What I have remarked as peculiar to Editors of the class in which I
venture to enrol you, is the happy combination of fortuitous
circumstances which usually put you in possession of the works which
you have the goodness to bring into public notice. One walks on the
sea-shore, and a wave casts on land a small cylindrical trunk or
casket, containing a manuscript much damaged with sea-water, which is
with difficulty deciphered, and so forth. [Footnote: See the History
of Automathes.] Another steps into a chandler's shop, to purchase a
pound of butter, and, behold! the waste-paper on which it is laid is
the manuscript of a cabalist. [Footnote: Adventures of a Guinea.] A
third is so fortunate as to obtain from a woman who lets lodgings, the
curious contents of an antique bureau, the property of a deceased
lodger. [Footnote: Adventures of an Atom.] All these are certainly
possible occurrences; but, I know not how, they seldom occur to any
Editors save those of your country.  At least I can answer for myself,
that in my solitary walks by the sea, I never saw it cast ashore any
thing but dulse and tangle, and now and then a deceased star-fish; my
landlady never presented me with any manuscript save her cursed bill;
and the most interesting of my discoveries in the way of waste-paper,
was finding a favourite passage of one of my own novels wrapt round an
ounce of snuff. No, Captain, the funds from which I have drawn my
power of amusing the public, have been bought otherwise than by
fortuitous adventure. I have buried myself in libraries to extract
from the nonsense of ancient days new nonsense of my own. I have
turned over volumes, which, from the pot-hooks I was obliged to
decipher, might have been the cabalistic manuscripts of Cornelius
Agrippa, although I never saw "the door open and the devil come in."
[Footnote: See Southey's Ballad on the Young Man who read in a
Conjuror's Books.] But all the domestic inhabitants of the libraries
were disturbed by the vehemence of my studies:--

  From my research the boldest spider fled,
  And moths, retreating, trembled as I read;

From this learned sepulchre I emerged like the Magician in the Persian
Tales, from his twelve-month's residence in the mountain, not like him
to soar over the heads of the multitude, but to mingle in the crowd,
and to elbow amongst the throng, making my way from the highest
society to the lowest, undergoing the scorn, or, what is harder to
brook, the patronizing condescension of the one, and enduring the
vulgar familiarity of the other,--and all, you will say, for
what?--to collect materials for one of those manuscripts with which
mere chance so often accommodates your country-men; in other words, to
write a successful novel.--"O Athenians, how hard we labour to deserve
your praise!"

I might stop here, my dear Clutterbuck; it would have a touching
effect, and the air of proper deference to our dear Public. But I will
not be false with you,--(though falsehood is--excuse the
observation--the current coin of your country,) the truth is, I have
studied and lived for the purpose of gratifying my own curiosity, and
passing my own time; and though the result has been, that, in one
shape or other, I have been frequently before the Public, perhaps more
frequently than prudence warranted, yet I cannot claim from them the
favour due to those who have dedicated their ease and leisure to the
improvement and entertainment of others.

Having communicated thus freely with you, my dear Captain, it follows,
of course, that I will gratefully accept of your communication, which,
as your Benedictine observed, divides itself both by subject, manner,
and age, into two parts. But I am sorry I cannot gratify your literary
ambition, by suffering your name to appear upon the title-page; and I
will candidly tell you the reason.

The Editors of your country are of such a soft and passive
disposition, that they have frequently done themselves great disgrace
by giving up the coadjutors who first brought them into public notice
and public favour, and suffering their names to be used by those
quacks and impostors who live upon the ideas of others. Thus I shame
to tell how the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli was induced by one Juan
Avellaneda to play the Turk with the ingenious Miguel Cervantes, and
to publish a Second Part of the adventures of his hero the renowned
Don Quixote, without the knowledge or co-operation of his principal
aforesaid. It is true, the Arabian sage returned to his allegiance,
and thereafter composed a genuine continuation of the Knight of La
Mancha, in which the said Avellaneda of Tordesillas is severely
chastised. For in this you pseudo-editors resemble the juggler's
disciplined ape, to which a sly old Scotsman likened James I., "if you
have Jackoo in your hand, you can make him bite me; if I have Jackoo
in my hand, I can make him bite you." Yet, notwithstanding the
_amende honorable_ thus made by Cid Hamet Benengeli, his
temporary defection did not the less occasion the decease of the
ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote, if he can be said to die, whose memory
is immortal. Cervantes put him to death, lest he should again fall
into bad hands. Awful, yet just consequence of Cid Hamet's defection!

To quote a more modern and much less important instance. I am sorry to
observe my old acquaintance Jedediah Cleishbotham has misbehaved
himself so far as to desert his original patron, and set up for
himself. I am afraid the poor pedagogue will make little by his new
allies, unless the pleasure of entertaining the public, and, for aught
I know, the gentlemen of the long robe, with disputes about his
identity.

[Footnote: I am since more correctly informed, that Mr. Cleishbotham
died some months since at Gandercleuch, and that the person assuming
his name is an impostor. The real Jedediah made a most Christian and
edifying end; and, as I am credibly informed, having sent for a
Cameronian clergyman when he was _in extremis_, was so fortunate
as to convince the good man, that, after all, he had no wish to bring
down on the scattered remnant of Mountain folks, "the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee." Hard that the speculators in print and paper will not allow a
good man to rest quiet in his grave.

