"Na," answered Luckie Grimslees, in the true sleepy tone of a Scottish
matron when ten o'clock is going to strike, "he's no in his bed, but
I'se warrant him no gae out at this time o' night to keep folks
sitting up waiting for him--the Captain's a decent man."

I plainly perceived this last compliment was made for my hearing, by
way both of indicating and of recommending the course of conduct which
Mrs. Grimslees desired I should pursue. But I had not been knocked
about the world for thirty years and odd, and lived a bluff bachelor
all the while, to come home and be put under petticoat government by
my landlady.  Accordingly I opened my chamber-door, and desired my old
friend David to walk up stairs.

"Captain," said he, as he entered, "I am as glad to find you up as if
I had hooked a twenty pound saumon. There's a gentleman up yonder that
will not sleep sound in his bed this blessed night unless he has the
pleasure to drink a glass of wine with you."

"You know, David," I replied, with becoming dignity, "that I cannot
with propriety go out to visit strangers at this time of night, or
accept of invitations from people of whom I know nothing."

David swore a round oath, and added, "Was ever the like heard of? He
has ordered a fowl and egg sauce, a pancake and minced collops and a
bottle of sherry--D'ye think I wad come and ask you to go to keep
company with ony bit English rider that sups on toasted cheese, and a
cheerer of rum-toddy? This is a gentleman every inch of him, and a
virtuoso, a clean virtuoso-a sad-coloured stand of claithes, and a wig
like the curled back of a mug-ewe. The very first question he speered
was about the auld drawbrig that has been at the bottom of the water
these twal score years--I have seen the fundations when we were
sticking saumon--And how the deevil suld he ken ony thing about the
old drawbrig, unless he were a virtuoso?" [Footnote: There is more to
be said about this old bridge hereafter. See Note, p. 57.]

David being a virtuoso in his own way, and moreover a landholder and
heritor, was a qualified judge of all who frequented his house, and
therefore I could not avoid again tying the strings of my knees.

"That's right, Captain," vociferated David; "you twa will be as thick
as three in a bed an ance ye forgather. I haena seen the like o' him
my very sell since I saw the great Doctor Samuel Johnson on his tower
through Scotland, whilk tower is lying in my back parlour for the
amusement of my guests, wi' the twa boards torn aff."

"Then the gentleman is a scholar, David?"

"I'se uphaud him a scholar," answered David: "he has a black coat on,
or a brown ane, at ony-rate."

"Is he a clergyman?"

"I am thinking no, for he looked after his horse's supper before he
spoke o' his ain," replied mine host.

"Has he a servant?" demanded I.

"Nae servant," answered David; "but a grand face o' his ain, that wad
gar ony body be willing to serve him that looks upon him."

"And what makes him think of disturbing me? Ah, David, this has
been some of your chattering; you are perpetually bringing your guests
on my shoulders, as if it were my business to entertain every man who
comes to the George."

"What the deil wad ye hae me do, Captain?" answered mine host; "a
gentleman lights down, and asks me in a most earnest manner, what man
of sense and learning there is about our town, that can tell him about
the antiquities of the place, and specially about the auld Abbey--ye
wadna hae me tell the gentleman a lee? and ye ken weel eneugh there is
naebody in the town can say a reasonable word about it, be it no
yoursell, except the bedral, and he is as fou as a piper by this time.
So, says I, there's Captain Clutterbuck, that's a very civil gentleman
and has little to do forby telling a' the auld cracks about the Abbey,
and dwells just hard by. Then says the gentleman to me, 'Sir,' says
he, very civilly, 'have the goodness to step to Captain Clutterbuck
with my compliments, and say I am a stranger, who have been led to
these parts chiefly by the fame of these Ruins, and that I would call
upon him, but the hour is late.' And mair he said that I have
forgotten, but I weel remember it ended,--'And, landlord, get a bottle
of your best sherry, and supper for two.'--Ye wadna have had me refuse
to do the gentleman's bidding, and me a publican?"

"Well, David," said I, "I wish your virtuoso had taken a fitter hour--
but as you say he is a gentleman--"

"I'se uphaud him that--the order speaks for itsell--a bottle of sherry
--minched collops and a fowl--that's speaking like a gentleman, I
trow?--That's right, Captain, button weel up, the night's raw--but
the water's clearing for a' that; we'll be on't neist night wi' my
Lord's boats, and we'll hae ill luck if I dinna send you a kipper to
relish your ale at e'en." [Footnote:  The nobleman whose boats are
mentioned in the text, is the late kind and amiable Lord Sommerville,
an intimate friend of the author.  David Kyle was a constant and
privileged attendant when Lord Sommerville had a party for spearing
salmon; on such occasions, eighty or a hundred fish were often killed
between Gleamer and Leaderfoot.]

In five minutes after this dialogue, I found myself in the parlour of
the George, and in the presence of the stranger.

He was a grave personage, about my own age, (which we shall call about
fifty,) and really had, as my friend David expressed it, something in
his face that inclined men to oblige and to serve him. Yet this
expression of authority was not at all of the cast which I have seen
in the countenance of a general of brigade, neither was the stranger's
dress at all martial. It consisted of a uniform suit of iron-gray
clothes, cut in rather an old-fashioned form. His legs were defended
with strong leathern gambadoes, which, according to an antiquarian
contrivance, opened at the sides, and were secured by steel clasps.
His countenance was worn as much by toil and sorrow as by age, for it
intimated that he had seen and endured much. His address was
singularly pleasing and gentlemanlike, and the apology which he made
for disturbing me at such an hour, and in such a manner, was so well
and handsomely expressed, that I could not reply otherwise than by
declaring my willingness to be of service to him.

