation had cal-
culated upon in her own mind was long
since passed, and hope delayed began to
make the heart sick.

It was upon the evening of a sultry sum-
mer's day, when the sun was half sunk be-
hind the distant western mountains of Lid-
desdale, that the Lady took her solitary
walk on the battlements of a range of
buildings, which formed the front of the
castle, where a flat roof of flag-stones pre-
sented a broad and convenient promenade.
The level surface of the lake, undisturbed
except by the occasional dipping of a teal-
duck, or coot, was gilded with the beams
of the setting luminary, and reflected, as if
in a golden mirror, the hills amongst which
it lay embosomed. 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 solitary walk, or by
the distant call of the herdsman, as he

12! THE ABBOT.

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 seemed to de-
mand the attendance of the milk-maidens,
who, singing shrilly and merrily, strolled
forth each with her pail on her head, to at-
tend 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 employ-
ment, as well as her greatest delight, was
to assist Dame Glendinning and Tibb Tack-
et in milking the cows at Glendearg. The
thought was fraught with melancholy.

«c Why was I not," she said, " the pea-
sant girl which in all men's eyes I seemed
to be ! Halbert and I had then spent our
life peacefully in his native glen, undis-
turbed by the phantoms either of fear or
of ambition. His greatest pride had then
been to shew the fairest herd in the Hali-
dome ; his greatest danger to repel some

THE ABBOT. 13

pilfering snatcher from the Border ; and
the utmost distance which would have di-
vided us, would have been the chase of
some out-lying 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 trans-
mit to our posterity ! With me the name
of Avenel must expire."

She sighed as these reflections arose, and,
looking towards the shore of the lake, her
eye was attracted by a groupe of children
of various ages, assembled to see a little
ship constructed by some village artist, per-
form its first voyage on the water. It was
launched amid the shouts of tiny voices and
the clapping of little hands, and shot brave-
ly forth on its voyage with a favouring
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

J3

14> THE ABBOT.

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 in the coarsest food — and
I, who could nurse them in plenty, I am
doomed never to hear a child call me mo-
ther !"

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 to-
gether as if she was wringing them in the
extremity of her desolate feeling, as one
whom heaven had written childless. A
large stag-hound of the greyhound species,
approached at this moment, and, attracted
perhaps by the gesture, licked her hands

12

THE ABBOT. 15

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 I 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."

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 seem-
ed to ask her what she wanted, or what he
could do to shew his attachment. At this
moment a shriek of distress was heard on
the shore, from the playful groupe which
had been lately so jovial. The Lady look-
ed, and saw the cause with great agony.

The little ship, the object of the child-
ren's delighted attention, had stuck among
some tufts of the plant which bears the wa-
ter-lily, that marked a little shoal in the
lake about an arrow-flight from the shore.

16 THE ABBOT.

A hardy little boy, who had taken the
lead in the race round the margin of the
lake, did not hesitate a moment to strip off
his wylie-coatf 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 the cramp, or whether he had
over-calculated his own strength, it so hap-
pened, 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 him-
self suddenly from the water and screamed

THE ABBOT. 17

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 per-
mitted 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. Mean-
time, the Lady of Avenel, with agonizing
anxiety, saw that the efforts which 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 grey-
houndjWas a practised water-dog, had mark-
ed the object of her anxiety, and, quitting
his mistress's side, had sought the nearest
point from which he could with safety plunge
into the lake. With the wonderful instinct
which these noble animals have so often dis-
played in the like circumstances, he swam
straight to the spot where his assistance was

18 THE ABBOT.

SO much wanted, and seizing the child's un-
der-dress in his mouth, he not only kept him
afloat, but towed him towards the cause-
way. The boat having put off with a couple
of men, met the dog half-way, and relieved
him of his burthen. They landed on the
causeway, close by the entrance to the cas-
tle, with their yet lifeless burthen, and were
met at the entrance of the gate by the Lady
of Avenel, attended by one or two of her
maidens, eagerly waiting to administer as-
sistance to the sufferer.

He was borne into the castle, deposited
upon a bed, and every mode of recovery re-
sorted to, which the knowledge of the times,
and the skill of Henry Warden, who pro-
fessed some medical knowledge, could dic-
tate. 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

THE ABBOr. 19

of appearance. The proudest noble in Scot-
land might have been yet prouder could he
have called that child his heir. While, with
breathless anxiety, the Lady of Avenel ga-
zed on his well-formed and expressive fea-
tures, a slight shade of colour returned gra-
dually to the cheek; suspended animation
became restored by degrees, the child sigh-
eddeeply, opened his eyes, which to the hu-
man 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."

" It shall be my charge," said the Lady ;
and again throwing 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

20 THE ABBOT.

had been just placed, and by joy at his un-
expected deliverance.

** Eut you are not my mother," said the
boy, collecting his recollection, and endea-
vouring, 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 j ^* 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 themselves?" She
looked towards Warden as she spoke. The
preacher hesitated what he should reply
to a burst of passionate feeling, which, per-
haps, seemed to him more enthusiastic than
the occasion demanded. In the meanwhile,
the large stag-hound. Wolf, which, drop-
ping wet as he was, had followed his mis-
tress into the apartment, and had sate by
the bed-side a patient and quiet spectator
of all the means used for resuscitation of

THE ABBOT. 21

the being whom he had preserved, now be-
came 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 being 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
commanded him to begone, in an angry
tone; when,turningtowardsthebedon which
the boy still lay, half awake to sensation,
half drowned in the meanders of a fluctua-
ting delirium, he uttered a deep and savage

22 THE ABBOT.

growl, curled up his nose and lips, shewing
his full range of white and sharpened teeth,
which might have matched those of an ac-
tual wolf, and then, turning round, sullen-
ly followed the domestic out of the apart-
ment,

**It is singular," said the Lady, addressing
Warden 5 *« the animal is not only so good-
natured to all, but so particularly fond of
children. What can ail him at the little fel-
low 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 ri-
vals are children. You have caressed that
child much and eagerly, and the dog con-
siders himself as a discarded favourite."

THE ABBOT. 23

" It is a strange instinct j" said the lady,
** and from the gravity with which you
mention it, my reverend friend, I would
almost say that you supposed this singular
jealousy of my favourite Wolf, was not only
well-founded, but justifiable. But perhaps
you speak in jest."

'* I seldom jest," answered the preacher;
<« life was not lent to us to be expended in
that idle mirth which resembles the crack-
ling of thorns under the pot. I would on-
ly have you derive, if it so 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 neighbour ?"

24 THE ABBOT.

'< Ay, madam," said Warden, " but our
love to God is to be unbounded — we 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 neighbour, has affixed to it a direct li-
mit and qualification — we are to love our
neighbour as ourself ; as it is elsewhere ex-
plained by the great commandment, that
we do unto him as we would that he did
unto us. Here there is a limit, and a bound,
even to the most praiseworthy of our af-
fections, so far as they are turned upon
sublunary and terrestrial objects. We are
to render to our neighbour, whatever be
his rank or degree, that corresponding por-
tion of affection with which we could ra-
tionally expect we should ourselves be re-
garded by those standing in the same de-
gree of 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

THE ABBOT. 25

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 honourable 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." —

" I 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 pro-
tectress, but a mother to this poor child,
your purpose may meet the wishes of the
noble knight your husband. The fond-
ness which you have lavished on the un-
fortunate, and, I own, most lovely child,

VOL. I, B

26 THE ABBOT.

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."

" This is too much, reverend sir," said
theLadyof Avenel, greatly offended. " You
have been long our guest, and have recei-
ved from the Knight of Avenel and myself
that honour and regard which your cha-
racter and profession so justly demand.
Eut I am yet to learn that I 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 per-
suasion at that time, " when you weary of
my admonitions — when I see that my ser-
vices are no longer acceptable to you, and
the noble knight your husband, I shall
know that my Master wills me no longer
to abide here j and, praying for a continu-

10

THE ABBOT. 27

ance 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
waste mountains, as lonely and unaided,
though far more helpless, than when 1 first
met your husband in the valley of Glen-
dearg. But while I remain here, I will not
see you err from the true path, no, not an
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 ap-
prove of." The clergyman bowed, and re-
treated to his own apartment.

28 THE ABBOT.

CHAPTER IL

How steadfastly he fix'd his looks on me—
His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears-
Then streteh'd his Httle 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.

Coimt Basil.

When Warden had left the apartment, the
Lady of Avenel gave way to the feeHngs of
tenderness which the sight of the boy, his
sudden danger, and his recent escape, had
inspired ; and no longer awed by the stern-
ness, as she deemed it, of the preacher, heap-
ed with caresses the lovely and interesting
child. He was now, in some measure, re-
covered from the consequences of his acci-
dent, and received passively, tho4igh not
without wonder, the tokens of kindness
with which he was thus loaded. The face

THE ABBOT. 29

of the lady was strange to him, and her
dress different and far more sumptuous than
any he remembered. But the boy was na-
turally of an undaunted temper ; and indeed
children are generally acute physiogno-
mists, and not only pleased by that which is
beautiful in itself, but peculiarly acute in
distinguishing and replying to the atten-
tions 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 free-masonry, while the awk-
ward 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 de-
gree 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 var-

30 THE ABBOT.

let ?" was the first question which the Lady
of Avenel put to her hand-maiden Liiias,
when they had retired to the hall.

" To an old woman in the hamlet," said
Liiias, ** who is even now come so far as
the porter's lodge to enquire concerning
his safety. Is it your pleasure that she be
admitted ?"

" Is it my pleasure ?" said the Lady of
Avenel, echoing the question with a strong
accent of displeasure and surprise 5 " 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 Liiias, " this
woman is too old to be the mother of the
child ; I rather think she must be his grand-^
mother, or some more distant relation."

" Be she who she will, Liiias," replied
the Lady, " she must have a sore heart
while the safety of a creature so lovely is
uncertain. Go instantly and bring her hi-

THE ABBOT. 31

ther. Besides, I would willingly learn some-
thing concerning his birth."

Lilias left the hall, and presently after-
wards returned, ushering in a tall female
very poorly dressed, yet with more preten-
sion to decency and cleanliness than was
usually combined with such coarse gar-
ments. The Lady of Avenel knew her fi
gure 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 chapel of the Castle. The
extension of the Protestant faith was upon
principle, as well as in good policy, a pri-
mary 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 ser-
mons, homilies, and lectures, had made a
great impression on the mind of the Abbot

32 THE ABBOT.

Eustace, or Eustatius, and were a sufficient
spur to the severity and sharpness of his^
controversy with his old fellow- collegiate ;
and he more than once threatened to levy
his vassals, and assail and level with the earth
that strong- hold of heresy the Castle of Ave-
nel. But notwithstanding his impotent re-
sentment, and notwithstanding also the dis-
inclination of the country to favour the new
religion, Henry Warden proceeded without
remission in his labours, 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, too tall, and otherwise too remarkable
to be forgotten, the lady had of late re-
marked frequently as being conspicuous
amongst the little audience. She had in-
deed more than once desired to know who
that tall stately-looking woman was, whose
appearance was so much above the poverty
of her vestments. But the reply had al-

THE ABBOT. 33

ways been, that she was an English woman,
who was tarrying for a season at the ham-
let, and that no one knew more concern-
ing her. She now asked her after her name
and birth.

" Magdalen Graeme is my name," said the
woman ; " I come of the Graemes of Hea-
thergill, 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 Gr^me,
" 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 5 " 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," an-
swered Magdalen Graeme ; ** for men tell
of a time wh^n this Castle was not strong

B 21

34 THE ABBOT.

enough to save your father's life, or to af-
ford your mother and her infant a place of
refuge. — And why ask ye me, then, where-
fore I dwell not in mine own home, and
with my own people ?'*

" It was indeed an idle question, where
misery so often makes wanderers; butwhere-
fore take refuge in a hostile country ?"

" My neighbours 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 Hen-
ry Warden, who, to the praise and comfort
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," an-
swered the Englishwoman.

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 com-

THE ABBOT. S5

munication. The Lady of Avenel renew-
ed 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 me !"

** What relation do you bear to him ?"

*' I am his grandmother, lady, if it so
please you ; the only relation he hath left
upon earth to take charge of him."

" The burthen of his maintenance must
necessarily be grievous to you in your de-
serted situation," pursued the lady.

" I have complained of it to no one,*'
said Magdalen Graeme, with the same un-
moved, dry, and unconcerned tone of voice
in which she had answered all the former
questions.

«' If," said the Lady of Avenel, ** your
grand-child could be received into a noble
family, would it not advantage both him
and you ?"

36 THE ABBOT.

** Received into a noble family!" said
the old woman, drawing herself up, and
bending her brows until her forehead
was wrinkled into a frown of unusual se-
verity ; " and for what purpose, I pray
you ? — to be my lady's page, or my lord's
jackman, to eat broken victuals and con-
tend with other menials for the remnants
of the master's meal ? Would you have
him to fan the flies from my lady's face
while she sleeps, to carry her train while
she walks, to hand her trencher when she
feeds, to ride before her on horse-back, to
v.alk after her on foot, to sing when she
lists, and to be silent when she bids? — a very
weathercock, which, though furnished in
appearance with wings and plumage, can-
not soar into the air — cannot fly from the
spot where it is perched, but receives all its
impulses, and performs all its revolutions,
obedient to the changeful breath of a vain
woman ? When the eagle of Helvellyn
perches on the tower of Lanercost, and
turns and changes to shew how the wind

THE ABBOr. 37

sits, Roland Grasme 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, ad-
dressing the old woman in a soothing man-
ner; ** I do not wish your boy to be in at-
tendance on myself, but upon the good
knight, my husband. Were he himself the
son of a belted earl, he could not better
be trained to arms, and all that befits a gen-
tleman, than by the instructions and disci-
pline of Sir Halbert Glendinning."

*' Ay," answered the old woman in the
same style of bitter irony, " I know the
wages of that service ; — a curse when the
corslet is not sufficiently brightened, — a
blow when the girth is not tightly drawn.—
to be beaten because the hounds are at fault,

38 THE ABBOT.

—to be reviled because the foray is unsuc-
cessful,— to stain his hands, for the mas-
ter'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 com-
mon stabber, — exposed to heat, to cold, to
want of food, to all the privations of an an-
choret, 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 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
husband 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 on-

THE ABBOT. 39

ly circumstance which can move me. I
must soon onward, the vision has said it— .-
I 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 these idolatrous shavelings, the
monks and friars."

" Be satisfied, dame," said the Lady of
Avenel j " 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, stern-
ly ; " 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 pilgrimage ?" said the Lady
of Avenel, putting into her hand two

40 THE ABBOT,

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 ?'*

'• I had no such meaning," 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 parleyed thus long toge-
ther,— You 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 re-
sume them. I need not money. I am
well provided ; and I may not care for my.
self, nor think how, or by whom, I shall be
sustained. Farewell, and keep your word.

THE ABBOT. 41

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
1 have left with you the jewel of my life I
Sleep will visit me but in snatches, food
will not refresh me, rest will not restore my
strength, until I see Roland Grseme. Once
more, farewell."

" Make your 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 round on
the officious waiting-maid. •* Let her make
her obeisance to me then, and I will re-
turn 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,"

42 THE ABBOT.

Lilias was about to reply in great indig-
nation, but her mistress imposed silence on
her, and commanded that the old woman
should be safely conducted to the main-
land.

«< Conduct her safe !" exclaimed the in-
censed waiting-woman, while Magdalen
Graeme left the apartment ; ** I say, duck
her in the loch, and then we will see
whether she is witch or not, as every body in
the village of Lochside will say and swear.
I marvel your ladyship could bear so long
with her insolence." But the commands
of the lady were obeyed, and the old dame,
dismissed from the castle, was committed
to her fortune. She kept her word, and
did not long abide in that place, leaving
the hamlet on the very night succeed,
ing the interview, and wandering no one
asked whither. The Lady of Avenel en-
quired 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

THE ABBOT. 43

Graemes who then inhabited the Debate-
able Land, a name given to a certain por-
tion 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 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 enquiries were able to collect con-
cerning Magdalen Graeme, being far too
meagre to authorise any satisfactory de-
duction. In truth, the miseries of the time.

44 THE ABBOT.

and the various turns of fate Incidental to
a frontier country, were perpetually chasing
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 relief which was
extorted by general feelings of humanity j a
little excited in some breasts, and perhaps
rather chilled in others, by the recollection
that they who gave the charity to-day might
themselves want it to-morrow. Magdalen
Graeme, therefore, came and departed like
a shadow from the neighbourhood of Ave-
nel Castle.

The boy whom Providence, as she thought^
had thus strangely placed under her care,
was at once established a favourite with
the Lady of the Castle How could it be
otherwise ? He became the object of those
affectionate feelings, which, finding for-
merly no object on which to expand them-
selves, had encreased the gloom of the

THE ABBOT. 45

Castle, and embittered the solitude of its
mistress. To teach him as far as her skill
went, to attend to his childish comforts, to
watch his boyish sports, became the lady's
favourite amusement. In her circum-
stances, where the ear only heard the low-
ing of the cattle from the distant hills, or
the heavy step of the warder as he walk-
ed 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
occupies the window of some solitary cap-
tive, 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 w^hich she had
usually found herself during the absence of
Sir Halbert Glendinning.

46 THE ABBOT.

But even the charms of this blooming
favourite were unable to chase the recur-
ring apprehensions which arose from her
husband's delayed return. Soon after Ro-
land Graeme became a resident at the
Castle, a groom, dispatched by Sir Hal-
bert, brought tidings that business of im-
portance still delayed the knight at the
Court of Holyrood. The more distant pe-
riod which 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. 47

CHAPTER III.

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 trampHng hoofs the rocky pavement rung.

Leydex,

" And you too would be a soldier, Ro-
land?" 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 al-
ternately shouldered or ported or sloped
pike.

" Yes, lady," 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 belled him with the brand."

48 THE ABBOT.

** 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 Avenel, " for, beshrew me, but I
think he comes of gentle blood — see how
it musters in his face at your injurious re-
proof.''

" Had I my will, madam," answered Li-
lias, ** a good birchen wand should make
his colour 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 favour because he en-
joys the sunny side of mine ?"

" Over heavens forbode, my lady," an-
swered Lilias ; " I have lived too long
with gentles, I praise my stars for it, to
fight with either follies or fantasies, whether
they 1 elate to beast, bird, or boy."

Lilias was a favourite in her own class,
a spoiled domestic, who was often accus-

THE ABBOT. 49

tomed to take more license than her mis
tress was at all times willing to encourage.
But what did not please the Lady of Ave-
nel, she did not chuse 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 no-
ble, and features so fair. The very wildness
in which he occasionally indulged, his con-
tempt of danger, and impatience of re-
straint, had in them something noble. Assu-
redly 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 humour of the lady ; and the boy soon
took on him those airs of superiority, which
the sight of habitual deference seldom fails

VOL. I. c

50 THE ABBOT.

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 humours. The chap-
lain, indeed, might have interposed to
check the air of superiority which Roland
Grgeme so readily indulged, and most pro-
bably would have willingly rendered him
that favour ; 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 in a distant part of the kingdom.

Matters stood thus in the Castle of Ave-
nel, 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 Ave-
nel 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
before them, winded along the indented
shores of the lake, and approached the

THE ABBOT. 51

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 colours of her own liveries,
blended with the holly-branch ; and the
firm seat and dignified demeanour 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 rap-
turous joy at her husband's return — her se-
cond was connected with a fear which had
sometimes intruded itself, that he might
not altogether approve the peculiar distinc-
tion with which she had treated her or-
phan ward. In this fear there was implied
a consciousness, that the favour she had
shewn him was excessive; for Halbert Glen-
dinning was at least as gentle and indul-
gent, as he was firm and rational in the in-
tercourse of his household; and to her, in

52 THE ABBOT.

particular, his conduct had ever been most
affectionately tender.

Yet she did fear, that, on the present oc-
casion, her conduct might incur Sir Hal-
bert's censure 5 and, hastily resolving that
she would not mention the anecdote of the
boy until the next day, she ordered him to
be withdrawn from the apartment by Li-
lias,

'* I will not go with Lilias, madam," an-
swered the spoiled child, who had more
than once carried his point by perseverance,
and who, like his betters, delighted in the
exercise of such authority, — '* I will not
go to Lilias's gousty room — I will stay and
see that brave warrior who comes riding so
gallantly along the drawbridge."

<* You must not stay, Roland," said the
lady, more positively than she usually spoke
to her little favourite.

** I will," reiterated the boy, who had
already felt his consequence, and the pro-
bable chance of success.

THE ABBOT. 53

" You will ? Roland !" answered the lady,
" what manner of word is that ? I tell you,
you must go."

" WUl,' 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 j " hath the moon changed,
that ye all of you thus forget yourselves ?"

Lilias made no reply, but led off the boy,
who, too proud to offer unavailing resist-
ance, darted at his benefactress a glance,
which intimated plainly how willingly he
would have defied her authority had he pos-
sessed 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

54 THE ABBOT.

ought naturally to have been entirely en-
grossed by her husband's return. But we
do 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, un-
helmeted, but still wearing the rest of his
arms, entered the apartment. His appear-
ance banished the thoughts of every thing
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 di-
minished its romantic ardour, perhaps, but
had rather increased its rational tenderness,
and Sir Halbert Glendinning's long and fre-
quent absences from his castle had prevent-
ed affection from degenerating into indif-
ference.

When the first eager greetings were paid

THE ABBOT. 55

and received, the lady gazed fondly on her
husband's face as she remarked,

<' You are altered, Halbert — you have rid-
den 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
shew that he merits his advancement."

While he spoke thus, the lady gazed fond-
ly on him, as if endeavouring 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 person from what he had ap-
peared in his early years. The fiery free-
dom of the aspiring youth had given place
to the steady and stern composure of the
approved soldier and skilful politician.

56 IHE ABBOT.

There were deep traces of care on those
noble features, over which each emotion
used formerly lo pass, like light clouds
across a summer sky. That sky was now,
not perhaps clouded, but still and grave
like that of the sober autumn evening. The
forehead was higher and more bare than in
early youth, and the locks which still clus-
tered 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, according to
the fashion of the times, grew short and
thick, and was turned into mustachios on
the upper lip, and peaked at the extremity.
The cheek, weather-beaten and embrown-
ed, had lost the glow of youth, but shewed
the vigorous complexion of active and con-
firmed manhood. Halbert Glendinning was,
in a word, a knight to ride at a king's
right hand, to bear his banner in war, and
to be his counsellor in time of peace ; for
his looks expressed the considerate firmness
which can resolve wisely and dare boldly.