This note, and the passages in the text, were occasioned by a London
bookseller having printed, as a Speculation, an additional collection
of Tales of My Landlord, which was not so fortunate as to succeed in
passing on the world as genuine.]

Observe, therefore, Captain Clutterbuck, that, wise by these great
examples, I receive you as a partner, but a sleeping partner only. As
I give you no title to employ or use the firm of the copartnery we are
about to form, I will announce my property in my title-page, and put
my own mark on my own chattels, which the attorney tells me it will be
a crime to counterfeit, as much as it would to imitate the autograph
of any other empiric--a crime amounting, as advertisements upon little
vials assure to us, to nothing short of felony.  If, therefore, my
dear friend, your name should hereafter appear in any title-page
without mine, readers will know what to think of you. I scorn to use
either arguments or threats; but you cannot but be sensible, that, as
you owe your literary existence to me on the one hand, so, on the
other, your very all is at my disposal. I can at pleasure cut off your
annuity, strike your name from the half-pay establishment, nay,
actually put you to death, without being answerable to any one. These
are plain words to a gentleman who has served during the whole war;
but, I am aware, you will take nothing amiss at my hands.

And now, my good sir, let us address ourselves to our task, and
arrange, as we best can, the manuscript of your Benedictine, so as to
suit the taste of this critical age. You will find I have made very
liberal use of his permission, to alter whatever seemed too favourable
to the Church of Rome, which I abominate, were it but for her fasts
and penances.

Our reader is doubtless impatient, and we must own, with John Bunyan,

  We have too long detain'd him in the porch,
  And kept him from the sunshine with a torch.

Adieu, therefore, my dear Captain--remember me respectfully to the
parson, the schoolmaster, and the bailie, and all friends of the happy
club in the village of Kennaquhair. I have never seen, and never shall
see, one of their faces; and notwithstanding, I believe that as yet I
am better acquainted with them than any other man who lives.--I shall
soon introduce you to my jocund friend, Mr. John Ballantyne of Trinity
Grove, whom you will find warm from his match at single-stick with a
brother Publisher. [Footnote: In consequence of the pseudo Tales of My
Landlord printed in London, as already mentioned, the late Mr. John
Ballantyne, the author's publisher, had a controversy with the
interloping bibliopolist, each insisting that his Jedediah
Cleishbotham was the real Simon Pure.] Peace to their differences! It
is a wrathful trade, and the _irritabile genus_ comprehends the
bookselling as well as the book-writing species.--Once more adieu!

THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.



       *       *       *       *       *

THE MONASTERY.




Chapter the First.


  O ay! the Monks, the Monks they did the mischief!
  Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition
  Of a most gross and superstitious age--
  May He be praised that sent the healthful tempest
  And scatter'd all these pestilential vapours!
  But that we owed them _all_ to yonder Harlot
  Throned on the seven hills with her cup of gold,
  I will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger,
  That old Moll White took wing with cat arid broomstick,
  And raised the last night's thunder.
                                       OLD PLAY.

The village described in the Benedictine's manuscript by the name of
Kennaquhair, bears the same Celtic termination which occurs in
Traquhair, Caquhair, and other compounds. The learned Chalmers derives
this word Quhair, from the winding course of a stream; a definition
which coincides, in a remarkable degree, with the serpentine turns of
the river Tweed near the village of which we speak. It has been long
famous for the splendid Monastery of Saint Mary, founded by David the
First of Scotland, in whose reign were formed, in the same county, the
no less splendid establishments of Melrose, Jedburgh, and Kelso. The
donations of land with which the King endowed these wealthy
fraternities procured him from the Monkish historians the epithet of
Saint, and from one of his impoverished descendants the splenetic
censure, "that he had been a sore saint for the Crown."

It seems probable, notwithstanding, that David, who was a wise as well
as a pious monarch, was not moved solely by religious motives to those
great acts of munificence to the church, but annexed political views
to his pious generosity. His possessions in Northumberland and
Cumberland became precarious after the loss of the Battle of the
Standard; and since the comparatively fertile valley of Teviot-dale
was likely to become the frontier of his kingdom, it is probable he
wished to secure at least a part of these valuable possessions by
placing them in the hands of the monks, whose property was for a long
time respected, even amidst the rage of a frontier war. In this manner
alone had the King some chance of ensuring protection and security to
the cultivators of the soil; and, in fact, for several ages the
possessions of these Abbeys were each a sort of Goshen, enjoying the
calm light of peace and immunity, while the rest of the country,
occupied by wild clans and marauding barons, was one dark scene of
confusion, blood, and unremitted outrage.