"I have been a traveller to-day, sir," said he, "and I would willingly
defer the little I have to say till after supper, for which I feel
rather more appetized than usual."

We sate down to table, and notwithstanding the stranger's alleged
appetite, as well as the gentle preparation of cheese and ale which I
had already laid aboard, I really believe that I of the two did the
greater honour to my friend David's fowl and minced collops.

When the cloth was removed, and we had each made a tumbler of negus,
of that liquor which hosts call Sherry, and guests call Lisbon, I
perceived that the stranger seemed pensive, silent, and somewhat
embarrassed, as if he had something to communicate which he knew not
well how to introduce.  To pave the way for him, I spoke of the
ancient ruins of the Monastery, and of their history. But, to my great
surprise, I found I had met my match with a witness. The stranger not
only knew all that I could tell him, but a great deal more; and,  what
was still more mortifying, he was able, by reference to dates,
charters, and other evidence of facts, that, as Burns says, "downa be
disputed," to correct many of the vague tales which I had adopted on
loose and vulgar tradition, as well as to confute more than one of my
favourite theories on the subject of the old monks and their
dwellings, which I had sported freely in all the presumption of
superior information. And here I cannot but remark, that much of the
stranger's arguments and inductions rested upon the authority of Mr.
Deputy Register of Scotland, [Footnote:  Thomas Thomson, Esq., whose
well-deserved panegyric ought to be found on another page than one
written by an intimate friend of thirty years' standing.] and his
lucubrations; a gentleman whose indefatigable research into the
national records is like to destroy my trade, and that of all local
antiquaries, by substituting truth instead of legend and romance.
Alas! I would the learned gentleman did but know how difficult it is
for us dealers in petty wares of antiquity to--

  Pluck from our memories a rooted "legend,"
  Raze out the written records of our brain.
  Or cleanse our bosoms of that perilous stuff--

and so forth. It would, I am sure, move his pity to think how many old
dogs he hath set to learn new tricks, how many venerable parrots he
hath taught to sing a new song, how many gray heads he hath addled by
vain attempts to exchange their old _Mumpsimus_ for his new
_Sumpsimus_. But let it pass. _Humana perpessi sumus_--All
changes round us, past, present, and to come; that which was history
yesterday becomes fable to-day, and the truth of to-day is hatched
into a lie by to-morrow.

Finding myself like to be overpowered in the Monastery, which I had
hitherto regarded as my citadel, I began, like a skilful general, to
evacuate that place of defence, and fight my way through the adjacent
country. I had recourse to my acquaintance with the families and
antiquities of the neighbourhood, ground on which I thought I might
skirmish at large without its being possible for the stranger to meet
me with advantage. But I was mistaken.

The man in the iron-gray suit showed a much more minute knowledge of
these particulars than I had the least pretension to. He could tell
the very year in which the family of De Haga first settled on their
ancient barony.

[Footnote: The family of De Haga, modernized into Haig, of Bemerside,
is of the highest antiquity, and is the subject of one of the
prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer:--

  Betide, betide, whate'er betide.
  Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside. ]

Not a Thane within reach but he knew his family and connexions, how
many of his ancestors had fallen by the sword of the English, how many
in domestic brawl, and how many by the hand of the executioner for
march-treason. Their castles he was acquainted with from turret to
foundation-stone; and as for the miscellaneous antiquities scattered
about the country, he knew every one of them, from a _cromlech_
to a _cairn_, and could give as good an account of each as if he
had lived in the time of the Danes or Druids.

I was now in the mortifying predicament of one who suddenly finds
himself a scholar when he came to teach, and nothing was left for me
but to pick up as much of his conversation as I could, for the benefit
of the next company. I told, indeed, Allan Ramsay's story of the Monk
and Miller's Wife, in order to retreat with some honour under cover of
a parting volley.  Here, however, my flank was again turned by the
eternal stranger.

"You are pleased to be facetious, sir," said he; "but you cannot be
ignorant that the ludicrous incident you mentioned is the subject of a
tale much older than that of Allan Ramsay."

I nodded, unwilling to acknowledge my ignorance, though, in fact, I
knew no more what he meant than did one of my friend David's
post-horses.

"I do not allude," continued my omniscient companion, "to the curious
poem published by Pinkerton from the Maitland Manuscript, called the
Fryars of Berwick, although it presents a very minute and amusing
picture of Scottish manners during the reign of James V.; but rather
to the Italian novelist, by whom, so far as I know, the story was
first printed, although unquestionably he first took his original from
some ancient _fabliau_." [Footnote: It is curious to remark at how
little expense of invention successive ages are content to receive
amusement. The same story which Ramsay and Dunbar have successively
handled, forms also the subject of the modern farce, No Song, no
Supper.]

"It is not to be doubted," answered I, not very well understanding,
however, the proposition to which I gave such unqualified assent.

"Yet," continued my companion, "I question much, had you known my
situation and profession, whether you would have pitched upon this
precise anecdote for my amusement."