THE ABBOT. 57

Still, over these noble features, there now
spread an air of dejection, of which, per-
haps, the owner was not conscious, but
which did not escape the observation of his
anxious and affectionate partner.

*' Something has happened, or is about
to happen," said the Lady of Avenel ; *' this
sadness sits not on your brow without cause
— misfortune, national or particular, must
needs be at hand."

'* There is nothing new that I wot of,"
said Halbert Glendinning j *' but there is
little of evil which can befall a kingdom
which may not be apprehended in this un-
happy 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 detain-
ed you at Holyrood, save that he wanted
your help in some weighty purpose."

" I have not been at Holyrood, Mary,"
answered the knight j ** I have been several
weeks abroad,"

c 2

58 THE ABBOT.

" Abroad ! and sent me no word ?" re-
plied the lady.

" What would the knowledge have avail-
ed, but to have rendered you unhappy, my
love," replied the knight; " 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 that idea
conveyed notions of terror and of wonder j
" 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 tempting of Divine Provi-

THE ABBOT. 59

dence. I never bade you unbuckle the
sword from your side, or lay the lance from
your hand — I never bade you sit when
your honour called to rise ; but are not
blade and spear dangerous enough to 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 dispatched on business as important
as it was secret. 1 went in safety, and I
returned in security ; there is more danger
to a man's life betwixt this and Holyrood,
than are in all the seas that wash the low-
lands of Holland."

" And the country, my Halbert, and
the people," said the lady, ** are they like
our kindly Scots, or what bearing have they
to strangers ?"

<* They are a people, Mary, strong in
their wealth, which renders all other na-

60 THE ABBOT.

tions weak, and weak in those arts of war
by which other nations are strong."

** I do not understand you," said the
lady.

" The Hollander 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 de-
fend it. They erect dykes 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 mas-
ters to despoil them, arms strangers in their
behalf."

" The slothful hinds !" exclaimed Mary,
thinking and feeling like a Scotswoman of
the period 5 ** have they hands, and fight
not for the land which bore them ? They
should be notched off at the elbow."

" Nay, that were but hard justice," an-
swered her husband ; ** for their hands

THE ABBOT. 61

serve their country, though not in battle,
like ours. Look at these barren hills, Mary,
and at that deep winding vale by which the
cattle are even now returning from their
scanty browse. The hand of the industri-
ous Fleming w^ould 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 w^on in modern broils, but
tread along the land as preservers and im-
provers, not as tyrants and destroyers."

*< These amendments would be but a
vain fancy, my Halbert," answered the La-
dy 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 neighbour
that possessed more riders than follow your
train. Why should you repine at this ? The

62 THE ABBOT.

fate that made you Scotsman by birth, gave
you head, and heart, and hand, to uphold
the name as it must needs be upheld."

*' It gave 9ne no name to uphold,*' said
Halbert, pacing the floor slowly ; *< my arm
has been foremost in every strife — my voice
has been heard in every council, nor have
the wisest rebuked me. The crafty Le-
thington, 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
my head and hand, and they only know me
as son of the obscure portioner of Glen-
' dearg."

This was a theme which the lady always
dreaded; for the rank conferred on her hus-
band, the favour 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 favour, were qualities
which rather encreased than diminished the
envy which was harboured against Sir Hal-

10

THE ABBOT. 63

bert Glendinning, as a person originally of
inferior and obscure birth, who had risen to
his present eminence solely by his personal
merit. The natural firmness of his mind
did not enable him to despise the ideal ad-
vantages of a high pedigree, which were
held in such universal esteem by all with
whom he conversed ; and so open are the
noblest minds to jealous inconsistencies,
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 ob-
servation.

*' Had we been blessed with children,"
she was wont on such occasions to say to
herself, " had our blood been united in a

64f THE ABBOT.

«

son who might have joined my advantages
of descent with my husband's personal
worth, these painful and irksome reflec-
tions had not disturbed our union even for
a moment. But the existence of such an
heir, in wdiom our affections, as well as our
pretensions, might have centered, has been
denied to us."

With such mutual feelings, it cannot be
wondered at that the lady heard her hus-
band with pain verging towards this topic
of mutual discontent. On the present, as
on other similar occasions, she endeavour-
ed to divert her husband's thoughts from
this painful channel.

*' How can you," she said " suffer your-
self to dwell upon thoughts which profit no-
thing ? Have you indeed no name to up-
hold ? You, the good and the brave, the
w^ise in council and the strong in battle,
have you not to support the reputation your
own deeds have won, a reputation more ho-
nourable than mere ancestry can supply ?
Good men love and honour you, the wick-

THE ABBOT. 65

ed fear, and the turbulent obey you ; and is
it not necessary you should exert yourself
to ensure the endurance of that love, that
honour, that wholesome fear, and that ne-
cessary obedience ?'*

As she thus spoke, the eye of her hus-
band caught from her's courage and com-
fort, and it lightened as he took her hand
and replied, <' It is most true, my Mary, and
1 deserve thy rebuke, who forget what I am,
in repining because I am not what I can-
not be. I am now what their most famed
ancestors were, the mean man raised into
eminence by his own exertions ; and sure it
is a boast as honourable to have those ca-
pacities, which are necessary to the foun-
dation of a family, as to be descended from
one who possessed them some centuries
before. The Hay of Loncarty, who be-
queathed his bloody yoke to his lineage, —
the ** dark grey man," who first founded
the house of Douglas, had yet less of an-
cestry to boast than what is mine. For
thou knowest, Mary, that my name derives

66 THE ABBOT.

itself from a line of ancient warriors, al-
though 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 Glendonwyne, 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 prero-
gatives of birth, and endeavoured to esta-
blish his claims, however remote, to a share
in them, at the very moment when he af-
fected to hold them in contempt. It will
easily be guessed, however, that she per-
mitted no symptom to escape her that could
shew 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 of Glendonwyne in its most remote

THE ABBOr. 67

branches to the full privileges of aristocra-
cy, ** Where," he said, '* is Wolf? I have
not seen him since my return, and he v;as
usually the first to welcome my home- co-
ming."

** Wolf," said the lady, with a slight de-
gree of embarrassment, for which, perhaps,
^he would have found it difficult to assign
any reason even to herself, " Wolf is chain-
ed up for the present. He hath been surly
to my page."

" Wolf chained up — and Wolf surly to
your page !" answered Sir Halbert Glendin-
ning ; " Wolf never was surly to any one 5
and the chain will either break his spirit or
render him savage — So ho, there — set Wolf
free directly."

He w^as obeyed ; and the huge dog rush-
ed into the hall, disturbing, by his un-
wieldy and boisterous gambols, the whole
economy of reels, rocks, and distaffs, and
extracting from Lilias, who was summoned
to put them again into order, the natural

G8 THE ABBOT.

observation, •' That the laird's pet was as
troublesome as the lady's page."

'* And who is this page, Mary?" said
the knight, his attention 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 favourite. Wolf? —
When did you aspire to the dignity of
keeping a page, or who is the boy r"

** I 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 1 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 slum-
ber, and touch the lute for them when
they please to listen j but our Scottish ma-

THE ABBOT. 69

trons 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 T have since kept in the Castle out
of charity. — Lilias, bring little Roland hi-
ther."

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 unraingled
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, con-
tinued to gaze fixedly and timidly on Sir
Halbert Glendinning. — **Goto the knight,
boy," said the lady ; ** what dost thou fear,
child ? Go, kiss Sir Halbert's hand."

70 THE ABBOT.

** I 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 5 '* but is he not a hand-
some boy ?"

" And so is Wolf," said Sir Halbert, as
he patted his huge four-footed favourite,
" a handsome dog ; but he has this double
advantage over your new favourite, that he
does what he is 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 is nothing wrong in re-
lieving the distressed orphan, or in loving
that which is in itself lovely and deserving
of affection. But you have seen Mr War-
den at Edinburgh, and he has set you
against the poor boy."

" My dear Mary," answered her hus-
band, " Mr Warden better knows his place
than to presume to interfere either in your

THE ABBOT. 71

affairs or in mine. I neither blame your
relieving this boy, or 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 honour 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 occa-
sions, that of stopping suddenly short in
the illustration which she had commenced.
Her brow crimsoned, and that of Sir Hal-
bert Glendinning was slightly overcast.

72 THE ABBOT.

But it was only for an instant ; for he was »
incapable of mistaking his lady's meaning,
or supposing that she meant intentional
disrespect to him.

** Be it as you please, my love," he re-
plied ; " I owe you too much, to contradict
you in aught which may render your soli-
tary 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 — remem-
ber he hath limbs to do man service, a soul
and a tongue to worship God ; breed him,
therefore, to be true to his master, and to
Heaven 5 and for the rest, dispose of him
as you list — it is, and shall rest, your own
matter."

This conversation decided the fate of
Boland Graeme, who from thenceforward
was little noticed by the master, but indul-
ged and favoured by the mistress of the
mansion of Avenel.

This situation led to many important con-
sequences, and, in truth, tended to bring

5

THE ABBOT. 73

forth the character of the youth in all its
broad lights and deep shadows. As the
Knight himself seemed tacitly to disclaim
ahke interest and controul over the imme-
diate favourite of his lady, young Roland
was, by circumstances, exempted from the
strict discipline to which, as the retainer of
a Scottish man of rank, he would other-
wise have been subjected, according to all
the rigour of the age. But the steward, or
master of the household, such was the proud
title assumed by the head domestic of each
petty baron, deemed it not advisable to in-
terfere with the favourite of the lady, and
especially since she had brought the estate
into the present family. Master Jasper
Wingate was a man experienced, as he of-
ten boasted, in the ways of great families,
and knew how to keep the steerage even
when wind and tide chanced to be in con-
tradiction.

This prudent personage winked at much,
and avoided giving opportunity for further

VOL. I. D

74 THE ABBOT.

offence, by requesting little of Roland
Gr^me 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 favour of the Knight of Avenel, still to
make an evil report of him would make an
enemy of the lady, without eecuring the fa-
vour of her husband. With these pruden-
tiai considerations, and doubtless not with-
out an eye to his own ease and convenience,
he taught the boy as much, and only as
much, as he chose to learn, readily admit-
ting whatever apology it pleased his pupil
to allege in excuse for idleness or negli-
gence. As the other persons in the Castte,
on whom such tasks were delegated, readily
imitated the prudential conduct of the ma-
jor-domo, there was little controul used
towards Holand Graeme, who, of course,
learned no more than what a very active
mind, and a total impatience of absolute
idleness, led him to acquire upon his own
account, and by dint of his own exertions.

THE ABBOT. 75

It followed also from his quality as my
lady's favourite, that Roland was viewed
with no peculiar good will by the followers
of the Knight, many of whom, of the same
age, and similar origin with the fortunate
page, were subjected to severe observance
of the ancient and rigorous discipline of a
feudal retainer. To these, Roland Gragme
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 severi-
ty and constant instruction did for others.
In truth, the youthful Roland displayed
that early flexibility both of body and mind,
which renders exercise, either mental or
corporeal, rather matter of sport than of
study ; and it seemed as if he acquired ac-
cidentally, and by starts, those accomphsh-
ments, which earnest and constant instruc-
tion, enforced by frequent reproof and oc-
casional chastisement, had taught to others.

76 THE ABBOT.

Such military exercises, such lessons of the
period as he found it agreeable or conve-
nient to apply to, he learned so perfectly,
as to confound those who were ignorant
how often the place of constant application
is filled up by ardent enthusiasm. The lads,
therefore, who were more regularly train-
ed to arms, to horsemanship, and to other
necessary exercises of the period, while
they envied Roland Grsme the indulgence
or negligence with which he seemed to be
treated, had little reason to boast of their
own superior advantages ; 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 accom-
plish for others.

Under these advantages, if, indeed, they
v/ere to be termed such, the character of
young Roland began to develope itself. It
was bold, peremptory, decisive, and over-
bearing I generous, if neither withstood nor
contradicted j vehement and passionate, if

I

THE ABBOT. 77

censured or opposed. He seemed to con-
sider himself as attached to no one, and re-
sponsible to no one, except his mistress, and
even over her mind he had gradually acqui-
red that species of ascendancy v^^hich indul-
gence is so apt to occasion. And although
the immediate followers and dependents of
Sir Halbert Glendinning saw his ascendan-
cy with jealousy, and often took occasion to
mortify his vanity, there wanted not those
who were willing to acquire the favour of the
Lady of Avenel by humouring and siding
with the youth whom she protected ; for
although a favourite, as the poet assures
us, has no friend, he seldom fails to have
both followers and flatterers. These par-
tizans 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
compare their own situation with that of
the immediate and constant followers of
the Knight, who attended him on his fre-
quent journies to Edinburgh and elsewhere,

78 THE ABBOT,

delighted in considering and representing
themselves as more properly the subjects of
the Lady of Avenel than of her husband.
It is true, her wisdom and affection on all
occasions discountenanced the distinction
which was here implied ; but the villagers
persisted in thinking it must be agreeable
to her to enjoy their peculiar and un-
divided homage, or at least in acting as
if they thought soj and one chief mode
by which they evinced their sentiments,
was by the respect they paid to young
Uoland Gramme, the favourite attendant
of the descendant of their ancient lords.
This v;as a mode of flattery too pleasing to
encounter rebuke or censure ; and the op-
portunity which it afforded the youth to
form 5 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 de-
cisive tone of a character, which was by na-
ture bold, impetuous, and uncontroulable.
Of two members of the household who
had manifested an early jealousy of Roland

^i^ >

THE ABBOT. 79

Grasme, the prejudicesof Wolf were easily
overcome ; and in process of time the 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-mind-
ed and benevolent as he really was, enter-
tained rather more than a reasonable 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 favour, and
petulant from youth and situation, was at
all times willing to pay. His bold and free
demeanour, his attachment to rich dress
and decoration, 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. Most of the attend-

80 THE ABBOT.

ants and followers of Sir Halbert Glen-
dinning entertained the same charitable
thought; but while Roland was favoured
by their lady, and endured by their lord,
they saw no policy in making their opinions
public.

Koland Grasme 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 supe-
riority which compelled the most obstinate
to obedience, and had the satisfaction to
be dreaded at least, if he was heartily ha-
ted.

The chaplain's marked dislike had the
effect of recommending him to the atten-
tion of Sir Halbert's brother Edward, who
now, under the conventual appellation of
Father Ambrose, continued to be one of
the few Monks who, with the Abbot Eus-
tatius, were still permitted to linger in the
cloisters at Kennaquhair, Respect to Sir

THE ABBOT. 81

Halbert had prevented their being altoge-
ther driven out of the Abbey, though their
order was now in a great measure suppress-
ed, and they were interdicted the public
exercise of their ritual, and only allow-
ed 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 attention to Roland Graeme,
who seemed to return it with more depth
of feeling than consisted with his usual ha-
bits.

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 Graeme anticipated, both in wishes
and in personal accomplishments, the age
which should enable him to emerge from
the obscurity of his present situation.

D 2

82 THE ABBOT.

CHAPTER IV,

Amid their cups that freely flow'd^

Their revelry and mirth,
A youthful lord taxed Valentine

With hase and doubtful birth.

Valentine and Orson.

When Roland Greeme 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 eyass, or young hawk, which he him-
self, at the imminent risk of neck and
limbs, had taken from a celebrated eyrie
in the neighbourhood, called Gledscraig.
As he was by no means satisfied with the
attention which had been bestow^ed on his
favourite bird, he was not slack in testify-

THE ABBOT. 83

ing his displeasure to the falconer's lad,
whose duty it was to have attended upon
it.

" What, ho ! sir knave," exclaimed Ro-
land, " is it thus you feed the eyasse with
unwashed meat, as if you were gorging the
foul brancher of a worthless hoodie- crow,
by the mass ? and thou hast neglected its
castings also for these two days. Thinkst
thou I ventured my neck to bring the bird
down from the craig 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 assist-
ance.

Adam Woodcock, the falconer of Ave-
neJ, was an Englishman by birth, but so
long in the service of Glendinning, that he
had lost his national attachment in that *
which he had formed to his master. He

84 THE ABBOT.

was a favourite in his department, jealous
and conceited of his skill, as masters of the
game usually are ; for the rest of his charac-
ter, he was a jester and a parcel poet, (qua-
lities which by no means abated his natural
conceit) a jolly fellow, who 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 presuming on his
interest with him.

Adam Woodcock, such as we have de-
scribed him, by no means relished the free-
dom used by young Grsme, 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."

** I will beat him and thee too," answer-
ed Roland, without hesitation, ** an you
look not better after your business. See
how the bird is cast away between you.

THE ABBOT. 85

I found the careless lurdane feeding him
with unwashed flesh, and she an eyass."*

** Go to," said the falconer, " thou art
but an eyass thyself, child Roland— *What
knowest thou of feeding ? I say that the
eyass should have her meat unwashed, un-
til she becomes a brancher — 'twere the rea-
dy 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 doest nothing but drink
and sleep," retorted the page, " and leaves
that lither lad to do the work, that he minds
as little as thou."

'< And am I so idle then," said the fal-
coner, ** that have three cast of hawks to
look after, at perch and mew, and to fly
them in the field to boot ? — and is my lady's
page so busy a man that he must take me
up short ? — and am I a false English blood ?

* There is a difference amongst authorities how long the
nestUng hawk should he fed with flesh which has previously
been washed.

86 THE ABBOT.

—I marvel what blood thou art — neither
Englander nor Scot — fish nor flesh — a bas-
tard 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, 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 it in his bowels. The noise was now
so great, that more than one of the housCr. j
hold came in, and amongst others the ma-
jor-domo, a grave personage, already men-
tioned, whose gold chain and white wand
intimated his authority. At the appear-
ance of this dignitary, the strife was for the
present appeased. He embraced, however,

3

THE ABBOT. 87

SO favourable an opportunity, to read Ro-
land Grseme a shrewd lecture on the im-
propriety 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 expe-
ditions, 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 whe-
ther we are to live in a well-ordered house-
hold, 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 con-

88 THE ABBOT.

temp tuous language, returned his dagger in-
to 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

•* This will be no tree for my nest," said
the falconer, " if this cock-sparrow is to
crow over us as he seems to do."

" He struck me with his switch yester-
day," said one of the grooms, ** because
the tail of his worship's gelding was not
trimmed altogether so as suited his hu^
mour."

*' And I promise you," said the laun-
dress, ** my young master will stick no-
thing to call you slut and quean, if there
be but a speck of soot upon his band-
collar."

*' If Master Wingate do not his errand
to my lady," was the general result, " there
will be no tarrying in the same house with
Koland Graeme."

The master of the household heard them

THE ABBOT. 89

all for some time, and then, motioning for
universal silence, he addressed them with all
the dignity of Malvolio himself. — "My mas-
ters,— not forgetting you, my mistresses,—
do not think the worse of me that I pro-
ceed 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,
shew me the woman who doth not. Now,
she hath favoured, doth favour, and will fa-
vour, thisjack-an-ape, — for what good part
about him I know not, save that as one
noble lady will love a messan dog, and an-
other 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
off save that she was the cause of his being

90 THE ABBOT.

saved (the more's the pity) from drown-
ing." And here Master Wingate made a
pause.

" I would have been his caution for a
grey groat against salt water or fresh," said
his adversary, the falconer ; " marry, if he
crack not a rope for stabbing or for snatch-
ing, I will be content never to hood hawk
again."

" Peace, Adam Woodcock," said Win-
gate, waving his hand ; ** I prithee, peace,
man — ^Now, my lady liking this springald,
as aforesaid, differs therein from my lord,
whp likes 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 prag-
matical youngster, whom, nevertheless, I
would willingly see whipped forth of the
barony ? Have patience, and this boil will
break without our meddhng. I have been
in service since I wore a beard on my chin,
till now that that beard is turned grey,
and I have seldom known any one better

THE ABBOT. 91

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 up-
start ? — I will try titles with him first, I pro-
mise you — I fancy. Master Wingate, 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," answered the prudential
major-domo, *' is in some measure my
duty. Mistress Lilias ; always providing for
and excepting those cases in which it can-
not be spoken without breeding mischief
and inconvenience to myself or my fellow-
servants ; for the tongue of a tale-bearer
breaketh bones as well as a Jeddart staif."^1

" But this imp of Satan is none of your
friends or fellow -servants," said Lilias;

92 THE ABBOr.

** and I trust you mean not to stand up for
him against the whole family besides ?"

«• Credit me, Mrs 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,"

•* Enough said, Master Wingate," an-
swered Lilias ; •* then trust me his song
shall soon be laid. If my mistress does not
ask me what is the matter below stairs be-
fore she be ten minutes of time older, she
is no born woman, and my name is not
Lilias Bradbourne.'*

In pursuance of her plan, Mistress Li-
lias failed not to present herself before her
mistress with all the exterior of one who
is possessed of an important secret, — that
is, she had the corner of her mouth turned
down, her eyes raised up, her lips pressed
as fast together as if they had been sewed
up, to prevent her blabbing, and an air of
prim mystical importance diffused over her
whole person and demeanour, which seem-'

THE ABBOT. 93

ed to intimate, " I know something which
1 am resolved not to tell you !"

Lilias had rightly read her mistress's tem-
per, who, wise and good as she was, was yet
a daughter of grandame Eve, and could not
witness this mysterious bearing on the part
of her waiting-woman without longing to as-
certain the secret cause. For a space, Mrs
Lilias was obdurate to all enquiries, sighed,
turned her eyes up higher yet to heaven,
hoped for the best, but had nothing parti-
cular to communicate. All this, as was most
natural and proper, only stimulated the la-
dy'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 favour, or was an-
xious to propale their misdemeanour— only
thank God, there has been no bloodshed
and murder in the house— that is all."

" Bloodshed and murder !" exclaimed the
lady, " what does the quean mean ? — if you
speak not plain out, you shall have some-
thing you will scarce be thankful for."

-^3W*

94 THE ABBOT.

*< Nay, my lady," answered Lilias, eager
to disburthen 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 slahi
he would have been, if there had not been
ready help ; but may be, it is your lady-
ship's pleasure that this young esquire shall
poniard the servants, as well as switch and
batton 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, speak-
ing 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

THE ABBOT. 95

commit himself otherwise, answered by a
sly look and a nod of intelligence, and pre-
sently after stood in the presence of the
Lady of Avenel, with a look of great re-
spect for his lady, partly real, partly affect-
ed, and an air of great sagacity, which in-
ferred 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 Glendin-
ning draw the dagger on each other, as in'
a cavern of thieves and murtherers? — is the
wounded man much hurt? and what — what
hath become of the unhappy boy ?"