But these immunities did not continue down to the union of the crowns.
Long before that period the wars betwixt England and Scotland had lost
their original character of international hostilities, and had become
on the part of the English, a struggle for subjugation, on that of the
Scots a desperate and infuriated defence of their liberties. This
introduced on both sides a degree of fury and animosity unknown to the
earlier period of their history; and as religious scruples soon gave
way to national hatred spurred by a love of plunder, the patrimony of
the Church was no longer sacred from incursions on either side. Still,
however, the tenants and vassals of the great Abbeys had many
advantages over those of the lay barons, who were harassed by constant
military duty, until they became desperate, and lost all relish for
the arts of peace. The vassals of the church, on the other hand, were
only liable to be called to arms on general occasions, and at other
times were permitted in comparative quiet to possess their farms and
feus. [Footnote: Small possessions conferred upon vassals and their
heirs, held for a small quit-rent, or a moderate proportion of the
produce. This was a favourite manner, by which the churchmen peopled
the patrimony of their convents; and many descendants of such
_feuars_, as they are culled, are still to be found in possession
of their family inheritances in the neighbourhood of the great
Monasteries of Scotland.] They of course exhibited superior skill in
every thing that related to the cultivation of the soil, and were
therefore both wealthier and better informed than the military
retainers of the restless chiefs and nobles in their neighbourhood.

The residence of these church vassals was usually in a small village
or hamlet, where, for the sake of mutual aid and protection, some
thirty or forty families dwelt together. This was called the Town, and
the land belonging to the various families by whom the Town was
inhabited, was called the Township. They usually possessed the land in
common, though in various proportions, according to their several
grants. The part of the Township properly arable, and kept as such
continually under the plough, was called _in-field_. Here the use
of quantities of manure supplied in some degree the exhaustion of the
soil, and the feuars raised tolerable oats and bear, [Footnote: Or
bigg, a kind of coarse barley.] usually sowed on alternate ridges, on
which the labour of the whole community was bestowed without
distinction, the produce being divided after harvest, agreeably to
their respective interests.

There was, besides, _out-field_ land, from which it was thought
possible to extract a crop now and then, after which it was abandoned
to the "skiey influences," until the exhausted powers of vegetation
were restored. These out-field spots were selected by any feuar at his
own choice, amongst the sheep-walks and hills which were always
annexed to the Township, to serve as pasturage to the community. The
trouble of cultivating these patches of out-field, and the precarious
chance that the crop would pay the  labour, were considered as giving
a right to any feuar, who chose to undertake the adventure, to the
produce which might result from it.

There remained the pasturage of extensive moors, where the valleys
often afforded good grass, and upon which the whole cattle belonging
to the community fed indiscriminately during the summer, under the
charge of the Town-herd, who regularly drove them out to pasture in
the morning, and brought them back at night, without which precaution
they would have fallen a speedy prey to some of the Snatchers in the
neighbourhood. These are things to make modern agriculturists hold up
their hands and stare; but the same mode of cultivation is not yet
entirely in desuetude in some distant parts of North Britain, and may
be witnessed in full force and exercise in the Zetland Archipelago.

The habitations of the church-feuars were not less primitive than
their agriculture. In each village or town were several small towers,
having battlements projecting over the side walls, and usually an
advanced angle or two with shot-holes for flanking the door-way, which
was always defended by a strong door of oak, studded with nails, and
often by an exterior grated door of iron. These small peel-houses were
ordinarily inhabited by the principal feuars and their families; but,
upon the alarm of approaching danger, the whole inhabitants thronged
from their own miserable cottages, which were situated around, to
garrison these points of defence. It was then no easy matter for a
hostile party to penetrate into the village, for the men were
habituated to the use of bows and fire-arms, and the towers being
generally so placed, that the discharge from one crossed that of
another, it was impossible to assault any of them individually.

The interior of these houses was usually sufficiently wretched, for it
would have been folly to have furnished them in a manner which could
excite the avarice of their lawless neighbours. Yet the families
themselves exhibited in their appearance a degree of comfort,
information, and independence, which could hardly have been expected.
Their in-field supplied them with bread and home-brewed ale, their
herds and flocks with beef and mutton (the extravagance of killing
lambs or calves was never thought of). Each family killed a mart, or
fat bullock, in November, which was salted up for winter use, to which
the good wife could, upon great occasions, add a dish of pigeons or a
fat capon,--the ill-cultivated garden afforded "lang-cale,"--and the
river gave salmon to serve as a relish during the season of Lent.

Of fuel they had plenty, for the bogs afforded turf; and the remains
of the abused woods continued to give them logs for burning, as well
as timber for the usual domestic purposes. In addition to these
comforts, the good-man would now and then sally forth to the
greenwood, and mark down a buck of season with his gun or his
cross-bow; and the Father Confessor seldom refused him absolution for
the trespass, if duly invited to take his share of the smoking haunch.
Some, still bolder, made, either with their own domestics, or by
associating themselves with the moss-troopers, in the language of
shepherds, "a start and overloup;" and the golden ornaments and silken
head-gear--worn by the females of one or two families of note, were
invidiously traced by their neighbours to such successful excursions.
This, however, was a more inexplicable crime in the eyes of the Abbot
and Community of Saint Mary's, than the borrowing one of the "gude
king's deer;" and they failed not to discountenance and punish, by
every means in their power, offences which were sure to lead to severe
retaliation upon the property of the church, and which tended to alter
the character of their peaceful vassalage.