This observation he made in a tone of perfect good-humour. I pricked
up my ears at the hint, and answered as politely as I could, that my
ignorance of his condition and rank could be the only cause of my
having stumbled on anything disagreeable; and that I was most willing
to apologize for my unintentional offence, so soon as I should know
wherein it consisted.

"Nay, no offence, sir," he replied; "offence can only exist where it
is taken. I have been too long accustomed to more severe and cruel
misconstructions, to be offended at a popular jest, though directed at
my profession."

"Am I to understand, then," I answered, "that I am speaking with a
Catholic clergyman?"

"An unworthy monk of the order of Saint Benedict," said the stranger,
"belonging to a community of your own countrymen, long established in
France, and scattered unhappily by the events of the Revolution."
"Then," said I, "you are a native Scotchman, and from this
neighbourhood?"

"Not so," answered the monk; "I am a Scotchman by extraction only,
and never was in this neighbourhood during my whole life."

"Never in this neighbourhood, and yet so minutely acquainted with its
history, its traditions, and even its external scenery! You surprise
me, sir," I replied.

"It is not surprising," he said, "that I should have that sort of
local information, when it is considered, that my uncle, an excellent
man, as well as a good Scotchman, the head also of our religious
community, employed much of his leisure in making me acquainted with
these particulars; and that I myself, disgusted with what has been
passing around me, have for many years amused myself, by digesting and
arranging the various scraps of information which I derived from my
worthy relative, and other aged brethren of our order."

"I presume, sir," said I, "though I would by no means intrude the
question, that you are now returned to Scotland with a view to settle
amongst your countrymen, since the great political catastrophe of our
time has reduced your corps?"

"No, sir," replied the Benedictine, "such is not my intention. A
European potentate, who still cherishes the Catholic faith, has
offered us a retreat within his dominions, where a few of my scattered
brethren are already assembled, to pray to God for blessings on their
protector, and pardon to their enemies. No one, I believe, will be
able to object to us under our new establishment, that the extent of
our revenues will be inconsistent with our vows of poverty and
abstinence; but, let us strive to be thankful to God, that the snare
of temporal abundance is removed from us."

"Many of your convents abroad, sir," said I, "enjoyed very handsome
incomes--and yet, allowing for times, I question if any were better
provided for than the Monastery of this village. It is said to have
possessed nearly two thousand pounds in yearly money-rent, fourteen
chalders and nine bolls of wheat, fifty-six chalders five bolls
barley, forty-four chalders and ten bolls oats, capons and poultry,
butter, salt, carriage and arriage, peats and kain, wool and ale."

"Even too much of all these temporal goods, sir," said my companion,
"which, though well intended by the pious donors, served only to make
the establishment the envy and the prey of those by whom it was finally
devoured."

"In the meanwhile, however," I observed, "the monks had an easy life
of it, and, as the old song goes,

  --made gude kale
  On Fridays when they fasted."

"I understand you, sir," said the Benedictine; "it is difficult, saith
the proverb, to carry a full cup without spilling. Unquestionably the
wealth of the community, as it endangered the safety of the
establishment by exciting the cupidity of others, was also in frequent
instances a snare to the brethren themselves. And yet we have seen the
revenues of convents expended, not only in acts of beneficence and
hospitality to individuals, but in works of general and permanent
advantage to the world at large.  The noble folio collection of French
historians, commenced in 1737, under the inspection and at the expense
of the community of Saint Maur, will long show that the revenues of
the Benedictines were not always spent in self-indulgence, and that
the members of that order did not uniformly slumber in sloth and
indolence, when they had discharged the formal duties of their rule."

As I knew nothing earthly at the time about the community of St. Maur,
and their learned labours, I could only return a mumbling assent to
this proposition. I have since seen this noble work in the library of
a distinguished family, and I must own I am ashamed to reflect, that,
in so wealthy a country as ours, a similar digest of our historians
should not be undertaken, under the patronage of the noble and the
learned, in rivalry of that which the Benedictines of Paris executed
at the expense of their own conventual funds.

"I perceive," said the ex-Benedictine, smiling, "that your heretical
prejudices are too strong to allow us poor brethren any merit, whether
literary or spiritual."

"Far from it, sir," said I; "I assure you I have been much obliged to
monks in my time. When I was quartered in a Monastery in Flanders, in
the campaign of 1793, I never lived more comfortably in my life. They
were jolly fellows, the Flemish Canons, and right sorry was I to leave
my good quarters, and to know that my honest hosts were to be at the
mercy of the Sans-Culottes. But _fortune de la guerre!_"

The poor Benedictine looked down and was silent. I had unwittingly
awakened a train of bitter reflections, or rather I had touched
somewhat rudely upon a chord which seldom ceased to vibrate of itself.
But he was too much accustomed to this sorrowful train of ideas to
suffer it to overcome him. On my part, I hastened to atone for my
blunder. "If there was any object of his journey to this country in
which I could, with propriety, assist him, I begged to offer him my
best services." I own I laid some little emphasis on the words "with
propriety," as I felt it would ill become me, a sound Protestant, and
a servant of government so far as my half-pay was concerned, to
implicate myself in any recruiting which my companion might have
undertaken in behalf of foreign seminaries, or in any similar design
for the advancement of Popery, which, whether the Pope be actually the
old lady of Babylon or no, it did not become me in any manner to
advance or countenance.