" There is no one wounded as yet, ma-
dam," 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, correctii^
himself, ** and able at his exercise ; but

* Easter.

96 THE ABBOr.

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 me," answered the steward,
" it is my part, doubtless, to bear it— 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 quick-
silver, which defied even the skill of Ray-
mond Lullius."

" 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 af-
fairs 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 do-

8

THE ABBOT. 97

mestic, ** that 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 grey hairs, be-
cause they cannot rule the peevish humour
of a green head, which the owner carries,
it may be, a brace of inches higher than
becomes him."

<« Leave me," said the lady j «' Sir Hal-
bert'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 favour 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 disposed,
in plain terms, to lay to the door of her in-

VOL. I. E

98 TaE ABBOfT.

dulgence all the disturbances which the
fiery temper of Roland Graeme had already
occasioned, or might hereafter occasion, in
the family. *' I would," he said, ** honoured
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,
honoured madam, (a word which I do not
use according to the vain forms of this
world, biit because I have ever loved and
honoured you as an honourable 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,"

«* What mean you, reverend sir?" said
the lady; " I have made this youth a page
— is there aught in my doing so that does
not become my character and quality ?"

" I dispute not, madam," said the perti-
nacious preacher, '* your benevolent pur-
pose in taking charge of this youth, or your
title to give him this idle character of page,

THE ABBOr. 99

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 spi-
rit naturally haughty, overbearing, and im-
patient. 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 disposition. 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 assist-
ance, when he begins to ramp, rend, and
tear, according to his proper nature."

<« Mr Warden," said the lady, consider-
ably offended, '' you are my husband's an-
cient 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

100 THE ABBOT.

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 cen-
sure ; and if stricter discipline were requi-
red 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 re-
turn. He loves not domestic discord or
domestic brawls ; and I would not will-
ingly that he thought such could arise from
one whom I have favoured — 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 un-
protected creature, against whom my fa-
vour, my injudicious favour if you will, has
reared up so many enemies."

i

THE ABBOT. 101

" It is not necessary you should altoge-
ther 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 use-
ful and profitable member of the common-
weal— here he is but a make-bate, and a
stumbling-block of offence. The youth
has snatches of sense and of intelligence,
though he lacks industry. I will m-yself
give him letters commendatory to Olearius
Schinderhausen, a learned professor at Ley-
den, where they lack an under-janitor—
where, besides gratis instruction, if God
give him the grace to seek it, he will en-
joy five marks by the year, and the pro-
fessor's cast-off suit, which he disparts with
biennially."

*' 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, 1 trust to
your remonstrances with the family for re-
straining these violent and unseemly jea-

102 THE ABBOT.

lousies and bursts of passion; and I en-
treat you to press on them their duty in
this respect towards God, and towards
their master/'

*« You shall be obeyed, madam," said
Warden. ** On the next Thursday I ex-
hort the family, and will, with God's bless-
ing, so wrestle with the daemon 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 plea-
sure. The pulpit was at that time the same
powerful engine for affecting popular feeU
ing which the press has since become, and
he had been no unsuccessful preacher, as
we have already seen. It followed as a na-
tural consequence, that he rather over-esti-
mated 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

THR ABBOr. 103

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 exhortations ;
and as the court-preacher often address-
ed the King personally, 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 feu-
dal castle, often incensed or appalled, as the
case might be, by the discussion of their
private faults, and by spiritual censures
directed against them, specifically, person-
ally, and by name.

The sermon, by means of which Henry
Warden proposed to restore concord and
good order to the Castle of Avenel, bore
for text the well-known words, " He ivlio
striketh with the sword shall perish by the
sw<yrdj' 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 assured his
hearers comprehended blows given with

104 THE ABBOT.

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 whatsoever by
which death might be occasioned to the
adversary. In the same manner, he proved
satisfactorily, that the word, sword, com-
prehended all descriptions, whether back-
sword or basket-hilt, cut-and-thrust or ra-
pier, falchion or scymitar. " But if," he
continued, with still greater animation,
" the text 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 com-
prehend such as from their form and size
are devised rather for the gratification of
privy malice by treachery, than for the de-
struction of an enemy prepared and stand-
ing upon his defence. Such," he conti-
nued, 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

THE ABBOT. 105

hiit, — «* 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 who attend upon women, and wait
in the chambers of honourable ladies. Yes,
my friends, — this unhappy weapon, framed
for all evil and for no good, is compre*
hended under this deadly denunciation,
whether it be a stilet, which we have bo:
rowed from the treacherous Italian, (
dirk, which is borne by the savage I .^
landmen, or a whinger, which is carried \>y
our own Border-thieves and cut-thror ^.
a dudgeon-dagger, which was invented by
the devil himself, for a ready implement of
deadly wrath, sudden to execute, and dif-
ficult 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 discipline, be-

E 2

106 THE ABBOT.

come themselves effeminate hermaphro*
dites, having female spite and female cow*
ardice added to the infirmities and evil
passions of their masculine nature."

The effect which this oration produced
upon the assembled congregation of Ave-
nel cannot very easily be described. The
lady seemed at once embarrassed and of-
fended ; 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 un-
popular favourite ; Mrs Lilias crested and
drew up her head with all the deep-felt
pride of gratified resentment ; while the
steward, observing a strict neutrality of as-
pect, fixed his eyes upon an old scutcheon
on the opposite side of the wall, which he
seemed to examine with the most minute
accuracy, more willing, perhaps, to incur
the censure of being inattentive to the ser-
mon, than that of seeming to listen with
marked approbation to what appeared so
distasteful to his mistress.

THE ABBOT. 107

The unfortunate subject of the harangue,
whom nature had endowed with passions
which had hitherto found no effectual re-
straint, could not disguise the resentment
which he felt at being thus directly held
up to the scorn, as well as the censure, of
the assembled inhabitants of the little world
in which he lived. His brow grew red, his
lip grew pale, he set his teeth, he clenched
his hand, and then with mechanical readi-
ness grasped the weapon of which the cler-
gyman had given so hideous a character ;
and at length, as the preacher heightened
the colouring of his invective, he felt his
rage become so ungovernable, that, fearful
of being hurried into some deed of despe-
rate violence, he rose up, traversed the
chapel with hasty steps, and left the con-
gregation.

The preacher was surprised into a sud-
den pause, while the fiery youth shot across
him like a flash of lightning, eyeing him as
he passed, as if he had wished to dart
from his eyes the same power of blighting

108 THE ABBOT.

and of consuming. But no sooner had he
crossed the chapel, and shut with violence
behind him the door of the vaulted en-
trance by which it communicated with the
Castle, than the impropriety of his con-
duct supplied Warden with one of those
happier subjects for eloquence, of which
he knew how to take advantage for ma-
king a suitable impression on his hearers.
He paused for an instant, and then pro-
nounced in a slow and solemn voice, the deep
anathema : " He hath gone out from us be-
cause he was not of us — the sick man hath
been offended at the wholesome bitter of the
medicine — the wounded patient hath flinch-
ed from the friendly knife of the surgeon
— the sheep hath fled from the sheepfold
and delivered himself to the wolf, because
he could not assume the quiet and humble
conduct demanded of us by the great Shep*
herd. — Ah! my brethren, beware of wrath —
beware of pride — beware of the deadly and
destroying sin which so often shews itself
to our frail eyes in the garments of light.

THE ABBOT. 109

What is our earthly honour ? Pride, and
pride only — What our earthly gifts and
graces ? Pride and vanity. — Voyagers speak
of Indian men who deck themselves with
shells, and anoint themselves with pig-
ments, and boast of their attire as we do
of our miserable carnal advantages — Pride
could draw down the morning- star from
Heaven even to the verge of the pit —
Pride and selfl opinion kindled 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 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 main-
tain against the assaults of grace 5 and un-
til 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 fa-
tal apple ; tear it up by the roots, though
it be twisted with the cords of your life.

110 THE abbot;

Profit by the example of the miserable sin-
ner 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 fire-brand, and your ears deafened like
those of the adder, and your heart harden*
ed like the nether mill-stone. Up, then,
and be doing — wrestle and overcome ; re-
sist, 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-
confidence 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

THE ABBOT. Ill

sueh will pass the assay of Omnipotent Wis-
dom. Yet shrink not from the task, be-
cause, 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 exhortation to his hearers to
seek divine grace, which is perfected in
human weakness.

The audience did not listen to this ad-
dress without being considerably affected ;
though it might be doubted whether the
feelings of triumpli, received from the dis-
graceful retreat of the favourite page, did
not greatly qualify in the minds of many
the exhortations of the preacher to charity
and to humility. And, in fact, the ex-
pression of their countenances much re-
sembled the satisfied triumphant air of a
set of children, who, having just seen a
companion punished for a fault in which
they had no share, con their task with
double glee, both because they themselves

112 THE ABBOT.

are out of the scrape, and because the cul-
prit is in it.

With very different feelings did the Lady
of Avenel seek her own apartment. She
felt angry at Warden having made a do-
mestic matter, in which she took a personal
interest, the subject of such public discus-
sion. But this she knew the good man
claimed as a branch of his Christian liberty
as a preacher, and also that it was vindi-
cated by the universal custom of his bre-
thren. But the self-willed conduct of her
protege afforded her yet deeper concern.
That he had broken through in so remark-
able a degree, not only the respect due to
her presence, but that which was paid in
those days with such peculiar reverence,
argued a spirit as untameable as his ene-
mies 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 j

THE ABBOT. 113

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 to-
tally 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 ob-
servation. The thoughts of this orphan
boy clung to her heartstrings with a fond-
ness 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
so much enjoyment. Perhaps he was not
less dear to her, because she well saw that
he was a favourite 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 j a circum-

114 THE ABBOT.

stance 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 de-
sert her page while her page could be ra-
tionally protected ; and, with the view of
ascertaining how far this might be done,
she caused him to be summoned to her.
presence.

1

THE ABBOT* 115

CHAPTER V.

in the wild storm.

The seaman hews his mast down, and the merchant
H^ves to the billows wares he once deem'd precious :
Sk) prince and peer, 'mid popular contentions.
Cast off their favourites.

Old Play.

It was some time ere Roland Graeme ap-
peared. The messenger (his old friend
Lilias) had at first attempted to open the
door of his little apartment with the chari-
table purpose, doubtless, of enjoying the
confusion, and marking the demeanour of
the culprit* But a square bit of iron,
ycieped a bolt, was passed across the door
on the inside, and prevented her charitable
purpose. Lilias knocked, and called at in-
tervals, ** Roland — Roland Graeme — Mas-
Ur Roland Graeme, (an emphasis on the

116 THE ABBOT.

word Master), will you be pleased to do
up the door ? — What ails you ? — are you
at your prayers in private, to complete the
devotion which you left unfinished in pub-
lic?— 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 re-
ply. « Well, Master Roland," said the
waiting- maid, '* I must tell my mistress,
that if she would have an answer, she must
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 her 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 says my lady ?"

<* That you will be pleased to come to

THE ABBOT. 117

her directly, in the withdrawing- room,"
answered Lilias, ** I 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, re-
turning into his own apartment, he once
m.ore locked the door in the face of the
waiting-maid.

** Rare courtesy !" muttered Lilias ; and,
returning to her mistress, acquainted her
that Roland Graeme would wait on her
when it suited his convenience.

** What ! is that his addition, or your own
phrase, Lilias ?" said the lady coolly.

** Nay, madam," replied the attendant,
not directly answering 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

118 THE ABBOT.

colour than his wont ; there was embar-
rassment in his manner, but it was neither
that of fear nor of penitence.

*• Young man," said the lady, " what
trow you am I to think of your conduct
this day ?'

^« If it has offended you, madam, I am
deeply grieved," replied the youth.

«' To have offended me alone," replied
the lady, " were but little — 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 in-
cludes 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 entitled to blame
me for chastising an insolent groom— nor
do I fear the wrath of heaven for treating

THE ABBOT. Il9

with scorn the unauthorized interference
of a meddling preacher,'*

The Lady of Avenel had before this seen
symptoms in her favourite of boyish petu-
lance, and of impatience of censure or re-
proof. But his present demeanour 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 ma-
king me repent the favour I have shewn
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 protection would
speedily again reduce you?"

*' Lady," said the page, '' I have forgot
nothing. I remember but too much. I
know, that but for you, I should have pe-

120 THE ABBOT.

rished in yon blue waves," pointing as he
spoke to the lake, which was seen through
the window, agitated by the western wind,
" Your goodness has gone farther, raadam
— you have protected me against the malice
of others, and against my own folly. You are
free, if you are willing, to abandon the or-
phan you have reared. You have left no-
thing undone by him, and he complains of
nothing. And yet, ladyj 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 gra-
titude ?"

" 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 aver-
sion. You are too just, madam, to require

me to be grateful for the constant and un^

1

THE ABBOT. 121

ceasing 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 expence,
this very day regaled the assembled house-
hold.'^

•* Heard mortal ears the like of this !'*
said the waiting- maid, with her hands ex-
panded, 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 su-
preme 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 LiHas^ " would be
best done by turning him out the same beg-
gar's brat that your ladyship took him in."

VOL. I. F

122 THE ABBOT.

" 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
bead. You have been tricked up with fine
garments and treated like the son of a gen-
tleman, until you have forgot the fountain
of your churlish blood."

" Craving your pardon, most honourable
m.adam, Lihas hath ^of spoken truth, nor
does your ladyship know aught of my de-
scents which should entitle you to treat it
with such decided scorn. I am no beggar's
brat— my grandmother 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 else-
where, and to others. Avenel Castle, with
its lake and its towers, was not at all times
able to protect its inhabitants from w^ant
and desolation."

'* Hear but his assurance !" said Lilias,
'' he upbraids my lady with the distresses
of her family !"

THE ABBOT. 123

" It had indeed been a theme more grate-
fully spared," said the lady, affected never-
theless with the allusion.

" It was necessary, madam, for my vin-
dication," said the page, " or I had not even
hinted at a word that might give you pain.
But believe, honoured 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."

** And upon an assurance so vague as
this," said the lady, " do you propose to ex-
pect all the regard, all the privileges, due
to high rank and to distinguished birth,
and become a contender for privileges
which are only due to the noble? Go to, sir,
know yourself, or the master of the house-
hold 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

11

124 THE ABBOT.

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 pantoufle, and the slave of a
silver whistle. You must 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 vas-
sal his master."

** I have deserved this insult," said the
lady, colouring deeply, " for so long en-
during and fostering your petulance. Be-
gone, sir. Leave this castle to-night — I
will send you the means of subsisting your-
self till you find some honest mode of sup-
port, though I fear your imaginary gran-
deur 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 ho-
noured mistress^—" he said, but was unable
to bring out another syllable.

'< Arise, sir," said the lady, •* and let go

i

i\

THE ABBOT. 125

my mantle — hypocrisy is a poor cloak for
ingratitude."

" I am incapable of either, madam," said
the page, springing up with the exchange
of passion which belonged to his rapid and
impetuous temper ** Think not I meant
to implore permission to reside here ; it
has been long my determination to leave
Avenel, and I will never forgive myself for
having permitted you to say the word he-
gone J ere I said, * I leave you/ I did but
kneel to ask your forgiveness for an ill-con-
sidered word used in the height of displea-
sure, but which ill became my 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 suf-
fered."

** Roland," said the lady, somewhat ap-
peased and relenting towards her favourite,
" you had me to appeal to when you were
aggrieved. You were neither called upon

126 THE ABBOT.

to suffer wrong, nor entitled to resent it,
when you were under my protection."

** And what," said the youth, " if I sus-
tained wrong from those you loved and fa-
voured, was I to disturb your peace with
idle tale-bearings and eternal complaints?
No, madam ; I have borne my own bur-
then 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, how-
ever, that we part. I v/as not born to be a
stipendiary, favoured by his mistress, until
ruined by the calumnies of others. May
Heaven multiply its choicest blessings on
vour honoured head ; and, for your sake,
jpon all that are dear to you !"

He was about to leave the apartment,
when the lady called on him to return. He
stood still, while she thus addressed him :
'' It was not my intention, nor would it be

THE ABBOT. 127

just, even in the height of my displeasure,
to dismiss you without the means of su'|.)-
port ; 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 re-
main 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, iiu
stead, that you do not part from me m
anger."

•' No, not in anger," said the lady, '^^ in
sorrow rather for your wilfulness 5 but take
the gold, you cannot but need it."

" May God evermore bless you for the
kind tone and the kind word ; but the «:oid
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 shew
myself more thankful than by mere w^ords."
He threw himself on his knees, kissed the

128 THE ABBOT.

hand which she did not withdraw, and
then hastily left the apartment.

Lilias, for a moment or two, kept her
eye fixed on her mistress, who looked so
unusually pale, that she seemed about to
faint ; but the lady instantly recovered her-
self, and declining the assistance which her
attendant offered her, walked to her own
apartment.

THE ABBOT. 129

CHAPTER VI.

lliou hast each secret of the household, Francis.
I dare be sworn thou hast been in the buttery
Steeping thy curious humour 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.

Old Play.

Upon the morrow succeeding the scene
we have described, the dissjraced favourite
left the Castle ; and at breakfast-time the
cautious old steward and Mrs Lilias sate
in the apartment of the latter personage,
holding grave converse on the important
event of the day, sweetened by a small treat
of sweetmeats, to which the providence of
Mr Wingate had added a little flask of racy
canary.

f2

130 THE ABBar.

^* He is gone at last," said the abigail,
sipping her glass ; '* and here is to his
good journey."

" Amen," answered the steward, grave-
ly ; "I wish the poor deserted lad no ill."

** And he is gone like a wild-duck, as he
came," continued Mrs Lilias ; " no lower-
ing of drawbridges, or pacing along cause-
ways 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 himself by himself to the further 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 trum-
pery out after him — though the things are
worth lifting, too."

*< Doubtless, Mrs 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, Mr Wingate," con-
tinued the damsel, '* do not the very

THE ABBOT. 131

cockles of your heart rejoice at the house
being rid of this upstart whelp, that flung
us all into shadow ?"

" Why, Mrs 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 any thing.
And for Roland Grajtiie, 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 !" echo-
ed Mrs Lilias. *^ I say, never can come
a worse, or one half so bad. He might
have been the ruin of our poor dear mis-
tress, (here she used her kerchief,) body
and soul, and estate too ; for she spent more
coin on his apparel than on any four ser-
vants about the house."

«* Mrs Lilias," said the sage steward,
«* I do opine that our mistress requireth
not this pity at our hands, being in all re-
spects competent to take care of her own
body, soul, and estate into the bargain."

132 THE ABBOT.

" You would not mayhap have said so,"
answered the waiting-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 this
morning, for two and a 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 re-
nown 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 beggar's brat
that a dog brought her out of the loch."

«* And, Uierefore," said the steward, «* I
say, rejoice not too much, or too hastily,
Mrs Lilias ; for if your lady wished a favour.

THE ABBOT. 133

ite to pass away the time, depend upon it,
the time will not pass lighter now that he
is gone ; since she will have another fa-
vourite to chuse for herself, and be assured
she will not lack one."

** And where should she chuse one, but
among her own tried and faithful servants,"
said Mrs Lilias, " who have broken her
bread, and drank her drink for so many
years ? I have known many a lady as high
as she, that never thought either of a friend
or favourite beyond their own waiting-wo-
man— always having a proper respect, at
the same time, for their old and faithful
master of the household, Mr Wingate."

" Truly, Mrs Lilias," replied the stew-
ard, " 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 Gr^me must needs leave in

134 THE ABBOT.

our lady's leisure. There will be a learned
young divine with some new doctrine — a
learned leech with some new drug — a bold
cavalier who will not be refused the favour
of wearing her colours 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 Queen;
these are the sort of folks who supply the
loss of a well-favoured favourite, and not
an old steward, or a middle-aged waiting-
woman."

*« Well," said Lilias, '* you have experi-
ence, Master Wingate, and truly I would
my master would leave off his pricking hi-
ther and thither, and look better after the
affairs of his household. There will be a
papistrie among us next, for what should
I see among master's clothes but a string of
gold beads ? I promise you, aves and credos
both ! — I 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 savoured of popery, and

THE ABBOT. 135

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 — v/hat then? we are
all mortal — Right proper beads they are,"
he added, looking attentively at them, '< and
may weigh four ounces of fine gold."

** And I will have them melted down pre-
sently," she said, " before they be the mis-
guiding of some poor blinded soul."

" Very cautious, indeed, Mrs Lilias," said
the steward, nodding his head in assent.

" I will have them made," said Mrs Lilias,
" into a pair of shoe-buckles ; I would not
wear the Pope's trinkets, or whatever has
once borne the shape of them, one inch
above my in-step, were they diamonds, in-
stead of gold — But this is what has come
of Father Ambrose coming about the Cas-
tle, as demure as a cat that is about to steal
cream."

" Father Ambrose is our master's bro-
ther," said the steward gravely.

** Very true, Master Yv^ingate," answered

136 THE ABBOT.

the dame ; " but is that a good reason why
he should pervert the king's liege subjects
to papistrie ?"

" Heaven forbid, Mrs Lilias," answered
the sententious major-domo ; '* but yet
there are worse folks than the papists."

•* I wonder where they are to be found,"
said the waiting-woman, with some aspe-
rity ; " but I believe, Mr Wingate, if one
were to speak to you about the devil him-
self, you would say there were worse peo-
ple than Satan,"

** Assuredly I might say so," replied the
steward, *' supposing that I saw Satan stand-
ing at my elbow."

The waiting-woman started, and having
exclaimed " God bless us !" added, « I won-
der, Mr Wingate, you can take pleasure in
frightening one thus."

" Nay, Mrs Lilia?, I had no such pur-
pose," was the reply ; '* but look you here
— the papists are but put down for the pre-
sent, but who knows how long this word
present will last ? There are two great Po-

^

THE ABBOT, 137

pish earls in the North of England, that
abominate the very word reformation ; I
mean the Northumberland and Westmore-
land Earls, men of power enough to shake
any throne in Christendom. Then, though
our Scottish king be, God bless him, a true
Protestant, yet 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 5
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 sculLcaps."

" And have you, Mr 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

4

138 ^ THE ABBOT.

storm, or of the woman Mary again making
the royal seat of Scotland a throne of abo-
mination ? No marvel that you are so civil
to the cowled monk, Father Ambrose, when
he comes hither with his dow'ncast eyes that
he never raises to my lady's face, and with
his low sweet-toned voice, and his benedi-
cities, and his bennisons ; and who so ready
to take them kindly as Mr Wingate ?"