As for the information possessed by those dependents of the Abbacies,
they might have been truly said to be better fed than taught, even
though their fare had been worse than it was. Still, however, they
enjoyed opportunities of knowledge from which others were excluded.
The monks were in general well acquainted with their vassals and
tenants, and familiar in the families of the better class among them,
where they were sure to be received with the respect due to their
twofold character of spiritual father and secular landlord. Thus it
often happened, when a boy displayed talents and inclination for
study, one of the brethren, with a view to his being bred to the
church, or out of good-nature, in order to pass away his own idle
time, if he had no better motive, initiated him into the mysteries of
reading and writing, and imparted to him such other knowledge as he
himself possessed. And the heads of these allied families, having more
time for reflection, and more skill, as well as stronger motives for
improving their small properties, bore amongst their neighbours the
character of shrewd, intelligent men, who claimed respect on account
of their comparative wealth, even while they were despised for a less
warlike and enterprising turn than the other Borderers. They lived as
much as they well could amongst themselves, avoiding the company of
others, and dreading nothing more than to be involved in the deadly
feuds and ceaseless contentions of the secular landholders.

Such is a general picture of these communities. During the fatal wars
in the commencement of Queen Mary's reign, they had suffered
dreadfully by the hostile invasions. For the English, now a Protestant
people, were so far from sparing the church-lands, that they forayed
them with more unrelenting severity than even the possessions of the
laity. But the peace of 1550 had restored some degree of tranquillity
to those distracted and harassed regions, and matters began again
gradually to settle upon the former footing. The monks repaired their
ravaged shrines--the feuar again roofed his small fortalice which the
enemy had ruined--the poor labourer rebuilt his cottage--an easy task,
where a few sods, stones, and some pieces of wood from the next copse,
furnished all the materials necessary. The cattle, lastly, were driven
out of the wastes and thickets in which the remnant of them had been
secreted; and the mighty bull moved at the head of his seraglio and
their followers, to take possession of their wonted pastures. There
ensued peace and quiet, the state of the age and nation considered, to
the Monastery of Saint Mary, and its dependencies, for several
tranquil years.




Chapter the Second.


  In yon lone vale his early youth was bred,
  Not solitary then--the bugle-horn
  Of fell Alecto often waked its windings,
  From where the brook joins the majestic river,
  To the wild northern bog, the curlew's haunt,
  Where oozes forth its first and feeble streamlet.
                                           OLD PLAY.

We have said, that most of the feuars dwelt in the village belonging
to their townships. This was not, however, universally the case. A
lonely tower, to which the reader must now be introduced, was at least
one exception to the general rule.

It was of small dimensions, yet larger than those which occurred in
the village, as intimating that, in case of assault, the proprietor
would have to rely upon his own unassisted strength. Two or three
miserable huts, at the foot of the fortalice, held the bondsmen and
tenants of the feuar. The site was a beautiful green knoll, which
started up suddenly in the very throat of a wild and narrow glen, and
which, being surrounded, except on one side, by the winding of a small
stream, afforded a position of considerable strength.

But the great security of Glendearg, for so the place was called, lay
in its secluded, and almost hidden situation. To reach the tower, it
was necessary to travel three miles up the glen, crossing about twenty
times the little stream, which, winding through the narrow valley,
encountered at every hundred yards the opposition of a rock or
precipitous bank on the one side, which altered its course, and caused
it to shoot off in an oblique direction to the other. The hills which
ascend on each side of this glen are very steep, and rise boldly over
the stream, which is thus imprisoned within their barriers. The sides
of the glen are impracticable for horse, and are only to be traversed
by means of the sheep-paths which lie along their sides. It would not
be readily supposed that a road so hopeless and so difficult could
lead to any habitation more important than the summer shealing of a
shepherd.

Yet the glen, though lonely, nearly inaccessible, and sterile, was not
then absolutely void of beauty. The turf which covered the small
portion of level ground on the sides of the stream, was as close and
verdant as if it had occupied the scythes of a hundred gardeners once
a-fortnight; and it was garnished with an embroidery of daisies and
wild flowers, which the scythes would certainly have destroyed. The
little brook, now confined betwixt closer limits, now left at large to
choose its course through the narrow valley, danced carelessly on from
stream to pool, light and unturbid, as that better class of spirits
who pass their way through life, yielding to insurmountable obstacles,
but as far from being subdued by them as the sailor who meets by
chance with an unfavourable wind, and shapes his course so as to be
driven back as little as possible.

The mountains, as they would have been called in England,
_Scottice_ the steep _braes_, rose abruptly over the little
glen, here presenting the gray face of a rock, from which the turf had
been peeled by the torrents, and there displaying patches of wood and
copse, which had escaped the waste of the cattle and the sheep of the
feuars, and which, feathering naturally up the beds of empty torrents,
or occupying the concave recesses of the bank, gave at once beauty and
variety to the landscape. Above these scattered woods rose the hill,
in barren, but purple majesty; the dark rich hue, particularly in
autumn, contrasting beautifully with the thickets of oak and birch,
the mountain ashes and thorns, the alders and quivering aspens, which
checquered and varied the descent, and not less with the dark-green
and velvet turf, which composed the level part of the narrow glen.

Yet, though thus embellished, the scene could neither be strictly
termed sublime nor beautiful, and scarcely even picturesque or
striking. But its extreme solitude pressed on the heart; the traveller
felt that uncertainty whither he was going, or in what so wild a path
was to terminate, which, at times, strikes more on the imagination
than the grand features of a show-scene, when you know the exact
distance of the inn where your dinner is bespoke, and at the moment
preparing. These are ideas, however, of a far later age; for at the
time we treat of, the picturesque, the beautiful, the sublime, and all
their intermediate shades, were ideas absolutely unknown to the
inhabitants and occasional visitors of Glendearg.