My new friend hastened to relieve my indecision. "I was about to
request your assistance, sir," he said, "in a matter which cannot but
interest you as an antiquary, and a person of research. But I assure
you it relates entirely to events and persons removed to the distance
of two centuries and a half. I have experienced too much evil from the
violent unsettlement of the country in which I was born, to be a rash
labourer in the work of innovation in that of my ancestors."

I again assured him of my willingness to assist him in anything that
was not contrary to my allegiance or religion.

"My proposal," he replied, "affects neither.--May God bless the
reigning family in Britain! They are not, indeed, of that dynasty to
restore which my ancestors struggled and suffered in vain; but the
Providence who has conducted his present Majesty to the throne, has
given him the virtues necessary to his time--firmness and
intrepidity--a true love of his country, and an enlightened view of
the dangers by which she is surrounded.--For the religion of these
realms, I am contented to hope that the great Power, whose mysterious
dispensation has rent them from the bosom of the church, will, in his
own good time and manner, restore them to its holy pale. The efforts
of an individual, obscure and humble as myself, might well retard, but
could never advance, a work so mighty."

"May I then inquire, sir," said I, "with what purpose you seek this
country?"

Ere my companion replied, he took from his pocket a clasped paper
book, about the size of a regimental orderly-book, full, as it seemed,
of memoranda; and, drawing one of the candles close to him, (for
David, as a strong proof of his respect for the stranger, had indulged
us with two,) he seemed to peruse the contents very earnestly.

"There is among the ruins of the western end of the Abbey church,"
said he, looking up to me, yet keeping the memorandum-book half open,
and occasionally glancing at it, as if to refresh his memory, "a sort
of recess or chapel beneath a broken arch, and in the immediate
vicinity of one of those shattered Gothic columns which once supported
the magnificent roof, whose fall has now encumbered that part of the
building with its ruins."

"I think," said I, "that I know whereabouts you are. Is there not in
the side wall of the chapel, or recess, which you mention, a large
carved stone, bearing a coat of arms, which no one hitherto has been
able to decipher?"

"You are right," answered the Benedictine; and again consulting his
memoranda, he added, "the arms on the dexter side are those of
Glendinning, being a cross parted by a cross indented and
countercharged of the same; and on the sinister three spur-rowels for
those of Avenel; they are two ancient families, now almost extinct in
this country--the arms _part y per pale_."

"I think," said I, "there is no part of this ancient structure with
which you are not as well acquainted as was the mason who built it.
But if your information be correct, he who made out these bearings
must have had better eyes than mine."

"His eyes," said the Benedictine, "have long been closed in death;
probably when he inspected the monument it was in a more perfect
state, or he may have derived his information from the tradition of
the place."

"I assure you," said I, "that no such tradition now exists. I have
made several reconnoissances among the old people, in hopes to learn
something of the armorial bearings, but I never heard of such a
circumstance. It seems odd that you should have acquired it in a
foreign land."

"These trifling particulars," he replied, "were formerly looked upon
as more important, and they were sanctified to the exiles who retained
recollection of them, because they related to a place dear indeed to
memory, but which their eyes could never again behold. It is possible,
in like manner, that on the Potomac or Susquehannah, you may find
traditions current concerning places in England, which are utterly
forgotten in the neighbourhood where they originated. But to my
purpose. In this recess, marked by the armorial bearings, lies buried
a treasure, and it is in order to remove it that I have undertaken my
present journey."

"A treasure!" echoed I, in astonishment.

"Yes," replied the monk, "an inestimable treasure, for those who know
how to use it rightly."

I own my ears did tingle a little at the word treasure, and that a
handsome tilbury, with a neat groom in blue and scarlet livery, having
a smart cockade on his glazed hat, seemed as it were to glide across
the room before gay eyes, while a voice, as of a crier, pronounced my
ear, "Captain Clutterbuck's tilbury--drive up." But I resisted the
devil, and he fled from me.

"I believe," said I, "all hidden treasure belongs either to the king
or the lord of the soil; and as I have served his majesty, I cannot
concern myself in any adventure which may have an end in the Court of
Exchequer."

"The treasure I seek," said the stranger, smiling, "will not be envied
by princes or nobles,---it is simply the heart of an upright man."

"Ah! I understand you," I answered; "some relic, forgotten in the
confusion of the Reformation. I know the value which men of your
persuasion put upon the bodies and limbs of saints. I have seen the
Three Kings of Cologne."

"The relics which I seek, however," said the Benedictine, "are not
precisely of that nature. The excellent relative whom I have already
mentioned, amused his leisure hours with putting into form the
traditions of his family, particularly some remarkable circumstances
which took place about the first breaking out of the schism of the
church in Scotland. He became so much interested in his own labours,
that at length he resolved that the heart of one individual, the hero
of his tale, should rest no longer in a land of heresy, now deserted
by all his kindred. As he knew where it was deposited, he formed the
resolution to visit his native country for the purpose of recovering
this valued relic. But age, and at length disease, interfered with his
resolution, and it was on his deathbed that he charged me to undertake
the task in his stead. The various important events which have crowded
upon each other, our ruin and our exile, have for many years obliged
me to postpone this delegated duty. Why, indeed, transfer the relics
of a holy and worthy man to a country, where religion and virtue are
become the mockery of the scorner? I have now a home, which I trust
may be permanent, if any thing in this earth can be, termed so.
Thither will I transport the heart of the good father, and beside the
shrine which it shall occupy, I will construct my own grave."