" Mrs Lilias," replied the butler, w^ith an
air which was intended to close the debate,
" there are reasons for all things. If I re-
ceived Father Ambrose debonairly, and suf-
fered him to steal a word now and then with
this same Roland Gra3me, it w^as not that I
cared a brass bodle for his bennison or mali-
son 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

THE ABBOT» 139

patron j and who so like to mount into his
empty saddle as this same Father Ambrose ?
The Pope of Rome can soon dispense with
his vows, and then we should have Sir Ed-
ward the soldier, instead of Ambrose the
priest."

Resentment 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 mistresses
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 or his cov/1 were the bet-
ter metal. Shame on you. Master Win-
gate ! If I had not held you as so old an ac-
quaintance, this should have gone to my
lady's ears, though I had been called pick-

140 THE ABBOT,

thank and tale-pyet for my pains, as when
I told of Roland Grseme shooting the wild
swan.

Master Wingate was somewhat dismayed
at perceiving, that the detail which he had
given of his far-sighted political views had
produced on his hearer rather suspicion of
his fidelity, than admiration of his wisdom,
and endeavoured, as hastily as possible, to
apologize and to explain, although inter-
nally extremely offended at the unreason-
able view, as he deemed it, which it had
pleased Mistress Lilias Bradbourne to take
of his expressions ; and mentally convin-
ced that her disapprobation of his senti-
ments arose solely out of the consideration,
that though Father Ambrose, 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

THE ABBOT. 141

separated ; Lilias to attend the silver whistle
which called her to her mistress's cham-
ber, and the sapient major-domo to the
duties of his own department. They parted
with less than their usual degree of reve-
rence and regard ; for the steward felt that
his worldly wisdom was rebuked by the
more disinterested attachment of the wait-
ing-woman, and Mistress Lilias Bradbourne
was compelled to consider her old friend
as something little, if any thing, better than
a time-server.

14£ THE ABBOT.

CHAPTER VIL

When I ha'e a saxpence under ray thumbs
Then I get credit m ilka town ;
But when I am poor, they bid me gae bye,
O poverty parts good company.

Old SoT}&\

While the departure of the page afford-
ed subject for the conversation which we
have detailed in our last chapter, the late
favourite 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, vv^ith the desire of escaping
the notice of the inhabitants. His pride
whispered, that he would be, in his discard-
ed state, only the subject of their wonder

THE ABBOT. 143

and compassion ; and his generosity told
him, that any mark of sympathy which his
situation should excite, might be unfavour-
ably reported at the Castle. A trifling in-
cident 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
liimself, who had on former occasions been
but too happy to be permitted to share in
his sports in the subordinate character of his
assistant. Ralpli 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 or hound," said Roland, " I will
never perhaps hollo to again. 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 Graeme, " I
am not — I am now leaving the service of
Avenel for ever."

144 THE ABBOT.

** 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 de-
termine yet," replied the disgraced favour-
ite.

'* 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 Graeme,
" doest thou think I would have accepted
a boon from one who was giving me over
a prey to detraction and to ruin, at the in-
stigation of a canting priest and a meddling
serving- woman ? The bread that I had
bought with such an alms would have chok-
ed me at the first mouthful."

Ralph looked at his quondam friend with
an air of wonder not unmixed with con-
tempt. ** Well," he said, at length, ** no
occasion for passion — each man knows his

8

THE ABBOT. 145

own stomach best — but, were I on a black
moor at this time of day, not knowing whi-
ther I was going, I would 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
Menelaws and all his folk ; but, as I said, for
one night "

The cold-blooded limitation of the offer-
ed shelter to one night only, and that ten-
dered most unwillingly, offended the pride
of the discarded favourite.

'* I would rather sleep on the fresh hea-
ther, as I have done many a night on less
occasion," said Roland Graeme, " than in
that smoky garret of your father's, that
smells of peat- smoke and usquebaugh like a
Highlander's plaid."

^* You may chuse, 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

VOL. I. G

146 THE ABBOT.

for your proffer though — it is not every one
will put themselves in the way of ill-will by
harbouring a discarded serving- man."

«* Ralph,'* said Roland Graeme, '* I would
pray you to remember that I have switch-
ed 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 superiority,
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 shew-
ing 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

THE ABBOT. 147

was just wise enough to see, that by conti-
nuing this altercation, he would subject
himself to very rude treatment from the
boor, who was so much older and stronger
than himself; and while his antagonist, with
a sort of jeering laugh of defiance, seemed
to provoke the contest, he felt the full bit-
terness of his own degraded condition, and
burst into a passion of tears, which he in
vain endeavoured 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 ac-
quaintance sake. But ever look to a man's
inches ere you talk of switching — why,
thine arm, man, is but like a spindle com-
pared to mine. But hark, I hear old Adam
Woodcock hollowing to his hawk — Come
along, man, we will have a merry afternoon,
and go joUily to my father's, in spite of the
peat-smoke and usquebaugh to boot. May-
be we may put you into some honest way

148 THE ABBOT.

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
miniouj 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 examina-
tions, and put these things out of folk's
h^ad ; 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,
gives 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."

** I thank you," said Roland Graeme, en-
deavouring to assume an air of indifference
and of superiority J '* but I have another

THE ABBOT. 149

path before me, and, were it otherwise, 1
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 lang 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 troublesome, and
who had no longer the means to be service-
able to him.

Roland Graeme compelled himself to w^alk
on while they were within sight of each
other, that his former inmate might not au-
gur any vacillation of purpose, or uncer-
tainty of object, from his remaining on the
same spot j but the effort was a painful one.

150 THE ABBOT.

He seemed stunned, as it were, and giddy ;
the earth on which he stood felt as if un-
sound, and quaking under his feet like
the surface of a bog ; and he had once or
twice nearly fallen, though the path he trod
was of firm green-sward. He kept reso-
lutely moving forward, in spite of the inter-
nal agitation to which these symptoms be-
longed, until the distant form of his ac-
quaintance disappeared behind the slope of
a hill, when his heart gave way at once ;
and, sitting down on the turf, remote from
human ken, he gave way to the natural ex-
pressions of wounded pride, grief, and fear,
and wept with unrestrained profusion and
unqualified bitterness.

When the first violent paroxysm of his
feelings had subsided, the deserted and
friendless youth felt that mental relief which
usually follows such discharges of sorrow.
The tears continued to chase each other
down his cheeks, but they were no longer
accompanied by the same sense of desola-
tion J an afflicting yet milder sentiment was

THE ABBOT. 151

awakened in his mind, by the recollection
of his benefactress, of the unwearied kind-
ness which had attached her to him, in spite
of many acts of provoking petulance, now
recollected as offences of a deep dye, which
had protected him against the machina-
tions of others, as well as against the con-
sequences of his own folly, and would have
continued to do so, had not the excess of
his presumption compelled her to withdraw
her protection.

" Whatever indignity I have borne," he
said, " has been the just reward of my own
ingratitude. And have I done well to ac-
cept the hospitality, the more than mater-
nal kindness of my protectress, yet to de-
tain from her the knowledge of my religion ?
—but she shall know that a Catholic has as
much gratitude as a puritan — that I have
been thoughtless, but not wicked — that in
my wildest moments I have loved, respect-
ed, and honoured her — and that the orphan
boy might indeed be heedless, but was ne-
ver ungrateful."

152 THE ABBOT.

He turned, as these thoughts passed
through his mind, and began hastily to re-
tread his footsteps towards the castle. But
he checked the first eagerness of his re-
pentant haste, when he reflected on the
scorn and contempt with which the family
were likely to see the return of the fugi-
tive, humbled, as they must necessarily sup-
pose him, into a supplicant, who requested
pardon for his fault, and permission to re-
turn to his service. He slackened his pace,
but he stood not still.

" I 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. But if 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
favour— /^^r suspicion of my meanness I
cannot — I will not brook."

THE ABBOT. 153

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 favour, by following the course
which the first ardour of his repentant feel-
ings had dictated to him.

" If I had but some plausible pretext,'
he thought, *^ some ostensible reason for
my return, some reason to allege which
might shew I came not as a degraded sup-
plicant, or a discarded menial, I might go
thither — but as I am, I cannot — my heart
would leap from its place and burst."

As these thoughts passed 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 favourite 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 well-known whoop, and the falcon in-

G 2

154 THE ABBOT.

stantly settled on his wrist, and began to
prune itself, glancing at the youth from
time to time an acute and brilliant glance
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 stran-
gers henceforward. Many a gallant stoop
have I seen thee make, and many a brave
heron strike down ; but that is all 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 sports — thou know'st 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. 155

The voice of the honest 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 he-
sitation, and guessed the cause.

" 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 at 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 j for you have a

156 THE ABBOT.

good notion of falconry, though you stand
up for washing the meat for the eyasses.
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 Wood-
cock 5 <^ 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. Mas-
ter 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,

THE ABBOT. 157

Master Roland, tell me what way wing
ye ?"

«* That is as God pleases," replied the
page, with a sigh which he could not sup-
press.

*^ 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 Dia-
mond there, 'tis a noble bird, and shews
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 clothe so fair, or feed so well, or
sleep so soft, or shew 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,

158 THE ABBOT.

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," answered the
falconer ; '* and whither now ?"

«« I thought of going to the Abbey of
Kennaquhair," answered Roland Gr^me,
«* to ask the counsel of Father Ambrose."
*< And joy go with you," said the fal-
coner, " though it is like 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 for-
borne that sport too long ; and troth I am
clear of the same opinion."

«< Then, will Father Ambrose be the bet-
ter of having a friend beside him !" said the
page manfully.

" Ay, but, my young fearnought," re-

THE ABBOT. 159

plied the falconer, *« the friend will scarce
be the better of being beside Father Am-
brose— he may come by the redder's lick,
and that is ever the worst of the battle."

" I care not for that," said the page, " the
dread of a lick should not hold me back 5
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 conti-
nued, 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 hawks'
'^ meat, and so forth ; but wot you what it is
lined with. Master Roland ?"

" With leather, to be sure," replied Ro-
land, somewhat surprised at the hesitation

160 THE ABBOT.

with which Adam Woodcock asked a ques-
tion so simple.

" With leather, lad ?" said Woodcock ;
«« ay, and with silver to the boot of that.
See here," he said, shewing a secret slit in
the lining of his bag of office- — " here they
are, thirty good Harry groats as ever were
struck 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 this as-
sistance ; but he recollected the vows of hu-
mility which he had just taken upon him,
and it occurred that this was the opportu-
nity 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 sooth
his own reviving pride, he could not help
adding, " he hoped soon to requite the
obligation."

THE ABBOTo l6l

'* 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 of-
fered, and then adding, with great chear-
fulness, — ** Now you may go through the
w^orld ; 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. Fare-
well, and God be with you."

So saying, and as if desirous to avoid the
thanks of his companion, he turned hastily
round, and left Roland Grceme to pursue
his journey alone.

162 THE ABBOT.

CHAPTER VIII.

The sacred tapers' lights are gone.
Grey 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 sunk^
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 supposed to mark,
one of those resting-places, which that ve-
nerable saint was pleased to assign to his
monks, when his convent, being driven
from Lindisfern by the Danes, became a
peripatetic society of religionists ; and bear-
ing their patron's body on their shoulders,
transported him from place to place through
Scotland and the borders of England, un-
til he was pleased at length to spare them

THE ABBOT. 163

the pain of bearing him farther, and to
chuse his ultimate place of rest in the lord-
ly towers of Durham. The odour of his
sanctity remained behind him at each place
where he had granted the monks a tran-
sient respite from their labours ; and proud
were those who could assign, as his tempo-
rary resting-place, any spot within their vi-
cinity. Few were more celebrated and ho-
noured than the well-known Cell of Saint
Cuthbert, to which Roland Graeme now
bent his way, situated considerably to the
north-west of the great Abbey of Kenna-
quhair, on which it was dependent. In the
neighbourhood were some of those recom-
mendations which weighed with the expe-
rienced priesthood of Rome, in chusing
their sites for places of religion.

There was a well, possessed of some me-
dicinal 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

164 THE ABBOT.

none could reasonably be expected to be
benefited by the fountain who did not ex^
tend their bounty to the saint's chaplain,
A few roods of fertile land afforded the
monk his plot of garden ground ; an emi-
nence well clothed with trees rose behind
the cell, and sheltered it from the nortlx
and the east, while the front, opening to
the south-west, looked up a wild, but plea-
sant valley, down which wandered a lively
brook, which battled with every stone
that interrupted its passage.

The cell itself was rather plainly thaa
rudely built — 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 use-
less to the community, while the Catholic
religion retained the ascendancy ; as he
could marry, christen, and administer the

THE ABBOT. 165

other sacraments of the Roman church. Of
late, however, as the Protestant doctrines
gained ground, he had found it convenient
to live in close retirement, and to avoid, as
much as possible, drawing upon himself
observation or animadversion. The appear-
ance of his habitation, however, when Ro-
land Graeme came before it in the close of
the evening, plainly shewed that his cau-
tion had been finally ineffectual.

The page's first movement was to knock
at the door, when he observed, to his sur-
prise, that it was open, not from being left
unlatched, but because, beat off its upper
hinge, it was only fastened to the door-post
by the lower, and could therefore no long-
er perform its functions. Somewhat alarm-
ed at this, and receiving no answer when
he knocked and called, Roland began to
look more at leisure upon the exterior of
the little dwellings before he ventured to
enter it. The flowers, which had been
trained with care against the w^alls, seemed
to have been recently torn down, and trail-

166 THE ABBOT.

ed their dishonoured garlands on the earth ;
the latticed window was broken and dash-
ed in. The garden, which the monk had
maintained by his constant labour in the
highest order and beauty, bore marks of
having been lately trod down and destroy-
ed by the hoofs of animals and the feet of
men.

The sainted spring had not escaped. It
was wont to arise beneath a canopy of rib-
bed arches, with which the devotion of eld-
er times had secured and protected its heal-
ing waters. These arches were now al-
most entirely demolished, and the stones
of which they were built were tumbled into
the well, as if with the purpose of choking
up and destroying the fountain, which, as it
had shared in other days the honour of the
saint, was, in the present, doomed to par-
take 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

THE ABBOT. 167

forced out of their place ; but the solidity
of ancient mason-work had proved too
great for the time or patience of the assail-
ants, and they had relinquished their task
of destruction. Such dilapidated buildings,
after the lapse of years during which nature
has gradually covered the effects of vio-
lence with creeping plants, and with wea-
ther stains, exhibit, amid their decay, a me-
lancholy beauty. But when the visible ef-
fects 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 Grseme was at no loss to con-
jecture the cause of these ravages. The
distruction of the Popish edifices did not
take place at once throughout Scotland, but
at different times, and according to the spi-
rit which actuated the reformed clergy ;
some of whom instigated their hearers to

16S THE ABBOT.

these acts of demolition ; and others, with
better taste and feeling, endeavoured to pro-
tect the ancient shrines, while they desired
to see them purified from the objects which
had attracted idolatrous devotion. From
time to time, therefore, the populace of the
Scottish towns and villages, when instigated
either by their own feelings of abhorrence
for Popish superstition, or by the zealous
doctrines of the more zealous preachers,
resumed the work of destruction, and exer^
cised 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 tremen-
dous hierarchy, furnished too good an apo-
logy for wreaking vengeance upon the
splendid edifices which they inhabited ; and
of this an old Scottish historian gives a re-
markable instance.

<« Why mourn ye !" said an aged matron,
seeing the discontent of some of the citi-

5

THE ABBOT. 169

zens, while a stately convent was burned by
the multitude, ** why mourn ye for its de-
struction ? If you knew half the flagitious
wickedness which has been perpetrated
within that house, vou would rather bless
the divine judgment, which permits not
even the senseless walls which screened
such profligacy, any longer to cumber
christian ground."

But although, in many instances, the de-
struction of the Roman Catholic buildings
might be, in the matron's way of judging, an
act of justice, and in others an act of po-
licy, there is no doubt that the humour of
demolishing monuments of ancient piety
and munificence, and that in a poor coun-
trylike Scotland, where there was no chance
of their being replaced, was both useless,
mischievous, and barbarous.

In the present instance, the unpretending
and quiet seclusion of the monk of St Cuth-
bert's had hitherto saved him from the ge-
neral WTeck \ but it would seem ruin had

VOL. I. H

170 THE ABBOT.

now at length reached him. Anxious to
discover if he had at least escaped personal
harm, Roland Grgemenow entered the half-
ruined cell.

The interior of the building was in a state
which fully justified the opinion he had
formed from its external injuries. The few
rude utensils of the solitary's hut were bro-
ken 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 property, and to consume, in par-
ticular, the rude old image of Saint Cuthbert,
in its episcopal habit, which lay on the hearth
like Dagon of yore, shattered with the axe
and scorched with the flames, but only par-
tially destroyed. In the little apartment
which served as a chapel, the altar was over-
thrown, 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 supplicant while he paid his
devotion there, had been pulled down, and

THE ABBOT. 171

dashed by its own weight into three frag-
ments. There were marks of sledge-ham-
mers on each of these ; yet the image had
been saved from utter demolition by the
size and strength of the remaining frag-
ments, which, though much injured, retain-
ed enough of the original sculpture to shew
what it had been intended to represent.

Roland Graeme, secretly nursed in the
tenets of Rome, saw with horror the profa-
nation 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 medita-
ted, and with a sudden, and to himself al-
most 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

172 THE ABBOT,

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 labour, or
rather at the very moment when he had ac-
complished the elevation of the fragment,
a voice, in thrilling and well- known accents,
spoke behind him these words : — " Well
done, thou good and faithful servant ! Thus
would 1 again meet the child of my love —
the hope of my aged eyes."

Roland turned round in astonishment,
and the tali commanding 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 colour, and approaching as near
to a pilgrim's cloak as it was safe to wear
in a country where the suspicion of Catho-
lie devotion in many places endangered the
safety of those who w^ere suspected of at-

THE ABBOT. 173

tachment to the ancient faith. Roland
Giceme threw himself at her feet. She rai-
sed and embraced him with affection in-
deed, but not unmixed with a gravity which
amounted almost to sternness.

** Thou hast kept well," she said, " the
bird in thy bosom. As a boy, as a youth,
thou hast held fast thy faith amongst here-
tics— 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 — I 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 ill 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 I must ever call
you," replied Grasme, — ^* if I am returned

174 THE ABBOT.

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 faith-
ful and to be silent."

<' Be he blessed for it !" said she, ** bless-
ed in the cell and in the field, in the puU
pit 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 tell him,** answered Ro-
land, " that myself. 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 ask
for it in vain. But men say, my son, that
thou art bold and sudden ; and those who

THE ABBOT. 175

bear such tempers are not lightly to be
trusted with what will strongly move them."

** Say rather, my mother," returned Ho-
land Graeme, " that I am laggard and cold-
blooded— what patience or endurance can
you require of which he is not capable, who
for years has heard his religion ridiculed
and insulted, yet failed to plunge his dagger
in the blasphemer's bosom I"

" Be contented, my child," replied Mag-
dalen Graeme ; " the time, which then and
even now demands patience, will soon ri-
pen to that of eflPort and action — great
events are on the wing, and thou — thou
shalt have thy share of advancing them.
Thou hast relinquished the service of the
Lady of Avenel ?"

" I have been dismissed from it, my mo-
ther— 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 will be the more hardened to
undertake that which must be performed."

" Let it be nothing, then, against the

■ -"y"""*" ' -*" Ti ^ — "n -T '

~^>T" i. ■. ,u — - ^ , „, , , , ,:: ^-^

176 THE ABBOT.

Lady of Avenel," said the page, «* as thy
look and words seem to imply. I have eaten
her bread — I have experienced her favour
— 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 v^ill 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 acursed by heaven, that they re-
nounce, violate, blaspheme, and destroy
whatsoever we are commanded to believe
in, whatsoever we are commanded to reve-
rence ?"

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 de-
votion ; she raised her left hand aloft as in
the act of making a vow, and thus proceed-

THE ABBOT. 177

ed : '* Bear witness for me, holy saint, with-
in 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 favour or earthly affection towards any
amongst them, will I withdraw my hand
from the plough, when it shall pass over
the devoted furrow ! Bear witness, holy
saint, once thyself a wanderer and fugitive
as we are now — bear wdtness. Mother of
Mercy, Queen of Heaven — bear witness,
saints and angels !"

In this high strain of enthusiasm, she
stood, raising her eyes through the frac-
tured roof of the vault, to the stars which
now began to twinkle through the pale twi-
light, while the long grey tresses which
hung down over her shoulders waved in the
jaight-breeze, which the chasm and fractu-
red 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 further ex-
planation of the purpose she obscurely hint*

H 2

1

178 THE ABBOT.

ed at. Nor did she farther press him on the
subject J for, having concluded her prayer
or obtestation, by clasping her hands to-
gether with solemnity, and then signing
herself with the cross, she again addressed
her grandson, in a tone more adapted to
the ordinary business of life.

*' Thou must hence," she said, ** Roland,
thou must hence, l>ut not till morning —
And now, how wilt thou shift for thy night's
quarters ? — thou hast been more softly bred
than when we were companions in the
misty hills of Cumberland and Liddes-
dale."

*' I have at least preserved, my good mo-
ther, the habits which I then learned — can
lie hard, and think it no hardship. Since
1 have been a wanderer I have been a hunt-
er, and fisher, and fowler; and each of these
is accustomed to sleep freely in a worse shel-
ter than sacrilege has left us here."

«' Than sacrilege has left us here !" said
the matron, repeating his words, and pau-
sing on them. ** Most true, my son ; and

THE ABBOT, 179

God's faithful children are now worst shel-
tered, 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
expressions of this female, she seemed to
retain towards Roland Graeme, in a 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 af-
fectionate solicitude.

" What hast thou to eat now ?" she said,
as, leaving the Chapel, they went into the

180 THE ABBOT.

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 provision 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 splendour have formerly been.
And with want, Roland, com.e the arts of
which she is the inventor."

With an active and officious diligence,
which strangely contrasted with her late
abstracted and high tone of Catholic de-
votion, she set about her domestic arrange-
ments for the evening. A pouch, which
was hidden under her garment, produced
a flint and steel, and from the scattered
fragments around (those pertaining to the
image of Saint Cuthbert scrupulously ex-
cepted) she obtained splinters sufficient to
raise a sparkling and cheerful fire on the
hearth of the deserted cell.

" And now," she said, *< for needful food."

THE ABBOT. 181

" Think not of it, mother," said Roland,
** unless you yourself feel hunger. It is a
little thing for me to endure a night's ab-
stinence, and a small atonement for the ne-
cessary transgression of the rules of the
Church, upon which I was compelled du-
ring my stay in the castle."