These had, however, attached to the scene feelings fitting the time.
Its name, signifying the Red Valley, seems to have been derived, not
only from the purple colour of the heath, with which the upper part of
the rising banks was profusely clothed, but also from the dark red
colour of the rocks, and of the precipitous earthen banks, which in
that country are called _scaurs_. Another glen, about the head of
Ettrick, has acquired the same name from similar circumstances; and
there are probably more in Scotland to which it has been given.

As our Glendearg did not abound in mortal visitants, superstition,
that it might not be absolutely destitute of inhabitants, had peopled
its recesses with beings belonging to another world. The savage and
capricious Brown Man of the Moors, a being which seems the genuine
descendant of the northern dwarfs, was supposed to be seen there
frequently, especially after the autumnal equinox, when the fogs were
thick, and objects not easily distinguished. The Scottish fairies,
too, a whimsical, irritable, and mischievous tribe, who, though at
times capriciously benevolent, were more frequently adverse to
mortals, were also supposed to have formed a residence in a
particularly wild recess of the glen, of which the real name was, in
allusion to that circumstance, _Corrie nan Shian_, which, in
corrupted Celtic, signifies the Hollow of the Fairies. But the
neighbours were more cautious in speaking about this place, and
avoided giving it a name, from an idea common then throughout all the
British and Celtic provinces of Scotland, and still retained in many
places, that to speak either good or ill of this capricious race of
imaginary beings, is to provoke their resentment, and that secrecy and
silence is what they chiefly desire from those who may intrude upon
their revels, or discover their haunts.

A mysterious terror was thus attached to the dale, which afforded
access from the broad valley of the Tweed, up the little glen we have
described, to the fortalice called the Tower of Glendearg. Beyond the
knoll, where, as we have said, the tower was situated, the hills grew
more steep, and narrowed on the slender brook, so as scarce to leave a
footpath; and there the glen terminated in a wild waterfall, where a
slender thread of water dashed in a precipitous line of foam over two
or three precipices. Yet farther in the same direction, and above
these successive cataracts, lay a wild and extensive morass,
frequented only by waterfowl, wide, waste, apparently almost
interminable, and serving in a great measure to separate the
inhabitants of the glen from those who lived to the northward.

To restless and indefatigable moss-troopers, indeed, these morasses
were well known, and sometimes afforded a retreat. They often rode
down the glen--called at this tower--asked and received
hospitality--but still with a sort of reserve on the part of its more
peaceful inhabitants, who entertained them as a party of
North-American Indians might be received by a new European settler, as
much out of fear as hospitality, while the uppermost wish of the
landlord is the speedy departure of the savage guests.

This had not always been the current of feeling in the little valley
and its tower. Simon Glendinning, its former inhabitant, boasted his
connexion by blood to that ancient family of Glendonwyne, on the
western border. He used to narrate, at his fireside, in the autumn
evenings, the feats of the family to which he belonged, one of whom
fell by the side of the brave Earl of Douglas at Otterbourne. On these
occasions Simon usually held upon his knee an ancient broadsword,
which had belonged to his ancestors before any of the family had
consented to accept a fief under the peaceful dominion of the monks of
St. Mary's. In modern days, Simon might have lived at ease on his own
estate, and quietly murmured against the fate that had doomed him to
dwell there, and cut off his access to martial renown. But so many
opportunities, nay so many calls there were for him, who in those days
spoke big, to make good his words by his actions, that Simon
Glendinning was soon under the necessity of marching with the men of
the Halidome, as it was called, of St. Mary's, in that disastrous
campaign which was concluded by the battle of Pinkie.

The Catholic clergy were deeply interested in that national quarrel,
the principal object of which was, to prevent the union of the infant
Queen Mary, with the son of the heretical Henry VIII. The Monks had
called out their vassals, under an experienced leader. Many of
themselves had taken arms, and marched to the field, under a banner
representing a female, supposed to personify the Scottish Church,
kneeling in the attitude of prayer, with the legend, _Afflictae
Sponsae ne obliviscaris_. [Footnote: Forget not the afflicted
spouse.]

The Scots, however, in all their wars, had more occasion for good and
cautious generals, than for excitation, whether political or
enthusiastic. Their headlong and impatient courage uniformly induced
them to rush into action without duly weighing either their own
situation, or that of their enemies, and the inevitable consequence
was frequent defeat. With the dolorous slaughter of Pinkie we have
nothing to do, excepting that, among ten thousand men of low and high
degree, Simon Glendinning, of the Tower of Glendearg, bit the dust, no
way disparaging in his death that ancient race from which he claimed
his descent.

When the doleful news, which spread terror and mourning through the
whole of Scotland, reached the Tower of Glendearg, the widow of Simon,
Elspeth Brydone by her family name, was alone in that desolate
habitation, excepting a hind or two, alike past martial and
agricultural labour, and the helpless widows and families of those who
had fallen with their master. The feeling of desolation was
universal;--but what availed it? The monks, their patrons and
protectors, were driven from their Abbey by the English forces, who
now overran the country, and enforced at least an appearance of
submission on the part of the inhabitants. The Protector, Somerset,
formed a strong camp among the ruins of the ancient Castle of
Roxburgh, and compelled the neighbouring country to come in, pay
tribute, and take assurance from him, as the phrase then went. Indeed,
there was no power of resistance remaining; and the few barons, whose
high spirit disdained even the appearance of surrender, could only
retreat into the wildest fastnesses of the country, leaving their
houses and property to the wrath of the English, who detached parties
everywhere to distress, by military exaction, those whose chiefs had
not made their submission. The Abbot and his community having
retreated beyond the Forth, their lands were severely forayed, as
their sentiments were held peculiarly inimical to the alliance with
England.