"He must, indeed, have been an excellent man," replied I, "whose
memory, at so distant a period, calls forth such strong marks of
regard."

"He was, as you justly term him," said the ecclesiastic, "indeed
excellent--excellent in his life and doctrine--excellent, above all,
in his self-denied and disinterested sacrifice of all that life holds
dear to principle and to friendship. But you shall read his history. I
shall be happy at once to gratify your curiosity, and to show my sense
of your kindness, if you will have the goodness to procure me the
means of accomplishing my object." I replied to the Benedictine, that,
as the rubbish amongst which he proposed to search was no part of the
ordinary burial-ground, and as I was on the best terms with the
sexton, I had little doubt that I could procure him the means of
executing his pious purpose.

With this promise we parted for the night; and on the ensuing morning
I made it my business to see the sexton, who, for a small gratuity,
readily granted permission of search, on condition, however, that he
should be present himself, to see that the stranger removed nothing of
intrinsic value.

"To banes, and skulls, and hearts, if he can find ony, he shall be
welcome," said this guardian of the ruined Monastery, "there's plenty
a' about, an he's curious of them; but if there be ony picts" (meaning
perhaps _pyx_) "or chalishes, or the like of such Popish veshells
of gold and silver, deil hae me an I conneve at their being removed."

The sexton also stipulated, that our researches should take place at
night, being unwilling to excite observation, or give rise to scandal.
My new acquaintance and I spent the day as became lovers of hoar
antiquity. We visited every corner of these magnificent ruins again
and again during the forenoon; and, having made a comfortable dinner
at David's, we walked in the afternoon to such places in the
neighbourhood as ancient tradition or modern conjecture had rendered
mark worthy. Night found us in the interior of the ruins, attended by
the sexton, who carried a dark lantern, and stumbling alternately over
the graves of the dead, and the fragments of that architecture, which
they doubtless trusted would have canopied their bones till doomsday.

I am by no means particularly superstitious, and yet there was that in
the present service which I did not very much like. There was
something awful in the resolution of disturbing, at such an hour, and
in such a place, the still and mute sanctity of the grave. My
companions were free from this impression--the stranger from his
energetic desire to execute the purpose for which he came--and the
sexton from habitual indifference. We soon stood in the aisle, which,
by the account of the Benedictine, contained the bones of the family
of Glendinning, and were busily employed in removing the rubbish from
a corner which the stranger pointed out. If a half-pay Captain could
have represented an ancient Border-knight, or an ex-Benedictine of the
nineteenth century a wizard monk of the sixteenth, we might have aptly
enough personified the search after Michael Scott's lamp and book of
magic power. But the sexton would have been _de trop_ in the
group.  [Footnote: This is one of those passages which must now read
awkwardly, since every one knows that the Novelist and the author of
the Lay of the Minstrel, is the same person. But before the avowal was
made, the author was forced into this and similar offences against
good taste, to meet an argument, often repeated, that there was
something very mysterious in the Author of Waverley's reserve
concerning Sir Walter Scott, an author sufficiently voluminous at
least. I had a great mind to remove the passages from this edition,
but the more candid way is to explain how they came there.]

Ere the stranger, assisted by the sexton in his task, had been long at
work, they came to some hewn stones, which seemed to have made part of
a small shrine, though now displaced and destroyed.

"Let us remove these with caution, my friend," said the stranger,
"lest we injure that which I come to seek."

"They are prime stanes," said the sexton, "picked free every ane of
them;--warse than the best wad never serve the monks, I'se warrant."

A minute after he had made this observation, he exclaimed, "I hae fund
something now that stands again' the spade, as if it were neither
earth nor stane."

The stranger stooped eagerly to assist him.

"Na, na, haill o' my ain," said the sexton; "nae halves or
quarters;"--and he lifted from amongst the ruins a small leaden box.

"You will be disappointed, my friend," said the Benedictine, "if you
expect any thing there but the mouldering dust of a human heart, closed
in an inner case of porphyry."

I interposed as a neutral party, and taking the box from the sexton,
reminded him, that if there were treasure concealed in it, still it
could not become the property of the finder. I then proposed, that as
the place was too dark to examine the contents of the leaden casket,
we should adjourn to David's, where we might have the advantage of
light and fire while carrying on our investigation. The stranger
requested us to go before, assuring us that he would follow in a few
minutes.

I fancy that old Mattocks suspected these few minutes might be
employed in effecting farther discoveries amongst the tombs, for he
glided back through a side-aisle to watch the Benedictine's motions,
but presently returned, and told me in a whisper that "the gentleman
was on his knees amang the cauld stanes, praying like ony saunt."

I stole back, and beheld the old man actually employed as Mattocks had
informed me. The language seemed to be Latin; and as, the whispered,
yet solemn accent, glided away through the ruined aisles, I could not
help reflecting how long it was since they had heard the forms of that
religion, for the exercise of which they had been reared at such cost
of time, taste, labour, and expense. "Come away, come away," said I;
"let us leave him to himself, Mattocks; this is no business of ours."

"My certes, no, Captain," said Mattocks; "ne'ertheless, it winna be
amiss to keep an eye on him. My father, rest his saul, was a
horse-couper, and used to say he never was cheated in a naig in his
life, saving by a west-country whig frae Kilmarnock, that said a grace
ower a dram o' whisky. But this gentleman will be a Roman, I'se
warrant?"