" Hunger for myself 1" answered the ma-
tron— ** Know, youth, that a mother knows
not hunger till that of her child is satisfied."
And with affectionate inconsistence, total-
ly different from her usual manner, she add-
ed, ** 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 mace-
rate by fast and vigil a body which can only
suffer j 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.

182 THE ABBOT.

furnished provision for a meal; of which she
herself scarce partook, but anxiously watch-
ed her charge, taking a pleasure, resem-
bling that of an epicure, in each morsel
which he swallowed, with a youthful ap-
petite which abstinence had rendered un-
usually sharp. Roland readily obeyed her
recommendations, and eat 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 press-
ing, she refused him in a loftier tone of re-
jection.

" Young man," she said, ** you know
not to whom, or of what, you speak. They
to whom Heaven declares its purpose must
merit its communication by mortifying the
senses ; they have that within which re-
quires not the superfluity of earthly nu-
triment, which is necessary to those who
are without the sphere of the Vision, To
them the watch spent in prayer is a re-

THE ABBOT. 183

freshing slumber, and the sense of doing
the will of Heaven is a richer banquet than
the tables of raonarchs can spread before
them ! — But do thou sleep soft, my son,"
she said, relapsing from the tone of fana-
ticism into that of maternal affection and
tenderness J — '* 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 of the dried leaves which had once
furnished a bed to the solitary, and the
guests who occasionally received his hos-
pitality, and which, neglected by the de-
stroyers of his humble cell, had remained
little disturbed in the corner allotted for
them. To these her care added some of

n

184) THE ABBOT.

the vestures which lay torn and scattered
on the floor. With a zealous hand she se-
lected all such as appeared to have made
any part of the sacerdotal vestments, lay-
ing them aside as sacred from ordinary pur-
poses, and with the rest she made, with
dexterous promptness, such a bed as a
weary man might willingly stretch himself
on J and during the time she was preparing
it, rejected, even with acrimony, any at-
tempt 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, ** Ro-
land Graeme, 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 ear-
nest, too obstinately firm, to permit Roland
Graeme to dispute her will any further. Yet
he felt som.e shame in giving way to it. It
seemed as if she had forgotten the years
that had passed away since their meeting j

3 "

THE ABBOT, 185

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 charac-
teristic and constitutional pride. He obey-
ed indeed, awed into submission by the
sudden recurrence of former subordination,
and by feelings of affection 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 ? I,
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 not be. I will be no reclaimed spar-
row-hawk, who is carried hooded on a wo-
man's wrist, and has his quarry only shewn
to him when his eyes are uncovered for his
flight. I will know her purpose ere it is
proposed to me to aid it."

186 THE ABBOT.

These, and other thoughts, streamed
through the mind of Roland Graeme ; and
although wearied with the fatigues of the
day, it was long ere he could compose him-
self to rest.

THE ABBOT, 187

CHAPTER IX.

Kneel with me— swear it— 'tis not in words I trust.
Save when they're fenced with an appeal to Heaven.

Old Flay.

After passing the night in that sound
sleep for which agitation 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 pro-
spect his former apartment afforded, an
unlatticed aperture gave him the view of
the demolished garden of the banished
anchorite. He sate up on his couch of
leaves, and arranged in his memory, not

188 THE ABBOT*

without surprise, the singular events of the
preceding day,which appeared the more sur-
prising 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 mat-
ter of unceasing regret, and it seemed as if
the latter could hardly be the subject of
unmixed self congratulation. He remem-
bered this person who had stood to him in
the relation of a mother, as equally affec-
tionate in her attention, and absolute in
her authority. A singular mixture of love
and fear attended upon his early remem-
brances as they were connected with her ;
and the fear that she might desire to re-
sume the same absolute controul over his
motions — a fear which her conduct of yes-
terday did not tend much to dissipate,
weighed heavily against the joy of this se-
cond meeting.

** She cannot mean," said his rising pride,
" to lead and direct me as a pupil, when I

THE ABBOT. 189

am at the age of judging of my own ac-
tions ? — 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, check-
ed 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 struggles 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
desidly charge of secrecy — to tell my beads,
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 I deserve she should be-
lieve me when I say I have kept the secret
of my faith, when I set so light by its sym-
bol ?"

190 THE ABBOT.

He paced the floor in anxious agitation.
In fact, his attachment to his faith was of
a nature very different from that which ani-
mated 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 peculiarly
tenacious. Child as he was, he was proud
of the confidence reposed in his discretion,
and resolved to shew that it had not been
rashly entrusted to him. At the same time,
his resolution was no more than that of a
child, and must, necessarily, have gradu-
ally faded away under the operation both
of precept and example, during his resi-
dence at the Castle of Avenel, but for the
exhortations of Father Ambrose, who, in
his lay state, had been called Edward Glen-
dinning. This zealous monk had been ap-
prized, by an unsigned letter placed in his
hand by a pilgrim, that a child educated in

THE ABBOT. 191

the Catholic faith was now in the Castle of
Avenel, perilously situated, (so was the
scroll expressed,) as ever the three children
who were cast into the fiery furnace of per-
secution. The letter threw upon 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 vi-
sits more frequent than usual to the Castle
of Avenel, lest, through want of the pri-
vate encouragement and instruction which
he always found some opportunity of dis-
pensing, the church should lose a prose-
lyte, 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 any thing beyond a

192 THE ABBOT.

blind attachment to the observances which
the priest recommended. He adhered to
the forms of his rehgion rather because he
felt it would be dishonourable to change
that of his fathers, than from any rational
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 those of
the household who shewed an undisguised
dislike of him, and for hardening himself
against the instructions of the chaplain,
Henry Warden.

" The fanatic preacher," he thought
within himself, during some one of the
chaplain's frequent discourses against tlie
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 reli-
gion by which kings have been xrowned,
and for which martyrs have died."

THE ABBOT. 193

But in such proud feelings of defiance
of heresy, as it was termed, and of its pro-
fessors, which associated the Catholic reli-
gion with a sense of generous indepen-
dence, and that of the Protestants with the
subjugation of his mind and temper to the
direction of Mr Warden, began and end-
ed the faith of Roland Gramme, who, in-
dependently 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 religion-
ist who had forgotten a visible symbol of
his religion.

His thoughts on the subject, however,
were mortifying, and the more so from ap-
prehension that his negligence must reach
the ears of his relative. He felt it could

VOL, I, I

194f THE ABBOr.

be no one but her who had secretly trans-
mitted 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 her's is a zeal which
age cannot quell ; and if she has not quitted
her wont, my answer will not fail to incense
her.

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 slum-
ber while thou canst ; the time is not far
behind when the waking eye must be thy
portion, as well as mine."

THE ABBOT. 195

She littered these words with an affec
tionate and anxious tone, which shewed,
that devotional as were the habitual exer-
cises of her mindj the thoughts of her nurs-
ling 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 de-
reliction of her imaginary high calling —
** Come," she said, '* youth, up and be do-
ing— It is time that we leave this place."

" And whither do we go ?" said the young
man ; '* or what is the object of our jour-
ney r

The matron stepped back, and gazed on
him w^ith surprise, not unmingled with dis-
pleasure.

" 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 honour and obedience ?"

196 THE ABBOT.

The time, thought Roland Graeme with-
in himself, is already come, when I must
establish my freedom, or be a willing thrall
for ever — 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 engross-
ed, although, when she pleased, no one
could so perfectly disguise her religion.

" Thy beads, my son — hast thou told thy
beads ?"

Koland Graeme coloured high ; he felt
the storm was approaching, but scorned to
avert it by a falsehood.

" I have forgot my rosary at the Castle
of Avenel."

« Forgot thy rosary 1" exclaimed she ;
" false both to religion and to natural duty,
hast thou lost what was sent so far, and at
such risk, a token of the truest affection,
that should have been, every bead of it, as
dear to thee as thine eye-bails ?" . i

i

THE ABBOT. 1&7

•* I am grieved it should have so chanced,
mother," said 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 1" said his grandmother ;
** young as he is, he hath learned already
the lessons of the devil's school ! The ro-
sary, consecrated by the Holy Father him-
self, and sanctified by his blessings, is but
a few knobs of gold, whose value may be
replaced by the wages of his profane labour,
and whose virtue may be supplied by a
string of hazel nuts ! — This is heresy — So
Henry Warden, the wolf w^ho ravages the
flock of the Shepherd, hath taught thee to
speak and to think."

** Mother," said Roland Graeme, '* 1 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."

198 THE ABBOT.

** Thou canst repent it though," replied
his spiritual directress, ** repent it in dust
and ashes, atone for it by fasting, prayer,
and penance, instead of looking on me with
a countenance 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 oppor- ]
tunitv to make, and will do whatsoever the
priest requires of me in atonement* For
the heaviest fault I can do no more — 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 — I will go to the end of the world with
you to do your pleasure ; but I owe it to
myself to enquire the purpose and direc-
tion of our travels."

''You owe it to yourself, ungrateful boy ?"

THE ABBOT. 199

replied his relative, passion rapidly supply-
ing the colour which age had long chased
from her features, — '* to yourself you owe
nothing— you can owe nothing — to me you
owe every thing — -your life when an infant
— your support while a child — the means
of instruction, and the hopes of honour —
and, sooner than thou shouldst abandon the
noble cause to which I have devoted thee,
would I see thee lie a corpse at my feet."

Roland was alarmed at the vehement agi-
tation with which she spoke, and which
threatened to overpower her aged frame ;
and he hastened to reply, — *' I forget no-
thing of what 1 owe to you, my dearest
mother — shew me how my blood can tes-
tify 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 I 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 ?

200 THE ABBOT.

Roland, by obedience only canst thou shew
thy affection and thy gratitude. What avails
itthatyoumight perchance adopt thecourse
I propose to thee, were it to be fully ex-
plained ? 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 which man can be destined,
and it uses the voice of thine earliest, thy
best, thy only friend — Wilt thou resist it ?
Then go thy way — leave me here — my hopes
on earth are gone and withered — I will
kneel me down before yonder profaned al-
tar, and when the raging heretics return,
they shall dye it with the blood of a mar-
tyr."

" But, my dearest mother," said Roland
Grseme, whose early recollections of her
violence were formidably renewed by these

THE ABBOT. 201

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"

" Nay, I receive no qualifications of thy
promise," said Magdalen Graeme, catching
at the word, " the obedience which I re-
quire is absolute; and 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 thoG doest 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 glo-

I 2

202 THE ABBOT.

rioiis, death or life alike desirous. Forward,
then, forward ! hfe 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 %iSj 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, v;hich 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
Greeme firmly 7^ith 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 v/as thus made
a party. Wlien she had finished her appeal
to Heaven, she left him no leisure for far-
ther hesitation, or for asking any explana-

THE ABEOT* 203

tion of her purpose ; but passing with the
same ready transition as formerly, to the so-
licitous attentions of an anxious parent,
overwhelmed him with questions concern-
iiig his residence in the Castel of Avenel,
and the qualities and accomplishments he
had acquired.

** It is well," she said, when she had ex-
hausted her enquiries, *« my gay goss-hawk
hath been well trained, and will soar high ;
but those who bred him will have cause
to fear as well as to wonder at his flig^ht. Let
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 friend-
ly quarters."

They broke their fast accordingly, on
such fragments as remained of their yester-
day's provision, and immediately set out on
their farther journey. Magdalen Gramme led
the way, with a firm and active step much
beyond her years, and Roland Graame fol-
lowed, pensive and anxious, and far from

204 The abbot.

satisfied with the state of dependence to
which he seemed again to be reduced.

Am I for ever, 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 ?

THE ABBOT. SOS

CHAPTER X.

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 tra-
vellers spoke little to each other. Magda-
len Graeme chaunted, from time to time, in
a 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 mat-
ters ; and many a time, as a moorfovvl arose
from the heath, and shot along the moor, ut-
tering his bold crow of defiance, he thought
of the jolly Adam Woodcock, and his trusty

206 THE ABBOT.

goss-hawk ; or, as they passed a thicket
where the low trees and bushes were inter-
mingled with tall fern, furze, and broom, so
as to form a thick and intricate cover, his
dreams were of a roe-buck and a brace of
gaze-hounds. But frequently his mind re-
turned to the benevolent and kind mistress
whom he had left behind him, offended just-
ly, and unreconciled by any effort of his.

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.

TraveHing 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 beside the village, and wa-
tered th-e valley in which it stood. There
was also a mansion at the end of the village,

THE ABBOT. 207

and a little way separated from it, much
dilapidated, and in very bad order, but ap-
pearing to have been the abode of persons
of some consideration. The situation was
agreeable, being an angle formed by the
stream, bearing three or four large syca-
more trees, which, being in full leaf, served
to reheve the dark appearance of the man-
sion, which was built of a deep red stone.
The house itself had been a large one, but
was now obviously too big for the inmates ;
several windows were built up, especially
those which opened from the lower storey ;
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 ruinous, was paved,
but the stones were completely covered
with long grey nettles, thistles, and other
weeds» which, shooting up betwixt the flags,
had displaced many of them from their
level. Even matters demanding more pe-
remptory attention had been left neglected^

11

208 THE ABBOT.

in a manner ^vhich argued sloth or poverty
in the extreme. The stream, undermining
a part of the bank near an angle of the ruin-
ous wall, had brought it down, with a cor-
ner 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 undermi-
ning the ground on which the house itself
stood, unless it were speedily protected by
sufficient bulwarks.

All this attracted Roland Graeme's obser-
vation as they approached the dwelHng by
a winding path, which gave them, at inter-
vals, 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 vi-
sit. 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,"

THE ABBOT. 209

said the old woman ; «* God will defend
his own, though it be forsaken and despi-
sed of men. Better to dwell on the sand,
under his law, than fly to the rock of hu-
man trust."

As she thus spoke, they entered the
court before the old mansion, and Roland
could observe that the front of it had for-
merly been considerably ornamented with
carved work, in the same dark-coloured
freestone of which it was built. But all
these ornaments had been broken down
and destroyed, and only the shattered vesti-
ges of niches and entablatures now strewed
the place which they had once occupied.
The larger entrance in front was walled up,
but a little foot-path, which, from its ap-
pearance, seemed to be rarely trodden, led
to a small wicket, defended by a door well
clenched with iron-headed nails, at which
Magdalen Gr^me 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

210 THE ABBOr.

thin female, who said, '* Benedlciti qui ve~ I
nient in nomine Domini,'' They entered,
and the portress hastily shut behind them
the wicket, and made fast the massive fast-
enings by which it was secured.

The female led the way through a nar-
row entrance, into a vestibule of some ex-
tent, paved with stone, and having benches
of the same solid material ranged around*
At the upper end was an oriel window, but
part of the intervals formed by the stone
shafts and mullions was blocked up, so that
the apartment 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 solem-
nity, 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 respect-
ing the religion of their hostess, even if
he could have suspected his venerable and
zealous guide of resting elsewhere than in

THE ABBOT. 21 f

the habitation of an orthodox Catholic.
They spoke together a few words in pri-
vate, during which he had leisure to re-
mark 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 discontent,
and obscured the remains of beauty which
age had still left on her features. Her
dress was of the plainest and most ordinary
sort, of a dark colour, and, like Magdalen
Grgeme's, something approaching to a reli-
gious habit. Strict neatness, and cleanliness
of person, seemed to intimate, that if poor,
she was not reduced to squalid or heart-bro-
ken distress, and that she was still sufficient-
ly attached to life to retain a taste for its
decencies, if not its elegancies. Her manner,
as well as her features and appearance, ar-
gued an original condition and education
far above the meanness of her present ap-
pearance, la short, the whole figure was
such as to excite the idea, *' That female

212 THE ABBOT.

must have had a history worth knowing.''
While Roland Grasme 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 seem-
ed, some interest.

** This, then," she said, addressing his
relative, ** is the child of thine unhappy
daughter Magdalen ; and him, the only
shoot from your ancient tree, you are will-
ing to devote to the Good Cause."

" Yes, by the rood," answered Magdalen
Graeme in her usual tone of resolved deter-
mination, " to the good cause I devote him,
flesh and fell, sinew and limb, body and
soul."

** Thou art a happy woman, sister Mag-
dalen," answered her companion, *' that,
lifted so high above human affection and
human feeling, thou canst bind such a vie-
tim 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

THE ABBOT. 213

blood-thirsty dealings 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 colour 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 mix-
ture 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 first I saw him, felt as the worldly
feel, and was half shaken in my purpose.
But no wind can tear a leaf from the wi-
thered tree which has long been stripped
of its foliage, and no mere human casualty
can awaken the mortal feelings which have
long slept in the calm of devotion."

While the old woman thus spbke^ her

214 THE ABBOT,

manner gave the lie to her assertions, for
the tears rose to lier 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 sis-
ter— there will be a ram caught in the
thicket, and the hand of our revolted bre-
thren shall not be on the youthful Joseph.
Heaven can defend its own rights, even by
means of babes and sucklings, of women
and beardless boys."

" Heaven hath left us," said the other
female ; " for our sins and our fathers' the
succours of the blessed saints have aban-
doned this accursed land. We may win
the crown of martyrdom, but not that of
earthly triumph. One, too, v/hose prudence
was at this deep crisis so indispensible, has
been called to a better world. The Abbot
Eustatius is no more."

" May his soul have mercy," said Mag-
dalen Graeme, '* and may Heaven, too, have

THE ABBOT. 215

mercy upon us, who linger behind in this
bloody land ! His loss is indeed a perilous
blow to our enterprize ; for who remains be-
hind possessing his far-fetched experience,
his self devoted zeal, his consummate wis-
dom, 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 Chap-
ter elected in his room ?"

" It is rumoured no one of the few re-
maining brethren dare accept the office.
The heretics have sworn that they will per-
mit no future election, and will heavily pu-
nish any attempt to create a new Abbot of
Saint Mary's, Coiijui^avermit inter se prin-
e'tpes^ dicentes, Projiciamus laqueos ejusJ'

^^QuotisqueJDomine—-'' answered Magda-
len ; " this, my sister, were indeed a peril-
ous 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.
Where is thy daughter Catherine?'*

216 THE ABBOT.

** In the parlour," answered the matron,

«< but " She looked at Roland Graeme,

and muttered something in the ear of her
friend.

"Fear it not," answered Magdalen Graeme,
" it is both lawful and necessary — fear no-
thing from him — I would he were as well
grounded in the faith by which alone comes
safety, as he is free from thought, deed, or
speech of villainy— therein is the heretics'
discipline to be commended, my sister,
that they train up their youth in strong mo-
rality, and choak up every inlet to youth-
ful folly."

** It is but a cleansing of the outside of
the cup," answered her friend, ** a whiten-
ing of the sepulchre ; but he shall see Ca-
therine, since you, sister, judge it safe and
meet. — Follow us, youth," she added, and
led the way from the apartment with her
friend. These were the only words which
the matron had addressed to Roland Graeme,

who obeyed them in silence. As they paced

3

THE ABBOT. 217

through several winding passaigesafifi wa?fe
apartments 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 ac-
cording to their own pleasure, and for the
accompHshment 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 en-
titled to transfer her authority, or to divide
it with another, who seemed to assume,
without ceremony, the same tone of abso-
lute command over himr

But it shall not long continue thus,
thought Roland ; I will not be all my life
the slave of a woman's whistle, to live
upon her exhibition, go when she bids, and

VOL. I. K

218 THE ABBOT.

come when she calls. No, by Saint An-
drew ! the hand that can hold the lance is
above the controul of the distaff. I will
leave them the slip'd collar in their hands
on the first opportunity, and let them exe-
cute their own devices by their own proper
force. It may save them both from a peril,
for I guess what they meditate is not like
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 spoke thus, they entered a low
room, in which a third female was seated.
This apartment was the first he had ob-
served in the mansion which was furnished
with moveable seats, and with a wooden
table, over which was laid a piece of ta-
pestry. A carpet was spread on the floor,
there was a fire-grate in the chimney, and,
in brief, the apartment had the air of being
habitable and inhabited.

But Roland's eyes found better employ-
ment than to make observations on the ac-

THE ABBOT. 219

commodations of the chamber ; for this
second female inhabitant of the mansion
seemed something very different from any
thing 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 ad-
justed 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 manoeuvre Roland had time
to observe, that the face was that of a girl
not much past sixteen apparently, and that
the eyes were at once soft and brilliant.
To these very favourable observations was
added the certainty, that the fair object to
whom they referred possessed an excellent
shape, bordering perhaps on evibonpointy
and therefore rather that of a Hebe than of
a Sylph, but beautifully formed, and shewn
to great advantage by the close jacket and

8

220 . THE ABBOT.

petticoat, which she wore after a foreign
fashion, the last not quite long enough ab-
solutely 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 exhi-
bited several deplorable fissures, enough to
demand the utmost skill of the most expert
seamstress.

It is to be remarked, that it was by stolen
glances that Roland Grasme contrived to
ascertain these interesting particulars ; and
he thought he could once or twice, not-
withstanding the texture of the veil, detect
the damsel in the act of taking similar cog-
nizance 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 Ro-
land in no doubt that they were the subject
of their conversation. At length he dis-
tinctly heard Magdalen Graeme say these

THE ABBOT. 221

words; " Nay, my sister, we must give them
opportunity to speak together, and to be-
come acquainted ; they must be personal-
ly 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 sa-
tisfied with her friend's reasoning, conti-
nued 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 acquainted with each
other."

With this she stepped up to the young
woman, and, raising her veil, discovered
features which, whatever might be their
ordinary complexion, were now covered
with a universal blush,

" Licitum sit,'' said Magdalen, looking at
the other matron.

222 THE ABBOr.

'* Viw licittun" replied the other, with re-
luctant and hesitating 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 Magda-
len Grgeme 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 faced to
the brook, and formed a pleasant and com
modious walk in the open air. It was now
in some places deprived of the balustrade,
in others broken and narrowed ; but, ruin-
ous as it was, could still be used as a plea-
sant promenade. Here then walked the
two ancient dames, busied in their private
conversation ; yet not so much so, but what
Roland could observe the matrons, as their

THE ABBOr. 223

thin forms darkened the casement in pass-
ing or repassing before it, dart a glance into
the apartment, to see how matters were
going on there.

224 THE AJBBPT.

CHAPTER XI.

Life hath its May, and all is mirthful then :

The woods are vocal and the flowers all odour ;

Its very blast has mirth in't, — and the maidens.

The while they don their cloaks to skreen their kirtles.

Laugh at the rain that wets them.

Old Flay.