Amongst the troops detached on this service was a small party,
commanded by Stawarth Bolton, a captain in the English army, and full
of the blunt and unpretending gallantry and generosity which has so
often distinguished that nation. Resistance was in vain. Elspeth
Brydone, when she descried a dozen of horsemen threading their way up
the glen, with a man at their head, whose scarlet cloak, bright
armour, and dancing plume, proclaimed him a leader, saw no better
protection for herself than to issue from the iron grate, covered with
a long mourning veil, and holding one of her two sons in each hand, to
meet the Englishman--state her deserted condition--place the little
tower at his command--and beg for his mercy. She stated, in a few
brief words, her intention, and added, "I submit, because I have nae
means of resistance."

"And I do not ask your submission, mistress, for the same reason,"
replied the Englishman. "To be satisfied of your peaceful intentions
is all I ask; and, from what you tell me, there is no reason to doubt
them."

"At least, sir," said Elspeth Brydone, "take share of what our spence
and our garners afford. Your horses are tired--your folk want
refreshment."

"Not a whit--not a whit," answered the honest Englishman; "it shall
never be said we disturbed by carousal the widow of a brave soldier,
while she was mourning for her husband.--Comrades, face about.--Yet
stay," he added, checking his war-horse, "my parties are out in every
direction; they must have some token that your family are under my
assurance of safety.--Here, my little fellow," said he, speaking to
the eldest boy, who might be about nine or ten years old, "lend me thy
bonnet."

The child reddened, looked sulky, and hesitated, while the mother,
with many a _fye_ and _nay pshaw_, and such sarsenet
chidings as tender mothers give to spoiled children, at length
succeeded in snatching the bonnet from him, and handing it to the
English leader.

Stawarth Bolton took his embroidered red cross from his barret-cap,
and putting it into the loop of the boy's bonnet, said to the
mistress, (for the title of lady was not given to dames of her
degree,) "By this token, which all my people will respect, you will be
freed from any importunity on the part of our forayers." [Footnote: As
gallantry of all times and nations has the same mode of thinking and
acting, so it often expresses itself by the same symbols. In the civil
war 1745-6, a party of Highlanders, under a Chieftain of rank, came to
Rose Castle, the seat of the Bishop of Carlisle, but then occupied by
the family of Squire Dacre of Cumberland.  They demanded quarters,
which of course were not to be refused to armed men of a strange
attire and unknown language. But the domestic represented to the
captain of the mountaineers, that the lady of the mansion had been
just delivered of a daughter, and expressed her hope, that, under
these circumstances, his party would give as little trouble as
possible. "God forbid," said the gallant chief, "that I or mine should
be the means of adding to a lady's inconvenience at such a time. May I
request to see the infant?" The child was brought, and the Highlander,
taking his cockade out of his bonnet, and pinning it on the child's
breast, "That will be a token," he said, "to any of our people who may
come hither, that Donald McDonald of Kinloch-Moidart, has taken the
family of Rose Castle under his protection." The lady who received in
infancy this gage of Highland protection, is now Mary, Lady Clerk of
Pennycuik; and on the 10th of June still wears the cockade which was
pinned on her breast, with a white rose as a kindred decoration.] He
placed it on the boy's head; but it was no sooner there, than the
little fellow, his veins swelling, and his eyes shooting fire through
tears, snatched the bonnet from his head, and, ere his mother could
interfere, skimmed it into the brook. The other boy ran instantly to
fish it out again, threw it back to his brother, first taking out the
cross, which, with great veneration, he kissed and put into his bosom.
The Englishman was half diverted, half surprised, with the scene.

"What mean ye by throwing away Saint George's red cross?" said he to
the elder boy, in a tone betwixt jest and earnest.

"Because Saint George is a southern saint," said the child, sulkily.
"Good"--said Stawarth Bolton.--"And what did you mean by taking it out
of the brook again, my little fellow?" he demanded of the younger.
"Because the priest says it is the common sign of salvation to all
good Christians."

"Why, good again!" said the honest soldier. "I protest unto you,
mistress, I envy you these boys. Are they both yours?"

Stawarth Bolton had reason to put the question, for Halbert
Glendinning, the elder of the two, had hair as dark as the raven's
plumage, black eyes, large, bold, and sparkling, that glittered under
eyebrows of the same complexion; a skin deep embrowned, though it
could not be termed swarthy, and an air of activity, frankness, and
determination, far beyond his age.  On the other hand, Edward, the
younger brother, was light-haired, blue-eyed, and of fairer
complexion, in countenance rather pale, and not exhibiting that rosy
hue which colours the sanguine cheek of robust health. Yet the boy had
nothing sickly or ill-conditioned in his look, but was, on the
contrary, a fair and handsome child, with a smiling face, and mild,
yet cheerful eye.

