^■■ffT^A v;.2 ^: v3J 
 
5 
 
 From the library of 
 
 O.E. and Mary Maple 
 
 Jones 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Charfipaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/abbot01scot 
 
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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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