Catherine was at the happy age of in-
nocence 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 j but then glancing her

THE ABBOT. 2^5

deep blue eye a little towards Roland, and
observing the embarrassment under which
he laboured, now shifting on his chair, and
now dangling his cap, the whole man evin-
cing that he was perfectly at a loss how
to open the conversation, she could keep
her composure no longer, but after a vain
struggle broke out into a sincere, though
a very involuntary 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 Ro-
land was country-bred, and, besides, ha-
ving some conceit, as well as bashfulness,
he took it into his head that he was himself
the object of her inextinguishable laughter.
His endeavours to sympathize with Cathe-
rine, therefore, could carry him no further
than into a forced giggle, which had more

K 2

226 THE ABBOT.

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 what-
ever anxious pains she laboured to do so.
For every one has felt that when a parox-
ysm of laughter has seized him, at a mis-
becoming time and place, the efforts which
he makes to suppress it, nay, the very sense
of the impropriety of giving way to it, tends
only to augment and prolong the irresisti-
ble impulse.

It was undoubtedly lucky for Catherine,
as well as for Roland, that the latter did
not share in the excessive mirth of the for-
mer. 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

THE ABBOT. 227

question. He sate, however, with some im-
patience, 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
improve their acquaintance, 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 dif-
ferent bearing he ought to meet the deep
blue eyes which had borne such a hearty
burthen in the laughing scene. He tried,
therefore, to extricate himself as well as he
could from his blunder, by assuming a tone
of correspondent gaiety, and requesting to
know of the nymph, " how it was her plea-

228 THE ABBOT,

sure 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 Graeme, " we
should begin as in a tale-book, by asking
each others names and histories."

** It is right well imagined," said Cathe-
rine, " and shews an argute judgment. Do
you begin, and I will listen, and only put
in a question or two at the dark parts of the
story. Come, unfold then your name and
history, my new acquaintance."

" I am called Roland Graeme, 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 had pa-
rents, I presume ?"

<« I suppose so," said Roland, *< but I
have never been able to learn much of their

5

THE ABBOT. 229

history. My father was a Scottish knight,
who died gallantly in his stirrups — my mo-
ther was a Grseme of Heather. Gill, in the
Debateable Land — most of her family were
killed when the Debateable country was
burned by Lord Maxwell and Herries of
Caerlaverock."

** Is it long ago ?" said the damsel.

** Before I was born," answered the page.

" That must be a terrible while since,"
said she, shaking her head gravely 5 " look
you, I cannot weep for them."

** It needs not," said the youth, ** they
fell with honour."

** So much for your lineage, fair sir," re-
plied his companion, " of whom I like the
living specimen (a glance at the casement)
far more than those that are dead. Your
much honoured grandmother 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 long-i
er and longer every time she passes the

230 THE ABBOT.

window, and with her there is as little mirth
as in the grave of your ancestors."

" 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 little 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 ceremo-

nies"-

" 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 present-
ed 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."

THE ABBOT. 231

" To fly a hawk, hollow to a hound, back
a horse, and wield lance, bow, and brand."

** And to boast of all this when you have
learned it," said Catherine, ** which, in
France at least, is the surest accomplish-
ment of a page. But proceed, fair sir ; how
came your Huguenot lord and your no less
Huguenot lady to receive and keep in the
family so perilous a person as a Catholic
page ?"

** Because they knew not that part of
my history, which from a child I had been
taught to keep secret — and because my
grand-dame's former zealous attendance on
their heretic chaplain, had laid all this sus-
picion to sleep, most fair Callipolis," said
the page ; and in so saying edged his chair
towards the seat of the fair querist.

*' Nay, but keep your distance, most gal-
lant sir," answered the blue-eyed maiden,
'* for, unless I greatly mistake, these reve-
rend ladies will soon interrupt our amicable
conference, if the acquaintance they recom-
mend shall seem to proceed beyond a cer-
tain point — so, fair sir, be pleased to abide

232 THE ABBOT.

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 the tone
and spirit of the damsel's conversation, re-
plied to her with becoming spirit.

" In no feat, fair gentlewoman, was I
found inexpert, wherein there was mischief
implied. I shot swans, hunted cats, fright-
ened serving-women, chased the deer, and
robbed the orchard. I say nothing of tor-
menting the chaplain in various ways, for
that was my duty as a good Catholic."

** Now, as I am a gentlewoman," said Ca-
therine, <* I think these heretics have done
Catholic penance in entertaining so all-ac-
complished a serving-man. And what, fair
sir, might have been the unhappy event
which deprived them of an inmate so alto-
gether 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."

THE ABBOT. 233

** Good !" said the merry young maiden,
^' it Is an apt play on the word — and what
occasion was taken for so important a ca-
tastrophe ? — 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
J]ft replied,

« A short tale is soon told— and a short
horse soon curried. — I made the falcoTier^s
boy taste of my switch — the falconer threat-
ened to make me brook his cudgel — he is S
kindly clown as well as a stout, and I would
rather have been cudgelled by him than
any man in Christendom to chuse — but I
knew not his qualities as then — so I threat-
ened 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 maid-
en, ** who had the luck to find the stray

234- THE ABBOT.

page just when his mistress had' slipped his
leash, and a most lucky page that has jump-
ed at once from a page to a gentleman-
usher."

<* All this is nothing of your history," an-
swered Roland Grseme, who began to be
much interested in the congenial vivacity of
this facetious young gentle woman » — ** 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."

'* You shall not need," answ^ered 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 am an or-
phan."

** Have your parents been long dead ?"

^* That is the only question," said she,
throwing down her fine eyes with a sudden

THE ABBOT. 235

expression of sorrow, *' that is the only ques-
tion I cannot laugh at."

" And Dame Bridget is your grandmo-
ther ?"

The sudden cloud passed away like that
which crosses for an instant the summer
sun, and she answered, with her usual live
ly expression, ** Worse by twenty degrees
— Dame Bridget is my maiden aunt."

" Over gods forebode !" said Roland —
" Alas ! that you have such a tale to tell !
and what horror comes next ?"

** Your own history exactly. I was taken
upon trial for service"

** And turned off for pinching the du-
enna, or affronting my lady's waiting-wo-
man ?"

" 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 am a 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.

236 THE ABBOT.

" I thank you for your mirth," said she,
" but the matter is not like to concern
you."

" Nay, but say on," said the page, " for
you will be presently interrupted ; the two
good dames have been soaring yonder on
the balcony, like two old hooded crows,
and their croak grows hoarser as night
comes on ; they will wing to roost pre-
sently.— This mistress of yours, fair gentle-
woman, who was she, in God's name ?"

** O; 5hp. has a fair name in the world,"
replied Catherine Seyton. " Few ladies
kept a fairer house, or held more gentlewo-
men in her household ; my aunt Bridget
was one of her house-keepers. We never
saw her 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 beldame !"
said the page.

** For Heaven's sake, blaspheme not,"
said the girl, with an expression of fear.—

THE ABBOT. 237

" 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 he-
retics 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 ra-
ther our remaining has been connived 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 sha-
dow," said the youth 5 « and I suppose you
wept yourself blind when Saint Catherine
broke up housekeeping, before you had ta-
ken arles in her service ?"

■^'ifflicL'—Eiirnest-mnney.

238 THE ABBOT.

•* Hush ! for Heaven's sake," said the
damsel, crossing herself, " no more of that j
but I have not quite cried my eyes out,"
said she, turning them upon him, and in-
stantly 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 strangely turned out of ser-
vice 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 weary world ?"'

•* A goodly proposal, truly," said Cathe-
rine, *' 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 swag-
gering on the highway ? for there, I think,
you would find your most productive ex-
chequer."

THE ABBOT. 239

<* Chuse, 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 darken-
ed by the forms of the matrons — it opened,
and admitted Magdalen Gr^me and the
Mother Abbess, so we must now style her,
into the apartment.

240 THE ABBOT.

CHAPTER XII.

Nay, hear me, brother — I am elder, wiser.
And hoher than thou — And age, and wisdom.
And hohness, have peremptory claims.
And will be listened to.

Old Play.

When the matrons re-entered, and put
an end to the conversation which we have
detailed in the last chapter. Dame Magda-
len Graeme thus addressed her grandson
and his pretty companion : ^* Have you
spoke together, my children ? — Have you
become known to each other as fellow-tra-
vellers on the same dark and dubious road,
whom chance hath brought together, and
who study to learn the tempers and dispo-
sitions of those by whom their perils are to
be shared ?"

THE ABBOT. 241

It was seldom the light-hearted Cathe-
rine 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, addressing him, '* as yes-
terday 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 whatever disguise the
times may impose upon you, you may re-
cognize 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 to distinguish by the
step, by the sound of the voice, by the mo-

VOL. I. L

242 THE ABBOT.

tionof the hand, by the glaticeof 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 daugh-
ter, wilt thou again remember the features
of this youth ?"

** Truly, mother," replied Catherine Sey-
ton, " I have not seen so many men of late,
that I should immediately forget your grand-
son, though I mark not much about him that
is deserving of special remembrance."

** Join hands then, my children," said
Magdalen Graeme ; but, in saying so, was
interrupted by her companion, whose con-
ventual prejudices had been gradually gi-
ving 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 betroth-
ed bride of Heaven — these intimacies can-
not be." ' '

THE ABBOT. 243

" It is in the cause of Heaven that I com-
mand them to embrace," said Magdalen,
with the full force of her powerful voice j
" 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 indeed 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 we are
now, to the eye of human judgment, two
poor, despised, oppressed women, dragging
our dishonoured old age to a 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 — before whom shall be
humbled the wisdom of Murray, and the

244 THE ABBOT.

dark strength of Morton. — And to such
wouldst thou apply the narrow rules of thy
cloistered seclusion ? — or, hast thou forgot-
ten tiie order which I shewed thee from thy
Superior, subjecting thee to me in these mat-
ters ?"

" On thy head, then, be the scandal and
the sin," said the Abbess sullenly.

" On mine be they both," said Magda-
len. " I say, embrace each other, my chil-
dren."

But Catherine, aware, perhaps, how the
dispute was likely to terminate, had esca-
ped from the apartment, and so disappoint-
ed the grandson, at least as much as the old
matron.

" She is gone," said the Abbess, ** to pro-
vide 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 wont to be obser-
ved."

THE ABBOT. 245

" It is well, my sister," replied Magda-
len, " to pay each even the smallest tythes
of mint and cummin which the church de-
mands, and I blame not thy scrupulous ob-
servance 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 salva-
tion of the church herself is at stake."

The Abbess made no reply.

One more acquainted with human nature
than the inexperienced 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 Reformation ; and was in adversity,
as she had been in prosperity, scrupulous,
weak-spirited, and bigotted. While the fiery
and more lofty spirit of her companion sug-
gested a wider field of effort, and would not
be limited by ordinary rules in the extraor-
dinary schemes which were suggested by her

246 THE ABBOT.

bold and irregular imagination. But Ro-
land Graeme, instead of tracing these pecu-
liarities of character in the two old dames,
only waited with great anxiety for the re-
turn of Catherine, expecting probably that
the proposal of the fraternal embrace would
be renewed, as his grandmother seemed dis-
posed to carry matters with a high hand.

His expectations, or hopes, if we may
call them so, were, however, disappoint-
ed; 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 ma-
terials, the Dame of Heathergill, satisfied
with the arbitrary mode in which she had
borne down the opposition of the Abbess,
pursued her victory no farther — a modera-
tion for which her grandson, in his heart,
returned her but slender thanks.

In the meanwhile, Catherine continued to
place upon the table the slender prepara-
tions for the meal of a recluse, which con-
sisted almost entirely of cole- wort, boiled

THE ABBOT. 247

and served up in an earthen platter, having
no better seasoning than a little salt, and no
better accompaniment than some coarse
barley-bread, in very moderate quantity.
The water-pitcher, already mentioned, fur-
nished the only beverage. After a Latin
grace, 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 mo-
derately, but with the usual appearance of
appetite. But Roland Grseme had been
used to better cheer. Sir Halbert Glen-
dinning, who affected even an unusual de-
gree of nobleness in his house-keeping, main-
tained 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 complete-
ly the part for which he was not born —
that of a great Baron and a leader. Two
bullocks, and six sheep, weekly, were the
allowance when the Baron was at home,
and did not greatly diminish during his ab

248 THE ABBOT.

sence. A boll of malt was weekly brewed
into ale, which was used by the household
at discretion. Bread was baked in propor-
tion 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 luke-
warm greens and spring water ; and proba-
bly 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 rnost solemn
nights of festival, when the nuns were per-
mitted to eat their portion at mine own ta-
ble, 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

THE ABBOT. 24-9

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 Graeme ; '* but now it is not only
time to suffer in the good cause, but to act
in it. And since our pilgrim's meal is finish-
ed, let us go apart to prepare for our jour-
ney of to-morrow, and to advise on the
manner in which these children shall be em-
ployed, and what measures we can adopt to
supply their thoughtlessness and lack of dis-
cretion."

Notwithstanding his indifferent cheer,the
heart of Roland Graeme bounded high at
this proposal, which he doubted not would
lead to another tete-a-tete betwixt him and
the pretty novice. But he was mistaken.
Catherine, it would seem, had no mind so
far to indulge him ; for, moved either by de-
licacy or caprice, or some of those indescri-
bable shades betwixt the one and the other,
with which women love to teaze, and at the
same time to captivate the ruder sex, she

l2

250 THE ABBOT.

reminded the Abbess that it was necessary
she should retire for an hour before ves-
pers ; and, receiving the ready and appro-
ving 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 slighter reverence
to Roland, which consisted in a slight bend
of the body, and gentle depression of the
head. This she performed very demurely ;
but the party on whom the salutation was
conferred, thought he could discern in her
manner an arch and mischievous exultation
over his secret disappointment. — The de-
vil take the saucy girl, he thought in his
heart, though the presence of the Abbess
should have repressed all such profane ima-
mnations. — she is as hard-hearted as the
laughing hyaena that the story-books tell of
— she has a mind that I shall not fo^'^^t her
this night at least.

The matrons now retired also, g\v\x\^ the
page to understand that he was on no ac-

1

THE ABBOT. 251

count to stir from the convent, or to shew
himself at the windows, the Abbess express-
ing as a reason, the readiness with which
the rude heretics caught at every occasion
of scandahzing the rehgious orders.

This is worse than the rigour of Mr Hen-
ry Warden himself, said the page, when
he was left alone j 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 en-
tirely 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 — peradventure, I may light on
that blue-eyed laugher in some corner or
other.

Going, therefore, out of the chamber by
the entrance opposite to that through which

252 THE ABBOT.

the two matrons had departed, for it may
be readily supposed he had no desire to
intrude on their privacy, he wandered
from one chamber to another, through the
deserted edifice, seeking, with boyish eager-
ness, some source of interest or amusement.
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 birds are flown, thought the page;
but whether they will find themselves worse
oflT 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 lark which they have
left behind them, would like best to sing
under God's free sky.

A winding stair, strait 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

THE ABBOT. 253

more ruinous than those which he had left ;
for, having encountered the first fury of the
assailants by whom the nunnery had been
wasted, the windows had been dashed in,
the doors broken down, and even the par-
titions 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 un-
expected at the time and place, that Roland
Graeme 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 War-
wick, never was one more worthy to en-
counter a dun cow."

" Cow ?" said Roland Gr^me, <' by my

254 THE ABBOT.

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.

The poor solitary cow, now the only se-
vere recluse within the nunnery, was quar-
tered in a spacious chamber, which had once
been the refectory of the convent. The roof
was graced with groin'd arches, and the wall
with niches, from which the images had
been pulled down. These remnants of ar-
chitectural ornaments were strangely con-
trasted with the rude crib and manger con-
structed for the cow in one corner of the
apartment, and the stack of fodder which
was piled beside it for her food.

THE ABBOT. 0,55

*' By my faith," said the page, '* Crombie
is more lordly lodged than any one here."

" You had best remain with her," said
Catherine, ** and supply by your filial atten-
tions the offspring she has had the ill luck
to lose."

** I will remain, at least, to help you to
prepare her night's lair, pretty Catherine,"
said Roland, seizing upon a pitch-fork.

" By no means," said Catherine, " for,
besides that you know not in the least 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 m^ assist-
ance, who am to be your confederate in
some deep matter of import ? That were
altogether unreasonable — and, now I think
on it, tell me if you can, what is this mighty
emprize to which I am destined ?"

«* Robbing a bird's nest, I should sup-
pose," said Catherine, " considering the
champion whom they have selected."

256 THE ABBOT.

" 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
eyasses and their food, washed or unwash-
ed, 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-labourers ! not fellow-travel-
lers!" answered the girl j " for to your com-
fort be it known, that the Lady Abbess and
I set out earlier than you and your respect-
ed relative to-morrow, and that I partly en-
dure 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 cou-
ples."

** I suspect, in that and in other points,

THE ABBOT. 257

we must do as we are bid* — 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 window and
lowed, she alarmed the whole village ; and
we will be suspected of sorcery among the
heretics if they do not discover the cause
of the apparition, 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 compa-
nion," 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."

258 THE ABBOT.

'* Now, out upon thee, mean-spirited
wench !" said the Abbess ; " 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 be-
fore a stranger youth too! — Go to my ora-
tory, minion — there read your Hours till I
come thither, when I will read you such a
lecture as shall make you prize the bless-
ings which you possess."

Catherine was about to withdraw in si-
lence, casting a half sorrowful half comic
glance at Roland Gragme, 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 in-
terfere, and Catherine had time to say —
«< Forgive me, mother j 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

THE ABBOT. 259

and malignity 5 I bid this youth kindly fare-
well, because he has come hither in kind-
ness, 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 sure-
ly 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 manner, and
plainly shewed, 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 expressed.

The Abbess remained a moment silent
after she had left the room. The proposed
rebuke died on her tongue, and she appear-
ed struck with the deep and foreboding tone
in which her niece had spoken her good-
even. She led the way in silence to the

260 THE ABBOT,

apartment which they had formerly occu-
pied, and where there was prepared a small
refection, as the Abbess termed it, consist-
ing of milk and barley-bread. Magdalen
Graeme, summoned to take share in this
collation, appeared from an adjoining apart-
ment, 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 himselfi had their usual effect in pre-
venting slumber from hastily descending on
him, and he could distinctly hear, by a low
but earnest murmuring, in the apartment
which he had left, that the matrons conti-
nued in deep consultation to a late hour.
As they separated, 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 j yet it seems to me, that,

THE ABBOT. 26l

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 sinsj and
abridge the penance of his mortal infirmi-
ties!— 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 Mag-
dalen Graeme ; " yet who now takes the of
fice of an hour, save to partake with the
spoilers in their work of plunder — to-mor-
row will tell us if one of the thousand saints

7

262 THE ABBOT.

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 Graeme.
That information have I purchased by a
sleepless hour — it suits well with my pur-
pose. At Kennaquhair I shall see Father
Ambrose j — at Edinburgh I will find the
means of shaping my own course through
this bustling world, without burthening my
affectionate relation — at Edinburgh, 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 Ca-
therine Seyton.

THE ABBOT. 263

CHAPTER XIII.

What, Dagon up again ! — I thought we had hurl'd him
Down on the threshold, never more to rise.
Bring wedge and axe ; and, neighbours, lend your hands,
And rive the idol into winter faggots.

Atkelstane, or the Converted Dane,

Roland GRiEME 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 at-
tend her call, the enthusiastic matron
stood already at the threshold, prepared for
her journey. There was in all the deport-
ment of this remarkable woman, a promp-
titude of execution, and a sternness of per-
severance, founded on the fanaticism which
she nursed so deeply, and which seemed to
absorb all the ordinary purposes and feel-
ings of mortality. One human affection only

264 THE ABBOT,

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 fond-
ness carried almost to the verge of dotage,
in circumstances where the Catholic reli-
gion 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 earth-
ly object of her affection ; but that object
itself she was ready to hazard, and would
have been willing to sacrifice, could the re-
storation of the Church of Rome have been
purchased with his blood. Her discourse
by the way, excepting the few occasions
in which her extreme love of her grandson
found opportunity to display itself in anxiety
for his health and accommodation, turned
entirely on the duty of raising up the fallen
honours of the Church, and replacing a Ca-
tholic sovereign on the throne. There were

THE ABBOT. 265

times at which she hinted, though very ob-
scurely and distantly, that she herself was
foredoon\ed by Heaven to perform a part
in this important task ; and that he had
more than mere human warranty for the
zeal with which she engaged in it. But on
this subject she expressed herself in such
general language, that it was not easy to
decide whether she made any actual pre-
tensions to a direct and supernatural call,
like the celebrated Elizabeth Barton, com-
monly called the Nun of Kent ; or whether
she only dwelt upon the general duty which
was incumbent on all Catholics of the time,
and the pressure of which she chanced to
feel in an extraordinary degree.

Yet, though Magdalen Graeme gave no
direct intimation of her pretensions to be
considered as something beyond the ordi-
nary class of mortals, the demeanour of one
or two persons amongst the travellers whom
they occasionally met, as they entered the
more fertile and populous part of the valley,

VOL. I. M

206 THE ABBOT.

seemed to indicate their belief in her supe-
rior attributes. It is true, that two clowns,
who drove before them a herd of cattle—.
one or two village wenches, who seemed
bound for some merry-making — a strolling
soldier, and a wandering student, as his
thread- bare black cloak and his satchel of
books proclaimed him— passed our travellers
without observation, or with a look of con-
tempt ; and, moreover, that two or three
children, attracted by the appearance of a
dress so nearly resembling that of a pilgrim,
joined in hooting and calling '* out upon the
old mass-monger." But one or two, who
nourished in their bosoms respect for the
downfallen hierarchy — casting first a timor-
ous glance around, to see that no one ob-
served 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 — recei-
ved with humility the Benedicite with which
she repaid their obeisance; and then starting
up, and again looking timidly round to see

THE ABBOT. 267

that they had been unobserved, hastily resu-
med 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 dis-
tant and silent intimation that they recog-
nized sister Magdalen, and honoured alike
her person and her purpose.

She failed not to notice to her grandson
these marks of honour 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 sa-
craments, there remains a remnant."

" It is true, my mother," said Roland
Graeme ; " but methinks they are of a qua-
lity 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
us as they would past the meanest beggars j
for those who give us any marks of sym-

268 THE ABBOT.

pathy, 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.
That 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
without — that pale, shivering, miserable cai-
tifli how can he aid the great schemes you
meditate ?"

'* Much, my son," said the matron, with
more mildness than the page perhaps ex-
pected. '* When that pious son of the church
returns from the shrine of Saint Ringan,
whether he now travels by my counsel, and
by the aid of good Catholics, — when he re-
turns, 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 be-
sotted people of Scotland, than the din which
is weekly made in a thousand heretical pul-
pits ?"