The mother glanced a proud motherly glance, first at the one, and then
at the other, ere she answered the Englishman, "Surely, sir, they are
both my children."

"And by the same father, mistress?" said Stawarth; but, seeing a blush
of displeasure arise on her brow, he instantly added, "Nay, I mean no
offence; I would have asked the same question at any of my gossips in
merry Lincoln.--Well, dame, you have two fair boys; I would I could
borrow one, for Dame Bolton and I live childless in our old
hall.--Come, little fellows, which of you will go with me?"

The trembling mother, half-fearing as he spoke, drew the children
towards her, one with either hand, while they both answered the
stranger. "I will not go with you," said Halbert, boldly, "for you are
a false-hearted Southern; and the Southerns killed my father; and I
will war on you to the death, when I can draw my father's sword."

"God-a-mercy, my little levin-bolt," said Stawarth, "the goodly custom
of deadly feud will never go down in thy day, I presume.--And you, my
fine white-head, will you not go with me, to ride a cock-horse?"
"No," said Edward, demurely, "for you are a heretic."

"Why, God-a-mercy still!" said Stawarth Bolton. "Well, dame, I see I
shall find no recruits for my troop from you; and yet I do envy you
these two little chubby knaves." He sighed a moment, as was visible,
in spite of gorget and corslet, and then added, "And yet, my dame and
I would but quarrel which of the knaves we should like best; for I
should wish for the black-eyed rogue--and she, I warrant me, for that
blue-eyed, fair-haired darling. Natheless, we must brook our solitary
wedlock, and wish joy to those that are more fortunate. Sergeant
Brittson, do thou remain here till recalled--protect this family, as
under assurance--do them no wrong, and suffer no wrong to be done to
them, as thou wilt answer it.--Dame, Brittson is a married man, old
and steady; feed him on what you will, but give him not over much
liquor."

Dame Glendinning again offered refreshments, but with a faltering
voice, and an obvious desire her invitation should not be accepted.
The fact was, that, supposing her boys as precious in the eyes of the
Englishman as in her own, (the most ordinary of parental errors,) she
was half afraid, that the admiration he expressed of them in his blunt
manner might end in his actually carrying off one or other of the
little darlings whom he appeared to covet so much. She kept hold of
their hands, therefore, as if her feeble strength could have been of
service, had any violence been intended, and saw with joy she could
not disguise, the little party of horse countermarch, in order to
descend the glen. Her feelings did not escape Bolton: "I forgive you,
dame," he said, "for being suspicious that an English falcon was
hovering over your Scottish moor-brood. But fear not--those who have
fewest children have fewest cares; nor does a wise man covet those of
another household. Adieu, dame; when the black-eyed rogue is able to
drive a foray from England, teach him to spare women and children, for
the sake of Stawarth Bolton."

"God be with you, gallant Southern!" said Elspeth Glendinning, but not
till he was out of hearing, spurring on his good horse to regain the
head of his party, whose plumage and armour were now glancing and
gradually disappearing in the distance, as they winded down the glen.

"Mother," said the elder boy, "I will not say amen to a prayer for a
Southern."

"Mother," said the younger, more reverentially, "is it right to pray
for a heretic?"

"The God to whom I pray only knows," answered poor Elspeth; "but these
two words, Southern and heretic, have already cost Scotland ten
thousand of her best and bravest, and me a husband, and you a father;
and, whether blessing or banning, I never wish to hear them
more.--Follow me to the Place, sir," she said to Brittson, "and such
as we have to offer you shall be at your disposal."




Chapter the Third.


  They lighted down on Tweed water
    And blew their coals sae het,
  And fired the March and Teviotdale,
     All in an evening late.
                       AULD MAITLAND.

The report soon spread through the patrimony of Saint Mary's and its
vicinity, that the Mistress of Glendearg had received assurance from
the English Captain, and that her cattle were not to be driven off, or
her corn burned. Among others who heard this report, it reached the
ears of a lady, who, once much higher in rank than Elspeth
Glendinning, was now by the same calamity reduced to even greater
misfortune.

She was the widow of a brave soldier, Walter Avenel, descended of a
very ancient Border family, who once possessed immense estates in
Eskdale.  These had long since passed from them into other hands, but
they still enjoyed an ancient Barony of considerable extent, not very
far from the patrimony of Saint Mary's, and lying upon the same side
of the river with the narrow vale of Glendearg, at the head of which
was the little tower of the Glendinnings. Here they had lived, bearing
a respectable rank amongst the gentry of their province, though
neither wealthy nor powerful. This general regard had been much
augmented by the skill, courage, and enterprise which had been
displayed by Walter Avenel, the last Baron.

When Scotland began to recover from the dreadful shock she had
sustained after the battle of Pinkie-Cleuch, Avenel was one of the
first who, assembling a small force, set an example in those bloody
and unsparing skirmishes, which showed that a nation, though conquered
and overrun by invaders, may yet wage against them such a war of
detail as shall in the end become fatal to the foreigners. In one of
these, however, Walter Avenel fell, and the news which came to the
house of his fathers was followed by the distracting intelligence,
that a party of Englishmen were coming to plunder the mansion and
lands of his widow, in order, by this act of terror, to prevent others
from following the example of the deceased.