"You are perfectly right in that, Saunders," said I.

"Ay, I have seen twa or three of their priests that were chased ower
here some score o' years syne. They just danced like mad when they
looked on the friars' heads, and the nuns' heads, in the cloister
yonder; they took to them like auld acquaintance like.--Od, he is not
stirring yet, mair than he were a through-stane! [Footnote: A
tombstone.] I never kend a Roman, to say kend him, but ane--mair by
token, he was the only ane in the town to ken--and that was auld Jock
of the Pend. It wad hae been lang ere ye fand Jock praying in the
Abbey in a thick night, wi' his knees on a cauld stane.  Jock likit a
kirk wi' a chimley in't. Mony a merry ploy I hae had wi' him down at
the inn yonder; and when he died, decently I wad hae earded him; but,
or I gat his grave weel howkit, some of the quality, that were o' his
ain unhappy persuasion, had the corpse whirried away up the water, and
buried him after their ain pleasure, doubtless--they kend best. I wad
hae made nae great charge. I wadna hae excised Johnnie, dead or
alive.--Stay, see--the strange gentleman is coming."

"Hold the lantern to assist him, Mattocks," said I.--"This is rough
walking, sir."

"Yes," replied the Benedictine; "I may say with a poet, who is
doubtless familiar to you----"

I should be surprised if he were, thought I internally.

The stranger continued:

  "Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night
  Have my old feet stumbled at graves!"

"We are now clear of the churchyard," said I, "and have but a short
walk to David's, where I hope we shall find a cheerful fire to enliven
us after our night's work."

We entered, accordingly, the little parlour, into which Mattocks was
also about to push himself with sufficient effrontery, when David,
with a most astounding oath, expelled him by head and shoulders,
d--ning his curiosity, that would not let gentlemen be private in
their own inn. Apparently mine host considered his own presence as no
intrusion, for he crowded up to the table on which I had laid down the
leaden box. It was frail and wasted, as might be guessed, from having
lain so many years in the ground.  On opening it, we found deposited
within, a case made of porphyry, as the stranger had announced to us.

"I fancy," he said, "gentlemen, your curiosity will not be
satisfied,--perhaps I should say that your suspicions will not be
removed,--unless I undo this casket; yet it only contains the
mouldering remains of a heart, once the seat of the noblest thoughts."

He undid the box with great caution; but the shrivelled substance
which it contained bore now no resemblance to what it might once have
been, the means used having been apparently unequal to preserve its
shape and colour, although they were adequate to prevent its total
decay. We were quite satisfied, notwithstanding, that it was, what the
stranger asserted, the remains of a human heart; and David readily
promised his influence in the village, which was almost co-ordinate
with that of the bailie himself, to silence all idle rumours. He was,
moreover, pleased to favour us with his company to supper; and having
taken the lion's share of two bottles of sherry, he not only
sanctioned with his plenary authority the stranger's removal of the
heart, but, I believe, would have authorized the removal of the Abbey
itself, were it not that it happens considerably to advantage the
worthy publican's own custom.

The object of the Benedictine's visit to the land of his forefathers
being now accomplished, he announced his intention of leaving us early
in the ensuing day, but requested my company to breakfast with him
before his departure. I came accordingly, and when we had finished our
morning's meal, the priest took me apart, and pulling from his pocket
a large bundle of papers, he put them into my hands. "These," said he,
"Captain Clutterbuck, are genuine Memoirs of the sixteenth century,
and exhibit in a singular, and, as I think, an interesting point of
view, the manners of that period. I am induced to believe that their
publication will not be an unacceptable present to the British public;
and willingly make over to you any profit that may accrue from such a
transaction."

I stared a little at this annunciation, and observed, that the hand
seemed too modern for the date he assigned to the manuscript.

"Do not mistake me, sir," said the Benedictine; "I did not mean to say
the Memoirs were written in the sixteenth century, but only, that they
were compiled from authentic materials of that period, but written in
the taste and language of the present day. My uncle commenced this
book; and I, partly to improve my habit of English composition, partly
to divert melancholy thoughts, amused my leisure hours with continuing
and concluding it. You will see the period of the story where my uncle
leaves off his narrative, and I commence mine. In fact, they relate in
a great measure to different persons, as well as to a different
period."

Retaining the papers in my hand, I proceeded to state to him my
doubts, whether, as a good Protestant, I could undertake or
superintend a publication written probably in the spirit of Popery.

"You will find," he said, "no matter of controversy in these sheets,
nor any sentiments stated, with which, I trust, the good in all
persuasions will not be willing to join. I remembered I was writing
for a land unhappily divided from the Catholic faith; and I have taken
care to say nothing which, justly interpreted, could give ground for
accusing me of partiality. But if, upon collating my narrative with
the proofs to which I refer you--for you will find copies of many of
the original papers in that parcel--you are of opinion that I have
been partial to my own faith, I freely give you leave to correct my
errors in that respect. I own, however, I am not conscious of this
defect, and have rather to fear that the Catholics may be of opinion,
that I have mentioned circumstances respecting the decay of discipline
which preceded, and partly occasioned, the great schism, called by you
the Reformation, over which I ought to have drawn a veil. And indeed,
this is one reason why I choose the papers should appear in a foreign
land, and pass to the press through the hands of a stranger."