THE ABBOT. 269

«* Ay, but, mother, I fear the Saint's hand
is out. It is 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 com-
mands, and doubt not Saint Ringan's power
of healing ; but, be it said with reverence,
he hath not of late shewed the inclination."

** And has this land deserved it ?" said the
Catholic matron, advancing hastily while she
spoke, until she attained the summit of a
rising ground, over which the path led, and
then standing again still. " Here," she said,
" stood the Cross, the limits of the Hali-
dome of Saint Mary's — here — on this emi-
nence— from which the eye of the holy pil-
grim might first catch a view of that an-
cient Monastery, the light of the land, the
abode of saints, and the grave of monarchs
— Where is now that emblem of our faith ?

270 THE ABBOT.

It lies low on the earth — a shapeless block,
from which the broken fragments have been
carried oif, 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 which crosses and bells have now been
hurled, as if the land had been invaded once
more by barbarous heathens — Look at yon-
der battlements, of which we can, even at
this distance, descry the partial demolition j
and ask if this land can expect from the
blessed saints, whose shrines and whose
images have been profaned, any other mi-
racles but those of vengeance ? How long,"
she exclaimed, looking upward, " How long
shall it be delayed ?" She paused, and then
resumed with enthusiastic rapidity, *' Yes,
my son, all on earth is but for a period — joy
and grief, triumph and desolation, succeed
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.

THE ABBOT. 271

Even this day — ay, even this hour, I trust
to hear news of importance. Dally not — let
us on — time is brief, and judgment is cer-
tain."

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. An half
hour's walk placed them in front of the
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 wails 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 re-
main at Kennaquhair. Their stately offices

272 THE ABEOT.

— their pleasant gardens — the magnificent
cloisters constructed for their recreation,
were ail dilapidated and ruinous ; and some
of 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 hesitated
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 j 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 nu-
merous niches of its columns and but-
tresses, having all fallen under the charge
of idolatry, to which the superstitious de-
votion of the papists had justly exposed
them, had been broken and thrown down,
without much regard to the preservation
of the rich and airy canopies and pedestals
on which they were placed j nor, if the de-

THE ABBOT. 273

vastation had stopped short at this point,
could we have considered the preservation
of these monuments of antiquity as an ob-
ject to be put in the balance with the intro-
duction of the reformed worship.

Our pilgrims saw the demolition of these
sacred and venerable 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 Grseme it seemed
a deed of impiety, deserving the instant ven-
geance of heaven — a sentiment in which her
relative joined for the moment as cordially
as herself. Neither, however, gave vent to
their feelings in words, and uplifted hands
and eyes formed their only mode of ex-
pressing them. The page was about to ap-
proach 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 Ma-
id 2

• >

274 THE ABBOT.

ry's, men who dare worship where their pre-
decessors prayed while alive, and were in-
terred when dead — follow me this way, my
son."

Roland Graeme followed accordingly ;
and Magdalen, casting 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 expressive 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 endeavouring at the same time
to gain a sight of them without being him-
self seen. How different from the proud
and dignified consciousness with which the
porter of ancient days offered his import-
ant brow, and his goodly person, to the pil-

THE ABBOT. 275

grims who repaired to Kennaquhair ! His
solemn " Intrate meiJiUi" was exchanged
for a tremulous '* You cannot enter now —
the brethren are in their chambers." Bat,
when Magdalen Graeme asked, in an under
tone of voice, " Hast thou forgotten me, my
father ;" he changed his apologetic refusal
to "Enter, my honoured sister, enter speedi-
ly, for evil eyes are upon us."

They entered accordingly, and having
waited until the porter had, with jealous
haste, barred and bolted the wicket, were
conducted 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 Chap-
ter-house, worthy sister — yes, in the Chap-
ter-house — for the election of an Abbot.^ —
Ah, Benedicite ! there must be no ringing
of bells — no high mass — no opening of the
great g?tes now, that the people might see
and venerate their spiritual Father. Our

276 THE ABBOT.

Fathers must hide themselves rather like
robbers who chuse a leader, than godly
priests who elect a mitred Abbot."

** Regard not that, my brother," answer,
ed Magdalen Graeme ; '* the first successors
of Saint Peter himselfi 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 musquetry,
and the display of artificial fire — no, my
brother — but by the hoarse summons of
Lictors and Praetors, who came to drag 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 ho-
nour, as he shall be honoured, who now
takes it upon him in these days of tribula-
tion. On whom, my brother, will the choice
fall ?»

THE ABBOT. 277

" On whom can it fall — or, alas ! who
would dare to reply to the call, save the
worthy pupil of the Sainted Eustatius — the
good and valiant Father Ambrose ?"

" I know it," said Magdalen ; " my heart
told me, long ere your lips had uttered his
name. Stand forth, courageous champion,
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 I — Wield
crook and sling, noble shepherd of a scat-
tered flock !"

" I pray you, hush, my sister !" said the
porter, opening a door which led into the
great church, •* the brethren will he pre-
sently here to celebrate their election with
a solemn mass — I must marshall 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 church, and Magdalen and
Roland remained alone in that great vault-
ed space, whose style of rich, yet chaste

278 THE ABBOT.

architecture, referred its origin to the early
part of the fourteenth century, the best pe-
riod of Gothic building. But the niches
were stripped of their images in the inside
as well ?s the outside of the church ; and
in the pell-mell havoc, the tombs of war-
riors and of princes had been included in
the demolition of the idolatrous shrines.
Lances and swords of antique size, which
had hung over the tombs of mighty warriors
of former days, lay now strewed among re-
liques, 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 mor-
tal reliques 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 ap-
peared to be, that, though this violence had
now been committed for many months, the
Fathers had lost so totally all heart and reso-

THE ABBOT. 279

lution, 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
labour. But terror had overpowered the
scanty remains of a body once so powerful,
and sensible they were only suffered to re-
main in this ancient seat by connivance and
from compassion, theydid not venture upon
taking any step which might be construed
into an assertion of their ancient rights,
contenting themselves with the secret and
obscure exercise of their religious ceremo-
nial, in as unostentatious a manner as was
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 re-
corded 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

280 THE ABBOT.

of Peter the Sacristan, eminent for his aqua-
tic excursion with the phantom of Avenel ;
and a third, the most recent of all, bore the
outline of a mitre, and the words Hicjacet
Eustatius Ahhas ; for no one dared to add
a word of commendation in favour of his
learning, and strenuous zeal for the Roman
Catholic faith.

Magdalen Graeme looked at and perused
the brief records of these monuments suc-
cessively, 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 succes-
sor to tread in thy footsteps — give him thy
bold and inventive capacity, thy zeal and
thy discretion — even tk^/ 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

THE ABBOT. 281

splendid of the many pageants whicii 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 emble-
matical phrase expressed it, of widowhood ;
a melancholy term, which was changed into
rejoicing and triumph when a new Supe-
rior 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 dis-
pensers of incense preceding him, and the
venerable train of monks behind him, with
all besides which could announce the su-
preme authority to which he was now rai-
sed, his appearance was a signal for the mag-
nificent jubilate to rise from the organ and
music-loft, and to be joined by the corres-
ponding bursts of Alleluiah from the whole
assembled congregation. Now all was chan-
ged. In the midst of rubbish and desolation,

282 THE ABBOT.

seven or eight old men, bent and shaken as
much by grief and fear as by age, shrouded
hastily in the proscribed dress of their order,
wandered like a procession of spectres, from
the door which had been thrown open, up
through the encumbered passage, to the
high altar, there to instal their elected Su-
perior a chief of ruins. It was like a band
of bewildered travellers chusing 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 pe-
riods, when neither ease nor parade attend
the possession of it, and when it gives only
a painful pre-eminence both in danger and
in labour, and exposes the ill- fated chieftain
to the murmurs of his discontented asso-
ciates, as well as to the first assault of the
common enemy. But he on whom the of-
fice of the Abbot of Saint Mary's was now
conferred, had a mind fitted for the situa-

THE ABBOT. 283

tion to which he was called. Bold and en-
thusiastic, yet generous and forgiving —
wise and skilful, yet zealous and prompt —
he wanted but a better cause than the sup-
port 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 rule by which it must be ulti-
mately judged ; and those who, with sin-
cerity 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 de-
signs must be condemned, as their success
would have rivetted on Scotland the chains
of antiquated superstition and spiritual ty-
ranny ; but whose talents in themselves
commanded respect, and whose virtues,
even from the enemies of his faith, extort-
ed esteem.

The bearing of the new Abbot served of
itself to dignify a ceremonial which was de-
prived of all other attributes of grandeur.

284« THE ABBOT.

Conscious of the peril in which they stood,
and recalling, doubtless, the better days
they had seen, there hung over his bre-
thren 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 fea-
tures, indeed, expressed a deep melan-
choly, as he walked up the centre aisle,
amid the ruins of things which he con-
sidered as holy, but his brow was unde-
jected, and his step firm and solemn. He
seemed to think that the dominion which
he was about to receive, depended in no
sort upon the external circumstances un-
der which it was conferred ; 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 him-
self.

At length he stood on the broken steps
of the high altar, bare-footed, as was the

THE ABBOT. 285

rule, and holding in his hand his pastoral
staff, for the gemmed ring and jewelled
mitre had become secular spoils. No obe-
dient vassals came, man after man, to make
their homage, and to offer the tribute which
should provide their spiritual Superior with
palfrey and trappings. No Bishop assist-
ed at the solemnity, to receive into the
higher ranks of the Church nobility a dig-
nitary, 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 hur-
ried over rather to satisfy the scruples ol
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 ordina-
tion. The officiating priest faultered as he
spoke the service, and often looked around.

286 THE ABBOr.

as if he expected to be interrupted in the
midst of his office ; and the brethren listen-
ed as to that which, short as it was, they
wished yet more abridged.

These symptoms of alarm increased as
the ceremony proceeded, and, as it seemed,
were not caused by mere apprehension
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 clamour 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 chil-
dren, mingling with the deeper clamours of
men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first
drowned, and then awed into utter silence

THE ABBOT. 287

the official hymns of the Convent. The
cause and result of this extraordinary in-
terruption, will be explained in the next
chapter.

288 THE ABBOT.

CHAPTER XIV.

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 choristers in the legend of the
Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of
consternation j and, like a flock of chickens
disturbed by the presence of the kite, they
at first made a movement to disperse and
fly in diflferent directions, and then, with
despair rather than hope, huddled them-
selves around their new Abbot ; who, re-
taining the lofty and undismayed look which
had dignified him through the whole cere-

5

THE ABBOT. 289

mony, stood on the higher step of the altar,
as if desirous to be the most conspicuous
mark on which danger might discharge it-
self, and to save his companions by his self-
devotion, since he could afford them no
other protection.

Involuntarily, as it were, Magd alen Graem e
and the page stepped from the station which
hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and
approached to the altar, as desirous of sha-
ring the fate which approached the monks,
whatsoever that might be. Both bowed re-
verently lov/ to the Abbot ; and while Mag-
dalen 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 dis-
tinctly heard, even amidst the tumult ; —
^* Peace," he said, " my sister j let the new

VOL. I, N

290 THE ABBOT.

Superior of Saint Mar}/'s himself receive and
reply, to the grateful acclamations of the
vassals, who come to celebrate his installa-
tion. And thou, my son, forbear, I charge
thee, to touch thy earthly weapon ; — if it '
is the pleasure of our protectress that her
shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of
violence, and polluted by blood-shedding,
let it not, I charge you, happen through the
deed of a catholic 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 a step which even the emergency of
danger rendered neither faultering nor pre-
cipitate, moved towards the portal, and de-
manded 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,"

THE ABBOT. 291

" By whose authority do you require en-
trance ?" said the Father.

*' By authority of the right reverend Lord
Abbot," replied the voice from without ;
and, from the laugh which followed, it seem-
ed as if there was something highly ludi-
crous couched under this reply.

" I 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 leave his servants in
peace. I speak this, as having lawful autho-
rity to command here."

** Open the door," said another rude
voice, ** and we will try titles with you, Sir
Monk, and shew you a Superior we must all
obey."

*' Break open the doors if he dallies any
longer," said a third, " and down with the
carrion monks who would bar us of our pri-
vilege." A general shout followed. *' Ay,
ay, our privilege ! our privilege ! down with
the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if
they make opposition."

The knocking was now exchanged for

2^2 THE ABBOT.

blows M^th great hammers, to which the
doors, strong as they were, must soon have
given way. But the Abbot, who saw resists
ance would be 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 consi-
der if you are in a state of mind to cross
the holy threshold."

'^ Tillyvalley for your papistry," was an-
swered from without ; " we are in the mood
of the monks when they are merriest, and
that is when they sup beef brewis for lan-
ten-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 brave-
ly done," said the multitude ; and had not
the keys arrived at that moment, and the
porter, in hasty terror, performed his office,
and thrown open the great door, the popu-

THE ABBOT. 293

lace without v/ould have saved him the trou-
ble. The instant he had done so, the af-
frighted janitor fled like one who has drawn
the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be
overwhelmed by the rushing inundation.
Tlie monks, with one consent, had v.'ith
drawn themselves behind the Abbot, who
alone kept his station about three yards from
the entrance, shewing no signs of fear or
perturbation. His brethren — partly encou-
raged by his devotion, partly ashamed to
desert him, and partly animated by a sense
of duty — remained huddled close together,
at the back of their Superior. There w^as
a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were
opened j but, contrary to what might have
been expected, no crowd of enraged as-
sailants rushed into the church. On the
contrary, there was a cry of " A halt ! — a
halt— to order, my masters ! and let the two
reverend fathers greet each other, as be-
seems them."

The appearance of the crowd who were
thus called to order, was grotesque in the
extreme. It was composed of men, women.

294 THE ABBOT.

and children, ludicrously disguised in va-
rious habits, and presenting groupes equally
diversified and ludicrous. Here one fellow
with a horse's head painted before him, and
a tail behind, and the whole covered witli
a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to
hide the body of the animal, ambled, cara-
coled, pranced, and plunged, as he perform-
ed the celebrated part of the hobbie-horse,
so often alluded to in our ancient drama ;
and which still flourishes on the stage in
the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy.
To rival the address and agility displayed 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 Sabsea, 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

THE ABBOT. 295

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, with-
out any formal annunciation, to assure the
most timorous spectators that they had to do
with habitual bipeds. There was a groupe
of outlaws, with Robin Hood and Little
John at their head— the best representation
exhibited at the time ; and no great wonder,
since most of the actors were, by profession,
the banished men and thieves whom they
presented. Other masqueraders there were,
of a less marked description. Men wxre
disguised as women, and wom.en 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 as-
sumed the infantine tone as well as the
dress of children. Besides these, many haJ
their faces painted, and wore their shirts
over the rest of their dress ; while coloured
pasteboard and ribbands furnished out de-
corations for others. Those who wanted

C96 THE ABBOT.

all these properties, blacked their faces, and
turned their jackets inside out ; and thus
the transmutation of the whole assembly in-
to a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at
once completed.

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 ob-
serve all these absurdities. They were at
no loss to comprehend 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 sa-
turnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Ken-
naquhair and the neighbourhood had now
in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occa-
sions, w^ere not only permitted but encou-
raged, by a number of gambols, sometimes
puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral
and profane, to indemnify themselves for
the privations and penances imposed on
ti:em at other seasons. But, of all other

THE ABBOT. 297

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 people to
become so irreverently familiar with things
sacred ; they then imagined the laity to
be much in the condition of a labourer's
horse, which does not submit to the bridle
and the whip with greater reluctance, be-
cause, 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 Ca-
tholic doctrine, and hatred of their priest-
hood, had possessed the reformed party, the
clergy discovered, too late, that no small in-
convenience arose from the established prac-
tice of games and merry-makings, in which
they themselves, and all they held most sa-

298 THE ABBOT.

cred, 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 exube-
rance of rude and incontroulable spirits.
They, therefore, though of the latest, en-
deavoured, where they had any remaining
influence, to discourage the renewal of these
indecorous 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 exhibitions, than disposed to profit by
the ridiculous light in which they placed the
Church of Rom.e, and her observances. But
it was long ere these scandalous and immoral
sports could be abrogated ; — the rude mul-
titude continued attached to their favourite
pastimes ; and, both in England and Scot-
land, the mitre of the Catholic — the rocket
of the reformed bishop — and the cloak and
band of the Calvinistic divine — were, in
turn, compelled to give place to these jocu-

THE ABBOT. 299

lar 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 St 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 in-
stallation, in the presence of his clergy, and
in the chancel of his church. The mock
dignitary was a stout-made undersized fel-
low, whose thick squab form had been ren-
dered grotesque by a supplemental paunch,
well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather,
with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorn-
ed with mock embroidery, and trinkets of
tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of
which was the most prominent feature, be-
ing of unusual size, and at least as richly
gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of

* From the interesting novel, entitled Anastatius, \t
seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practiced
in the Greek Church.

300 THE ABBOT.

buckram, and his cope of canvass, curious-
ly 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 ex-
tremely popular, and which may still be pro-
cured in black letter, for about one pound
per leaf.

The attendants of this mock dignitary
had their proper dresses and equipage, bear-
ing the same burlesque resemblance to the
oflGicers of the Convent which their leader
did to the Superior. They followed their
leader in regular procession, and the mot-
ley 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 learn-
ed Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reve-
rend Abbot of Unreason !"

The discordant minstrelsy of every kind
renewed its din 5 the boys shrieked and

THE ABBOT. 301

howled, and the men laughed and halloed,
and the women giggled and screamed, and
the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopp'd
and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed,
pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked
and frolicked, clashing their hob-nailed shoes
against the pavement, till it sparkled with
the marks of their energetic caprioles.

It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous con-
fusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes
giddy, and must have altogether stunned
any indifferent spectator; whilst personal
apprehension, and a consciousness that
much of the popular enjoyment arose from
the ridicule being addressed against them,
dismayed the monks, who 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 prac-
tical pleasantries, which at all times arise
so naturally out of the frolicsome and mis-
chievous disposition of the metropolis. —
They looked to their Abbot amid the tu-

S02 THE ABBOT.

mult, with such looks as landsmen cast up-
on the pilot when the storm is at the high-
est— looks which express that they are de-
void of all hope arising from their own ex-
ertions, and not very confident in any suc-
cess likely to attend those of their Palinu-
rus.

The Abbot himself seeified at a stand ;
he felt no fear, but he was sensible of the
danger of expressing his rising indignation,
which he was scarcely able to suppress. He
made a gesture with his hand as if com-
manding silence, which was at first only re-
plied to by redoubled shouts, and peals of
wdld laughter. When, however, the same
motion, and as nearly in the same manner,
had been made by Howleglas, it was im-
mediately obeyed by the riotous compa-
nions, 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 their
leader. Accordingly they began to shout,
♦* To it, fathers—to it." — *« Fight monk,

THE ABBOT. 303

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 communing together, but you must
come here with your bear-garden whoop
and hollow, as if you were hounding forth
a mastiff upon a mad bull ? I say silence !
and let this learned Father and I confer,
touching matters affecting our mutual state
and authority."

" My children" — said Father Ambrose.

*' Mij children too, — and happy children
they are !" said his burlesque counterpart ;
" many a wise child knows not its own fa-
ther, and it is well they have two to chuse
betwixt."

'' If thou hast aught in thee, save scof-
fing and ribaldry," said the real Abbot,
'* permit me, for thine own soul's sake, to
speak a few words to these misguided men."

** Aught in me but scoffing, sayest thou ?'*
retorted the Abbot of Unreason ; '* Why,
reverend brother, I have all that becomes

304 THE ABBOT.

mine office at this time a-day — I have beef,
ale, and brandy-wine, with other condi-
ments 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 Mag-
dalen Graeme had risen to the uttermost ;
she approached the Abbot, and placing her-
self by his side, said in a low and yet dis-
tinct tone — *' Wake and arouse thee. Fa-
ther— the sword of Saint Peter is in thy
hand — strike and avenge Saint Peter's pa-
trimony ! Bind them in the chains which,
being rivetted by the church on earth, are
rivetted in Heaven'^

** Peace, sister 1" said the Abbot ; <' let
not their madness destroy our discretion —
I pray thee, peace, and let me do mine of-
^ce. It is the first, peradventure it may be
the last time I shall be called on to dis-
charge it."

" Nay, my holy brother!" said Howleglas,
•' I read you, take the holy sister's advice
— never throve convent without woman's
counsel." s

THE ABBOT. 305

** Peace, vain man 1" said the Abbot ;
*' and you, my brethren 1"

" 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 not one of my congregation shall listen
to one word you have to say, so you had as
well address yourself to me who will."

To escape a conference so ludicrous,
the Abbot again attempted 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 whoop-
ing, the hallooing, 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 expec-
tation, of which Father Ambrose availed

306 THE ABBOT.

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 employment 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,
** I can see little diiFerence 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, ** 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. — O, 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

THE ABBOT. 307

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 predecessors, who were called up-
on 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
whileyouwerejovial—wake while you slept?"

" Some of the good wives of the Hali-
dome were wont to say so," said the Abbot
of Unreason ; but his jest met in this in-
stance but slight applause, and Father Am-
brose having gained a moment's attention,
hastened to improve it.

«< What!" said he j ** and is this grateful— is

308 THE ABBOT.

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 ex-
tinguished, 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 per-
secution ; the tempest of your wrath has de-
spoiled us of land, and deprived us almost
of our daily food, but we have not repaid
it with the thunders of excommunication —
we only pray your leave to live and die
within the church which is our own, invo-
king God, our Lady, and the Holy Saints,
to pardon your sins, and our own, undis-
turbed by scurril buffoonery and blasphe-
my."

This speech, so different in tone and ter-
mination from that which the crowd had
expected, produced an effect upon their

THE ABBOT. 309

feelings unfavourable to the prosecution of
their frolic. The morr ice- dancers stood
still — the hobby-horse surceased his caper-
ing— pipe and tabor were mute, and ** si-
lence, like a heavy cloud," seemed to descend
on the once noisy rabble. Several of the
beasts were obviously moved to compunc-
tion ; 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 tremen-
dous rings, and grumbled out of his fiery
throat in a 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 miscellaneous and gro-
tesque forms by which he was surrounded,
triumphant as Saint Anthony, in Callot^s
Temptations; but Howleglas would not so
resign his purpose.