The unfortunate lady had no better refuge than the miserable cottage
of a shepherd among the hills, to which she was hastily removed,
scarce conscious where or for what purpose her terrified attendants
were removing her and her infant daughter from her own house. Here she
was tended with all the duteous service of ancient times by the
shepherd's wife, Tibb Tacket, who in better days had been her own
bowerwoman. For a time the lady was unconscious of her misery; but
when the first stunning effect of grief was so far passed away that
she could form an estimate of her own situation, the widow of Avenel
had cause to envy the lot of her husband in his dark and silent abode.
The domestics who had guided her to her place of refuge, were
presently obliged to disperse for their own safety, or to seek for
necessary subsistence; and the shepherd and his wife, whose poor
cottage she shared, were soon after deprived of the means of affording
their late mistress even that coarse sustenance which they had gladly
shared with her.  Some of the English forayers had discovered and
driven off the few sheep which had escaped the first researches of
their avarice. Two cows shared the fate of the remnant of their stock;
they had afforded the family almost their sole support, and now famine
appeared to stare them in the face.

"We are broken and beggared now, out and out," said old Martin the
shepherd--and he wrung his hands in the bitterness of agony, "the
thieves, the harrying thieves I not a cloot left of the haill hirsel!"

"And to see poor Grizzle and Crumbie," said his wife, "turning back
their necks to the byre, and routing while the stony-hearted villains
were brogging them on wi' their lances!"

"There were but four of them," said Martin, "and I have seen the day
forty wad not have ventured this length. But our strength and manhood
is gane with our puir maister."

"For the sake of the holy rood, whisht, man," said the goodwife, "our
leddy is half gane already, as ye may see by that fleightering of the
ee-lid--a word mair and she's dead outright."

"I could almost wish," said Martin, "we were a' gane, for what to do
passes my puir wit. I care little for mysell, or you, Tibb,--we can
make a fend--work or want--we can do baith, but she can do neither."

They canvassed their situation thus openly before the lady, convinced
by the paleness of her look, her quivering lip, and dead-set eye, that
she neither heard nor understood what they were saying.

"There is a way," said the shepherd, "but I kenna if she could bring
her heart to it,--there's Simon Glendinning's widow of the glen
yonder, has had assurance from the Southern loons, and nae soldier to
steer them for one cause or other. Now, if the leddy could bow her
mind to take quarters with Elspeth Glendinning till better days cast
up, nae doubt it wad be doing an honour to the like of her, but----"

"An honour," answered Tibb, "ay, by my word, sic an honour as wad be
pride to her kin mony a lang year after her banes were in the mould.
Oh! gudeman, to hear ye even the Lady of Avenel to seeking quarters
wi' a Kirk-vassal's widow!"

"Loath should I be to wish her to it," said Martin; "but what may we
do?--to stay here is mere starvation; and where to go, I'm sure I ken
nae mair than ony tup I ever herded."

"Speak no more of it," said the widow of Avenel, suddenly joining in the
conversation, "I will go to the tower.--Dame Elspeth is of good folk, a
widow, and the mother of orphans,--she will give us house-room until
something be thought upon. These evil showers make the low bush better
than no bield."

"See there, see there," said Martin, "you see the leddy has twice our
sense."

"And natural it is," said Tibb, "seeing that she is convent-bred, and
can lay silk broidery, forby white-seam and shell-work."

"Do you not think," said the lady to Martin, still clasping her child to
her bosom and making it clear from what motives she desired the refuge,
"that Dame Glendinning will make us welcome?"

"Blithely welcome, blithely welcome, my leddy," answered Martin,
cheerily, "and we shall deserve a welcome at her hand. Men are scarce
now, my leddy, with these wars; and gie me a thought of time to it, I
can do as good a day's darg as ever I did in my life, and Tibb can
sort cows with ony living woman."

"And muckle mair could I do," said Tibb, "were it ony feasible house;
but there will be neither pearlins to mend, nor pinners to busk up, in
Elspeth Glendinning's."

"Whisht wi' your pride, woman," said the shepherd; "eneugh you can do,
baith outside and inside, an ye set your mind to it; and hard it is if
we twa canna work for three folk's meat, forby my dainty wee leddy
there.  Come awa, come awa, nae use in staying here langer; we have
five Scots miles over moss and muir, and that is nae easy walk for a
leddy born and bred."

Household stuff there was little or none to remove or care for; an old
pony which had escaped the plunderers, owing partly to its pitiful
appearance, partly from the reluctance which it showed to be caught by
strangers, was employed to carry the few blankets and other trifles
which they possessed. When Shagram came to his master's well-known
whistle, he was surprised to find the poor thing had been wounded,
though slightly, by an arrow, which one of the forayers had shot off
in anger after he had long chased it in vain.

"Ay, Shagram," said the old man, as he applied something to the wound,
"must you rue the lang-bow as weel as all of us?"

"What corner in Scotland rues it not!" said the Lady of Avenel.

"Ay, ay, madam," said Martin, "God keep the kindly Scot from the
cloth-yard shaft, and he will keep himself from the handy stroke. But
let us go our way; the trash that is left I can come back for. There
is nae ane to stir it but the good neighbours, and they----"

"For the love of God, goodman," said his wife, in a remonstrating tone,
"haud your peace! Think what ye're saying, and we hae sae muckle wild
land to go over before we win to the girth gate."