To this I had nothing to reply, unless to object my own incompetency
to the task the good father was desirous to impose upon me. On this
subject he was pleased to say more, I fear, than his knowledge of me
fully warranted--more, at any rate, than my modesty will permit me to
record. At length he ended, with advising me, if I continued to feel
the diffidence which I stated, to apply to some veteran of literature,
whose experience might supply my deficiencies. Upon these terms we
parted, with mutual expressions of regard, and I have never since
heard of him.

After several attempts to peruse the quires of paper thus singularly
conferred on me, in which I was interrupted by the most inexplicable
fits of yawning, I at length, in a sort of despair, communicated them
to our village club, from whom they found a more favourable reception
than the unlucky conformation of my nerves had been able to afford
them. They unanimously pronounced the work to be exceedingly good, and
assured me I would be guilty of the greatest possible injury to our
flourishing village, if I should suppress what threw such an
interesting and radiant light upon the history of the ancient
Monastery of Saint Mary.

At length, by dint of listening to their opinion, I became dubious of
my own; and, indeed, when I heard passages read forth by the sonorous
voice of our worthy pastor, I was scarce more tired than I have felt
myself at some of his own sermons. Such, and so great is the
difference betwixt reading a thing one's self, making toilsome way
through all the difficulties of manuscript, and, as the man says in
the play, "having the same read to you;"--it is positively like being
wafted over a creek in a boat, or wading through it on your feet, with
the mud up to your knees. Still, however, there remained the great
difficulty of finding some one who could act as editor, corrector at
once of the press and of the language, which, according to the
schoolmaster, was absolutely necessary.

Since the trees walked forth to choose themselves a king, never was an
honour so bandied about. The parson would not leave the quiet of his
chimney-corner--the bailie pleaded the dignity of his situation, and
the approach of the great annual fair, as reasons against going to
Edinburgh to make arrangements for printing the Benedictine's
manuscript. The schoolmaster alone seemed of malleable stuff; and,
desirous perhaps of emulating the fame of Jedediah Cleishbotham,
evinced a wish to undertake this momentous commission. But a
remonstrance from three opulent farmers, whose sons he had at bed,
board, and schooling, for twenty pounds per annum a-head, came like a
frost over the blossoms of his literary ambition, and he was compelled
to decline the service.

In these circumstances, sir, I apply to you, by the advice of our
little council of war, nothing doubting you will not be disinclined to
take the duty upon you, as it is much connected with that in which you
have distinguished yourself. What I request is, that you will review,
or rather revise and correct, the enclosed packet, and prepare it for
the press, by such alterations, additions, and curtailments, as you
think necessary. Forgive my hinting to you, that the deepest well may
be exhausted,--the best corps of grenadiers, as our old general of
brigade expressed himself, may be _used up_. A few hints can do
you no harm; and, for the prize-money, let the battle be first won,
and it shall be parted at the drum-head. I hope you will take nothing
amiss that I have said. I am a plain soldier, and little accustomed to
compliments. I may add, that I should be well contented to march in
the front with you--that is, to put my name with yours on the
title-page.  I have the honour to be, Sir, Your unknown humble
Servant, Cuthbert Clutterbuck.  Village of Kennaquhair, -- of April,
18--

_For the Author of "Waverley," &c.
care of Mr. John Ballantyne,
Hanover Street, Edinburgh._


       *       *        *       *        *


ANSWER BY "THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY,"

TO THE FOREGOING LETTER FROM CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK.


DEAR CAPTAIN,

Do not admire, that, notwithstanding the distance and ceremony of your
address, I return an answer in the terms of familiarity. The truth is,
your origin and native country are better known to me than even to
yourself.  You derive your respectable parentage, if I am not greatly
mistaken, from a land which has afforded much pleasure, as well as
profit, to those who have traded to it successfully,--I mean that part
of the _terra incognita_ which is called the province of Utopia.
Its productions, though censured by many (and some who use tea and
tobacco without scruple) as idle and unsubstantial luxuries, have
nevertheless, like many other luxuries, a general acceptation, and are
secretly enjoyed even by those who express the greatest scorn and
dislike of them in public. The dram-drinker is often the first to be
shocked at the smell of spirits--it is not unusual to hear old maiden
ladies declaim against scandal--the private book-cases of some
grave-seeming men would not brook decent eyes--and many, I say not of
the wise and learned, but of those most anxious to seem such, when the
spring-lock of their library is drawn, their velvet cap pulled over
their ears, their feet insinuated into their turkey slippers, are to
be found, were their retreats suddenly intruded upon, busily engaged
with the last new novel.

I have said, the truly wise and learned disdain these shifts, and will
open the said novel as avowedly as they would the lid of their
snuff-box. I will only quote one instance, though I know a hundred.
Did you know the celebrated Watt of Birmingham, Captain Clutterbuck? I
believe not, though, from what I am about to state, he would not have
failed to have sought an acquaintance with you. It was only once my
fortune to meet him, whether in body or in spirit it matters not.
There were assembled about half a score of our Northern Lights, who
had amongst them, Heaven knows how, a well-known character of your
country, Jedediah Cleishbotham.  This worthy person, having come to
Edinburgh during the Christmas vacation, had become a sort of lion in
the place, and was lead in leash from house to house along with the
guisards, the stone-eater, and other amusements of the season, which
"exhibited their unparalleled feats to private family-parties, if
required." Amidst this company stood Mr. Watt, the man whose genius
discovered the means of multiplying our national resources to a degree
perhaps even beyond his own stupendous powers of calculation and
combination; bringing the treasures of the abyss to the summit of the
earth--giving the feeble arm of man the momentum of an
Afrite--commanding manufactures to arise, as the rod of the prophet
produced water in the desert--affording the means of dispensing with
that time and tide which wait for no man, and of sailing without that
wind which defied the commands and threats of Xerxes himself.