310 THE ABBOT.

*' And how now, my masters !" said he ;
** Is this fair play or no ? Have you not cho-
sen 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 — and he 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, huzza'd,
the pipe and tabor struck up, the hobby-
horse pranced, the beasts roared, and even
the repentant dragon began again to coil
up his spires and prepare himself for fresh
gambols. But the Abbot might have still
overcome by his eloquence and his entrea-
ties, the malicious designs of the revellers,
had not Dame Magdalen Graeme given
loose to the indignation which she had long

suppressed.

11

THE ABBOT. 311

** Scoffers," she said, " and men of Belial
—Blasphemous heretics, and truculent ty.
rants"

" Your patience, my sister, 1 entreat and
I command you !" said the Abbot ; " let me
do my duty — disturb me not in mine own
office !"

But Dame Magdalen continued to thun-
der forth her threats in the name of Popes
and Councils, and in the name of every
Saint, from Saint Michael downward.

" My comrades !" said the Abbot of Un-
reason, *' this good dame hath not spoke a
single word of reason, and therein 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 the
penalty of 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 spi-
ritual nor temporal scolds in our Diocese
of Unreason !"

312 THE ABBOT.

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 sud-
denly frustrated. Roland Graeme had wit-
nessed 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 per-
sonal 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.

THE ABBOT. 313

CHAPTER XV.

As when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd.
Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud.
And stones and brands in rattling voUies fly.
And all the rustic arras 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 vengcaiice was rai-
sed by the revellers, whose sport was thus
so fearfully interrupted ; but, for an instant,
the want of weapons amongst the multi-
tude, as well as the inflamed features and
brandished poniard of Roland Grasme, kept
them at bay, while the Abbot, horror-struck
at the violence, implored, with uplifted
hands, pardon for blood-shed committed
within the holy sanctuary. Magdalen
Grasme alone expressed triumph in the

VOL. I. O

S14 THE ABBOT.

blow her descendant had dealt to the scof-
fer, mixed, however, with a wild and anxious
expression of terror for her grandson's safe-
ty. ** Let him perish," she said, ** in his
blasphemy — let him die en the holy pave-
ment which he has insulted."

But the rage of the multitude, the grief
of the Abbot, the exultation of the enthu-
siastic Magdalen, were all mistimed and un-
necessary. The mortally wounded Howle-
glas, as he was supposed, sprung alertly up
from the floor, calling aloud, " A miracle,
a miracle, my masters ! as brave a miracle
as ever was wrought in the Kirk of Kenna-
quhair. — 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, reve-
rend brother, will, with your comrades,
withdraw to your cells ; for our conference
has ended like all conferences, leaving each
of his own mind, as before ; and if we fight,
both you, and your brethren, and the Kirk,

THE ABBOT. 315

will have the worst on't — Wherefore, pack
up your pipes and begone."

The hubbub was beginning again to awa-
ken, but still Father Ambrose hesitated, as
uncertain to what path his duty called him,
whether to face out the present storm, or
to reserve himself for a better moment. His
brother of Unreason observed his difficulty,
and said, in a tone more natural and less af-
fected than that with which he had hitherto
sustained his character, "We came hither,
my good sir, more in mirth than in mis-
chief— our bark is worse than our bite—
and, especially, we mean you no personal
harm — wherefore, draw off while the play
is good J 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 madness 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

316 THE ABBOT.

give place to the torrent. The present revel
was, they said, an ancient custom which his
predecessors had permitted, and old Fa-
ther Nicholas himself had played the dra-
gon 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 bre-
thren—move towards the dortour — And
you, dame, I command you, by the autho-
rity which I have over you, and by your
respect for that youth's safety, that 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 li-
very of the house of Avenel ? They who fear
not the anger of Heaven, may at least dread
the wrath of man."

'* Cumber not yourself concerning him,"

10

THE ABBOT. 317

answered Howleglas, '* we know right well
who and what he is."

<* Let me pray," said the Abbot, in a tone
of entreaty, " that you do him no wrong
for the rash deed which he attempted in
his imprudent zeal."

" I 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 bear-
ing^f 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 corslet could have done."

In fact, the home-driven poniard of Ro-
land Graeme had lighted upon the stuffing
of the fictitious paunch, which the Abbot
of Unreason wore as a part of his charac-
teristic dress, and it was only the force of
the blow which had prostrated that reve-
rend person on the ground for a moment.

Satisfied in some degree by this man's

318 THE ABBOT.

assurances, and compelled to give way to
superior force, the Abbot Ambrosius reti-
red from the Church at the head of the
monks, and left the court free for the re-
vellers to work their will. But, wild and
wilful as these rioters were, they accompa-
nied the retreat of the religioners with none
of those shouts of contempt and derision
with which they had at first hailed theni.
The Abbot's discourse had affected some
of them with remorse, others with shame,
and all with a transient degree of respect.
They remained silent until the last monk
had disappeared through the side-door
which communicated with their dwelling-
place, and even then it cost some exhorta-
tions on the part of Howleglas, some capri-
oles of the hobby-horse, and some wallops
of the dragon, to rouse once more the re-
buked 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,

THE ABBOT. 319

I 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 let 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-
stead of incense, put foul water into the
holy-water basins, and celebrated a parody
on the Church-service, the mock Abbot
officiating at the altar ; they sung ludicrous
and indecent parodies^ to the tune 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 demoli-
tion, pulled down and destroyed some car-

320 THE ABBOT,

ved wood-work, dashed out the painted
windows which had escaped former vio-
lence, and in their rigorous search after
sculpture dedicated to idolatry, began to
destroy what ornaments yet remained en-
tire upon the tombs, and around the cor-
nices of the pillars.

The spirit of demolition, like other tastes,
increases by indulgence ; from these lighter
attempts at mischief, the more tumultuous
part of the meeting began to meditate de-
struction on a more extended scale — ^* Let
lis heave it down altogether, the old crow's
nest," became a general cry among them ;
** it has served the Pope and his rooks too
long ;** and up they struck a ballad which
Was then popular among the lower classes.

" The Paip, that pagan full of pride,

Hath blinded us ower lang.
For where the blind the blind doth lead,
No marvel baith gae wrang.
Like prince and king.
He led the ring

Of all iniquity.
Sing hay trix, trim go trix,
Under the greenwood tree.

THE ABBOT. 321

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 creed
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 polemical poet, the fol-
lowers of the Abbot of Unreason were turn-
ing every moment more tumultuous, and
getting beyond the management even of
that reverend prelate himself) when a knight
in full armour, followed by two or three
men-at-arms, entered the church, and in a
stern voice commanded them to forbear
their riotous mummery.

His visor was up, but if it had been low-
ered, the cognizance of the holly-branch
sufficiently distinguished Sir Halbert Glen-
dinning, who, on his homeward road, was
passing through the village of Kennaquhair;

o 2

322 THE ABBOT.

and moved, perhaps, by anxiety for his bro-
ther's safety, had come directly to the
church on hearing 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 de-
stroy church and chancel, like so many hea-
thens ?"

All stood silent, though doubtless there
were several disappointed 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 Hal-
bert Glendinning, '* think you this mum-
ming 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 inso-
lent license, which leads but to idle vanity

THE ABBOT. 323

and sinful excess ; and know, that what you
now practise, is one of the profane and un-
seemly sports introduced by the priests of
Rome themselves, to mislead and to bruti-
iy the souls which fell into their net."

** Marry come up — are you there with
your bears ?" muttered the dragon, with a
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 !"

" Doest thou reply to me so ?" said Sir
Halbert Glendinning; *' or is there any pas-
time 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 of-
fended dragon, " setting aside your knight-
hood, I hold myself as well a born man as
thyself."

The Knight made no answer in words,
but bestowed two such blows with the butt

324 THE ABBOT.

of his lance on the petulant dragon, that
had not the hoops which constituted the
ribs of the machine been pretty strong, they
would hardly have saved those of the actor
from being broken. In all haste the mas-
quer crept out of his disguise, unwilling to
abide a third buffet from the lance of the
eni'aged Knight. And when the ex-dragon
stood on the floor of the church, he pre-
sented to Halbert Glendinning the well-
known countenance of Dan of the Howlet-
hirst, an ancient comrade of his own, ere
fate had raised him so high above the rank
to which he was born. The clown looked
sulkily upon the Knight, as if to upbraid
him for his violence towards an old ac-
quaintance, and Glendinning's own good
nature reproached him for the violence he
had acted upon 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 Ave-
nel Castle, and we will see how my hawks
fly."

THE ABBOT. 325

" And if we shew him not falcons that
will mount as merrily as rockets," said the
Abbot of Unreason, ** I would your honour
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 Abbot, hastily ridding himself of the
false nose which mystified his physiogno-
my, and the supplementary belly which
made up his disguise, stood before his mas-
ter in his real character, of Adam Wood-
cock 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, cra-
ving your honour's pardon, that I came hir
ther — for I heard the country was to be up
to chuse an Abbot of Unreason, and sure,
thought I, I that can sing, dance, leap
backwards over a broad-sword, and am as
good a fool as ever sought promotion, have
all chance of carrying the office ; and if I
gain my election, I may stand his honour's

326 THE ABBOT.

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 humour 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 else-
where— 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 ruffians."

Obedient to his master's mandate, the
falconer was collecting his discouraged fol-
lowers, and whispering into their ears —
•* Away, away — tace is Latin for a candle —
never mind the good Knight's puritanism
— we will play the frolic out over a stand
of double ale in Dame Martin the Brew-
ster's barn. yard— draw off, harp and tabor
— bagpipe and drum — mum till you are out
of the church-yard, then let the welkin ring
again — move on, wolf and bear — keep the

THE ABBOT. 327

hind legs till you cross the kirk-style, and
then shew yourselves beasts of mettle —
what devil sent him here to spoil our holi-
day ! — but anger him not, my heart?, 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 downright ill-will,"

" But I will take no such thing," said
Dan of the Howlet-hirst, sullenly resisting
the efforts of Woodcock, who was dragging
him out of the church ; when, the quick
military 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 li-

328 THE ABBOT.

very, 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 dressing him up as a
jack-an-apes — 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 Bul-

T lions" -

*< 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 knight-
hood, 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, I can hold my tongue — but the
boy came not hither by my bidding for all
that."

" But to gratify his own malapert plea-

THE ABBOT. 329

sure, I warrant me," said Sir Halbert Glen-
dinning, — *< Come hither, young springald,
and tell me whether you have your mistress's
license to be so far absent from the Castle,
or to dishonour my livery by mingling in
such a May-game ?"

" Sir Halbert Glendinning," answered
Roland Grasme, with steadiness, " I have
obtained the permission, or rather the com-
mands, of your lady, to dispose of my time
hereafter according to my own pleasure. I
have been a most unwilling spectator of
this May-game, since it is your pleasure so
to call it ; and I only wear your livery un-
til 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 favoured thee I know. What hast
thou done to disoblige her, and occasion
thy dismissal ?"

"Nothing to speak of," said Adam Wood-

330 THE ABBOT.

cock, answering for the boy — ^* a foolish
quarrel with me, which was more foolishly
told over again to my honoured lady, cost
the poor boy his place. For my part, I
will say freely, that I was wrong from be-
ginning to end, except about the washing
of the eyass'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 Eoland
Graeme into disgrace with his mistress, but
in a manner so favourable for the page, that
Sir Halbert could not but suspect his ge-
nerous motive.

«< Thou art a good-natured fellow," he
said, " Adam Woodcock."

** As ever had falcon upon fist," said
Adam ; <* and, for that matter, so is Mas-
ter 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

THE ABBOT. ' 331

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 j
but he, I doubt not, made it worse by his
prating — it jumps well with a purpose, how-
ever, which I had in my mind. Draw off
these people, Woodcock, and you, Roland
Grseme, 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 apart-
ment. Sir Halbert Glendinning paced the
floor for a moment in silence, and then
thus addressed his attendant—

" Thou mayest have remarked, stripling,

332 THE ABBOT.

that I have but seldom distinguished thee
by much notice ; — I see thy colour 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 be-
cause I saw something blameable, which
such praises might have made worse. Thy
mistress dealing according to her pleasure
in her own household, as no one hath bet-
ter reason or title, had picked thee from
the rest, and treated thee more like a rela-
tion than a domestic | and if thou didst
shew some vanity and petulance under such
distinction, it were injustice not to say
that thou hast profited both in thy exer-
cises and in thy breeding, and hast shown
many sparkles of a gentle and manly spirit.
Moreover, it were ungenerous, having bred
thee up freakish and fiery, to dismiss thee
to want or wandering, for shewing that very
peevishness and impatience of discipline
which arose from thy too delicate nurture.
Therefore, and for the credit of my own

THE ABBOT. 333

household, I am determined to retain thee
in my train, until I can honourably 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 Ro-
land's pride, there was also much that, ac-
cording to his mode of thinking, was an
alloy to the compliment. And yet his con-
science 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 would
enter the world under very different aus-
pices as a retainer of Sir Halbert Glendin-
ning, so famed for wisdom, courage, and
influence, from those under which he might
partake the wanderings, and become an
agent in the visionary schemes, for such
they appeared to him, of Magdalen, his re-
lative. Still, a strong reluctance to re-enter

334 THE ABBOT.

a service from which he had been dismissed
with contempt, almost counterbalanced
these considerations.

Sir Halbert looked on the youth with
surprise, and resumed — '« You seem to he-
sitate, young man. Are your own pros-
pects so inviting, that you should pause ere
you accept those which I offer to you t or,
must I remind you that, although you have
offended your benefactress, even to the
point of her dismissing you, yet I am con-
vinced, the knowledge that you have gone
unguided on your own wild way, into a
world so disturbed 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 Graeme replied in a respectful
tone, but at the same time with some spirit,

THE ABBOT. 335

" I am not ungrateful for such countenance
as has been afforded me by the Lord of Ave-
nel, and I am glad to learn, for the first
time, that I have not had the misfortune to
be utterly beneath his observation, as I had
thought — And it is only needful to shew
me how I can testify my duty and my gra-
titude towards my early and constant be-
nefactress with my life's hazard, and I will
gladly peril it." He stopped.

" These are but words, young man," an-
swered Glendinning, " large protestations
are often used to supply the place of effec-
tual service. I know nothing in which the
peril of your life can serve the Lady of Ave-
nel ; 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 offer-
ed you ?"

<^My only relative who is alive," answer-
ed Roland, '* at least the only relative whom
I have ever seen, has rejoined me since I

S36 THE ABBOT.

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 encreasing 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 Hal-
bert Glendinning.

" In 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 worse than foolish would she shew her-
self in denying it."

Roland left the apartment to seek for his
grandmother ; and, as he retreated, the Ab-
bot entered.

The two brothers met as brothers who
love each other fondly, yet meet rarely to-
gether. Such indeed was the case. Their
mutual affection attached them to each
other ; but in every pursuit, habit, or senti-
ment connected with the discords of the

THE ABBOT. S37

tiiDes, 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. After a close embrace on
the part of both, and a welcome on that
of the Abbot, Sir Halbert Glendinning ex-
pressed his satisfaction that he had come
in time to appease the riot raised by How-
leglas and his tumultuous followers.

" And yet," he said, '* when I look on
your garments, brother Edward, I cannot
help thinking there still remains an Abbot
of Unreason within the bounds of the Mo-
nastery."

" And wherefore carp at my garments,
brother Halbert ?" said the Abbot ; *« it is
the spiritual armour of my calling, and, as
such, beseems me as well as breastplate and
baldric become your own bosom."

** Ay, but there were small wisdom, me*
thinks, in putting on armour where we have

VOL. r. p

O'-I

33^ THE ABBOT.

310 power to fight ; it is but a dangerous
temerity to defy the foe whom w^e cannot
resist."

" For that, my brother, no one can an-
swer," said the Abbot, ** until the battle be
fought ; and, were it even as you say, me-
thinks, a brave man, though desperate of
victory, would rather desire to fight and
fall, than to resign sword and shield on some
mean and dishonourable composition with
his insulting antagonist. But, let not you
and I make discord of a theme on which v;e
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 of-
fended with the rich profusion of a conven-
tual banquet. The days of our old friend
Abbot Boniface are over ; and the Superior
of Saint Mary's has neither forests nor fish-
ings, woods, nor pastures, nor corn-fields; —
neither flocks nor herds, bucks nor wild-

THE ABBOT, 339

fowl — granaries of wheat, nor storehouses
of oil and of wine, of ale and of mead. The
refectioner*s office is ended 5 and such a
meal as a hermit in romance can offer to
a wandering knight, is all we have to set
before you. Bat, if you will share it with
us, we will eat it with a cheerful heart, and
thank you, my brother, for your timely pro-
tection against these rude scoffers."

*■* My dearest brother," said the Knight,
•* it grieves me deeply I cannot abide with
you J 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 counte-
nancing or approving your religious rites
and ceremonies. It will demand v/hatever
consideration I can acquire among my own
friends, to shelter the bold man, who, con-
trary to law and the edicts of parliament,
has dared to take up the office of Abbot of
Saint Mary's."

19

340 THE ABBOT.

*' Trouble not yourself with the task, my
brother," replied Father Ambrosius. " I
would lay down my dearest blood to know
that you defended the church for the
church's sake ; but, while you renriain un-
happily her enemy, I would not that you
endangered your own safety, or diminished
your own comforts, for the sake of my indi-
vidual protection. — But who comes hither
to disturb the few minutes of fraternal
communication which our evil fate allows
us?"

The door of the apartment opened as the
Abbot spoke, and Dame Magdalen Graeme
entered.

** Who is this woman ?*' said Sir Halbert
Glendinning, somewhat sternly, "and what
does she want ^"

** That you know me not," said the ma-^
tron, <* signifies little ; I come by your own
order, to give my free consent that the
stripling, llcland Graeme, return to your
service j and, having saidso, I cumber you
no longer with my presence. Peace be with
you." She turned to go away, but was

THE ABBOT. 341

stopped by the enquiries 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 be-
longed to the world, a matron of no vulgar
name ; now, I am Magdalen, a poorpilgrim-
er, for the sake of Holy Kirk."

'« Yea," said Sir Halbert, •* art thou a Ca-
tholic ? I thought my dame said that Ro-
land Graeme came of reformed kin."

** His father," said the matronj '• 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 unhallowed
rites — but I had my dispensation and my
absolution,"

" You see, brother," said Sir Halbert,
with a smile of meaning towards his bro-
ther, " that we accuse you not altogethej-
without grounds of mental equivocation."

*« My brother, you do us injustice," re-
p2

342 THE ABEOr.

plied the Abbot ; *« this woman, as her bear-
ing may of itself warrant you, is not in her
perfect mind. Thanks, I must needs say,
to the persecution of your marauding ba-
rons, and of your latitudinarian clergy."

*' I will not dispute the point," said Sir
Halbert ; ** the evils of the time are unhap-
pily so numerous, that both churches may
divide them, and have enow to spare." So
saying, he leaned from the window of the
apartment, and winded his bugle.

" Why do you sound your horn, my bro-
ther ?" said the Abbot ; " we have spent but
few minutes together."

" Alas !" said the elder brother, " and
even these few have been sullied by disa-
greement. I sound to horse, my brother —
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 thatwe mount instantly. I intend not
that he shall return to Avenel with me — it
would lead to new quarrels betwixt him and
my household j at least, to taunts which his

THE ABBOr. 343

proud heart could ill brook, and my wish
is to do him kindness. He shall, therefore,
go forward to Edinburgh with one of ray re-
tinue, whom I shall send back to say what
has chanced here. You seem rejoiced at
this ?" he added, fixing his eyes keenly on
Magdalen Grceme, who returned his gaze
with calm indifTerence.

*' I would rather," she said, *' that Ro-
land, 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," answered the Knight.

'< It may be/' she replied — " it may well
be — but I will trust more to his own bear-
ing than to your countenance." She iefc
the room as she spoke.

The Knight looked after her as she de-
parted, but turned instantly to his brother,
and expressing, in the most aliectionate
terms, his wishes for his welfare and hap-
piness, craved his leave to depart. " My
knaves," he said, " are too busy at the ale-

S44 THE ABBOT.

Stand, to leave their revelry for the empty
breath of a bugle horn."

" You have freed them from higher re-
straint, Halbert," answered 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 j ** none obey
the command of real duty so well as those
who are free fi:om the observance of slavish
bondage."

He was turning to depart, when the Ab-
bot said, — ** Let us not yet part, 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 act-
ed 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 ABBOT. 345

The Knight filled a small silver cup, and,
quaffing it off, asked his brother to pledge
him, observing, the wine was Bacharac, of
tlie first vintage, and great age.

" 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 Ab-
bot Ingeiram was bred at the Convent of
Wurtzburg, which I understand to be near
where that choice wine grows "

^* True, my reverend sir," said Sir HaU.
bert ; " and therefore I entreat my brother
and you to pledge me in a cup of this or-
thodox vintage.'*

The thin old porter looked v/ith a wish^
i'ul glance towards the Abbot. '* Do Ve-
niam," 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 flavour and perfume,
and set it down with a melancholy smile
and shake of the head, as if bidding adieu

346 THE ABBOT.

in future to such delicious potations. The
brothers smiled. But when Sir Halbert mo-
tioned 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 lim-
pid element, ** I wish you, my brother, all
happiness, and above all, a true sight of
your spiritual errors."

" And to you, my beloved Edward, re-
plied Glendinning, " 1 wish the free exer-
cise 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 y
and yet, each confident in his own 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 Avenei's trumpets were heard, and the

THE ABBOT. S^T

Abbot went to the top of a tower, from
whose dismantled battlements he could
soon see the horsemen ascending the ri-
shig ground in the direction of the draw-
bridge. 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 ex-
cepted."

•* Thou canst bear witness, my father,
tliat it was no v*^ish either of mine or of Ro-
land's," replied the matron, ** which indu-
ced the Knight of Avenel, as he is called,
again to entertain my grandson in his house-
hold^— Heaven, which confounds the wise
with their own wisdom, and the wicked with
their own policy, hath placed him where,
for the service of the Church, I would most
wish him to be."

" I know not what you mean, my sister,**
said the Abbot.

" Reverend father," replied Magdalen,
** hast thou never heard that there are spi-

348 THE ABBOT.

rits powerful to rend the walls of a castle
asunder when once admitted, which yet
cannot enter the house unless they are in-
vited, nay, dragged over the threshold ?
Twice hath Roland Grseme 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 a moment on her
w^ords, which hf imputed to the unsettled
state of her mind, followed down the wind-
ing stair to celebrate his admission to his
high office by fast and prayer, instead of
revelling and thanksgiving.

END OF VOLUME FIRSTo

Edinburgh:
Printed by James Ballantyiic & Cde

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