[Footnote: Probably the ingenious author alludes to the national
adage:

  The king said sail,
  But the wind said no.

Our schoolmaster (who is also a land surveyor) thinks this whole
passage refers to Mr. Watt's improvements on the steam
engine.--_Note by Captain Clutterbuck_.]

This potent commander of the elements--this abridger of time and
space--this magician, whose cloudy machinery has produced a change on
the world, the effects of which, extraordinary as they are, are
perhaps only now beginning to be felt--was not only the most profound
man of science, the most successful combiner of powers and calculator
of numbers as adapted to practical purposes,--was not only one of the
most generally well-informed,--but one of the best and kindest of
human beings.

There he stood, surrounded by the little band I have mentioned of
Northern literati, men not less tenacious, generally speaking, of
their own fame and their own opinions, than the national regiments are
supposed to be jealous of the high character which they have won upon
service. Methinks I yet see and hear what I shall never see or hear
again. In his eighty-fifth year, the alert, kind, benevolent old man,
had his attention alive to every one's question, his information at
every one's command.

His talents and fancy overflowed on every subject. One gentleman was a
deep philologist--he talked with him on the origin of the alphabet as
if he had been coeval with Cadmus; another a celebrated critic,--you
would have said the old man had studied political economy and
belles-lettres all his life,--of science it is unnecessary to speak,
it was his own distinguished walk. And yet, Captain Clutterbuck, when
he spoke with your countryman Jedediah Cleishbotham, you would have
sworn he had been coeval with Claver'se and Burley, with the
persecutors and persecuted, and could number every shot the dragoons
had fired at the fugitive Covenanters. In fact, we discovered that no
novel of the least celebrity escaped his perusal, and that the gifted
man of science was as much addicted to the productions of your native
country, (the land of Utopia aforesaid,) in other words, as shameless
and obstinate a peruser of novels, as if he had been a very milliner's
apprentice of eighteen. I know little apology for troubling you with
these things, excepting the desire to commemorate a delightful
evening, and a wish to encourage you to shake off that modest
diffidence which makes you afraid of being supposed connected with the
fairy-land of delusive fiction. I will requite your tag of verse, from
Horace himself, with a paraphrase for your own use, my dear Captain,
and for that of your country club, excepting in reverence the
clergyman and schoolmaster:--

  _Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, &c._

  Take thou no scorn.
  Of fiction born,
  Fair fiction's muse to woe;
  Old Homer's theme
  Was but a dream,
  Himself a fiction too.

Having told you your country, I must next, my dear Captain
Clutterbuck, make free to mention your own immediate descent. You are
not to suppose your land of prodigies so little known to us as the
careful concealment of your origin would seem to imply. But you have
it in common with many of your country, studiously and anxiously to
hide any connexion with it. There is this difference, indeed, betwixt
your countrymen and those of our more material world, that many of the
most estimable of them, such as an old Highland gentleman called
Ossian, a monk of Bristol called Rowley, and others, are inclined to
pass themselves off as denizens of the land of reality, whereas most
of our fellow-citizens who deny their country are such as that country
would be very willing to disclaim. The especial circumstances you
mention relating to your life and services, impose not upon us. We
know the versatility of the unsubstantial species to which you belong
permits them to assume all manner of disguises; we have seen them
apparelled in the caftan of a Persian, and the silken robe of a
Chinese, [Footnote: See the Persian Letters, and the Citizen of the
World.] and are prepared to suspect their real character under every
disguise. But how can we be ignorant of your country and manners, or
deceived by the evasion of its inhabitants, when the voyages of
discovery which have been made to it rival in number those recorded by
Purchas or by Hackluyt? [Footnote: See Les Voyages Imaginaires.] And
to show the skill and perseverance of your navigators and travellers,
we have only to name Sindbad, Aboulfouaris, and Robinson Crusoe. These
were the men for discoveries. Could we have sent Captain Greenland to
look out for the north-west passage, or Peter Wilkins to examine
Baffin's Bay, what discoveries might we not have expected? But there
are feats, and these both numerous and extraordinary, performed by the
inhabitants of your country, which we read without once attempting to
emulate.

I wander from my purpose, which was to assure you, that I know you as
well as the mother who _did_ not bear you, for MacDuff's
peculiarity sticks to your whole race. You are not born of woman,
unless, indeed, in that figurative sense, in which the celebrated
Maria Edgeworth may, in her state of single blessedness, be termed
mother of the finest family in England.  You belong, sir, to the
Editors of the land of Utopia, a sort of persons for whom I have the
highest esteem. How is it possible it should be otherwise, when you
reckon among your corporation the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli, the
short-faced president of the Spectator's Club, poor Ben Silton, and
many others, who have acted as gentlemen-ushers to works which have
cheered our heaviest, and added wings to our lightest hours?