A winding stair, strait and narrow, as if to remind the nuns of their
duties of fast and maceration, led down to a lower suite of
apartments, which occupied the ground story of the house. These rooms
were even more ruinous than those which he had left; for, having
encountered the first fury of the assailants by whom the nunnery had
been wasted, the windows had been dashed in, the doors broken down,
and even the partitions betwixt the apartments, in some places,
destroyed. As he thus stalked from desolation to desolation, and began
to think of returning from so uninteresting a research to the chamber
which he had left, he was surprised to hear the low of a cow very
close to him. The sound was so unexpected at the time and place, that
Roland Graeme started as if it had been the voice of a lion, and laid
his hand on his dagger, while at the same moment the light and lovely
form of Catherine Seyton presented itself at the door of the apartment
from which the sound had issued.

"Good even to you, valiant champion!" said she: "since the days of
Guy of Warwick, never was one more worthy to encounter a dun cow."

"Cow?" said Roland Graeme, "by my faith, I thought it had been the
devil that roared so near me. Who ever heard of a convent containing a
cow-house?"

"Cow and calf may come hither now," answered Catherine, "for we have
no means to keep out either. But I advise you, kind sir, to return to
the place from whence you came."

"Not till I see your charge, fair sister," answered Roland, and made
his way into the apartment, in spite of the half serious half laughing
remonstrances of the girl.

The poor solitary cow, now the only severe recluse within the nunnery,
was quartered in a spacious chamber, which had once been the refectory
of the convent. The roof was graced with groined arches, and the wall
with niches, from which the images had been pulled down. These
remnants of architectural ornaments were strangely contrasted with the
rude crib constructed for the cow in one corner of the apartment, and
the stack of fodder which was piled beside it for her food.
[Footnote: This, like the cell of Saint Cuthbert, is an imaginary
scene, but I took one or two ideas of the desolation of the interior
from a story told me by my father. In his youth--it may be near eighty
years since, as he was born in 1729--he had occasion to visit an old
lady who resided in a Border castle of considerable renown. Only one
very limited portion of the extensive ruins sufficed for the
accommodation of the inmates, and my father amused himself by
wandering through the part that was untenanted. In a dining-apartment,
having a roof richly adorned with arches and drops, there was
deposited a large stack of hay, to which calves were helping
themselves from opposite sides. As my father was scaling a dark
ruinous turnpike staircase, his greyhound ran up before him, and
probably was the means of saving his life, for the animal fell through
a trap-door, or aperture in the stair, thus warning the owner of the
danger of the ascent. As the dog continued howling from a great depth,
my father got the old butler, who alone knew most of the localities
about the castle, to unlock a sort of stable, in which Kill-buck was
found safe and sound, the place being filled with the same commodity
which littered the stalls of Augeas, and which had rendered the dog's
fall an easy one.]

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

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

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

"By no means," said Catherine; "for, besides that you know not in the
least how to do her that service, you will bring a chiding my way, and
I get enough of that in the regular course of things."

"What! for accepting my assistance?" said the page,--"for accepting
_my_ assistance, who am to be your confederate in some deep
matter of import? That were altogether unreasonable--and, now I think
on it, tell me if you can, what is this mighty emprise to which I am
destined?"

"Robbing a bird's nest, I should suppose," said Catherine,
"considering the champion whom they have selected."

"By my faith," said the youth, "and he that has taken a falcon's nest
in the Scaurs of Polmoodie, has done something to brag of, my fair
sister.--But that is all over now--a murrain on the nest, and the
eyases and their food, washed or unwashed, for it was all anon of
cramming these worthless kites that I was sent upon my present
travels. Save that I have met with you, pretty sister, I could eat my
dagger-hilt for vexation at my own folly. But, as we are to be
fellow-travellers--"

"Fellow-labourers! not fellow-travellers!" answered the girl; "for to
your comfort be it known, that the Lady Abbess and I set out earlier
than you and your respected relative to-morrow, and that I partly
endure your company at present, because it may be long ere we meet
again."

"By Saint Andrew, but it shall not though," answered Roland; "I will
not hunt at all unless we are to hunt in couples."

"I suspect, in that and in other points, we must do as we are bid,"
replied the young lady.--"But, hark! I hear my aunt's voice."

The old lady entered in good earnest, and darted a severe glance at
her niece, while Roland had the ready wit to busy himself about the
halter of the cow.

"The young gentleman," said Catherine, gravely, "is helping me to tie
the cow up faster to her stake, for I find that last night when she
put her head out of window and lowed, she alarmed the whole village;
and--we shall be suspected of sorcery among the heretics, if they do
not discover the cause of the apparition, or lose our cow if they do."

"Relieve yourself of that fear," said the Abbess, somewhat ironically;
"the person to whom she is now sold, comes for the animal presently."

"Good night, then, my poor companion," said Catherine, patting the
animal's shoulders; "I hope thou hast fallen into kind hands, for my
happiest hours of late have been spent in tending thee--I would I had
been born to no better task!"

"Now, out upon thee, mean-spirited wench!" said the Abbess; "is that a
speech worthy of the name of Seyton, or of the mouth of a sister of
this house, treading the path of election--and to be spoken before a
stranger youth, too?--Go to my oratory, minion--there read your Hours
till I come thither, when I will read you such a lecture as shall make
you prize the blessings which you possess."

Catherine was about to withdraw in silence, casting a half sorrowful
half comic glance at Roland Graeme, which seemed to say--"You see to
what your untimely visit has exposed me," when, suddenly changing her
mind, she came forward to the page, and extended her hand as she bid
him good evening. Their palms had pressed each other ere the
astonished matron could interfere, and Catherine had time to
say--"Forgive me, mother; it is long since we have seen a face that
looked with kindness on us. Since these disorders have broken up our
peaceful retreat, all has been gloom and malignity. I bid this youth
kindly farewell, because he has come hither in kindness, and because
the odds are great, that we may never again meet in this world. I
guess better than he, that the schemes on which you are rushing are
too mighty for your management, and that you are now setting the stone
a-rolling, which must surely crush you in its descent. I bid
fare-well," she added, "to my fellow-victim!"

This was spoken with a tone of deep and serious feeling, altogether
different from the usual levity of Catherine's manner, and plainly
showed, that beneath the giddiness of extreme youth and total
inexperience, there lurked in her bosom a deeper power of sense and
feeling, than her conduct had hitherto expressed.

The Abbess remained a moment silent after she had left the room. The
proposed rebuke died on her tongue, and she appeared struck with the
deep and foreboding, tone in which her niece had spoken her good-even.
She led the way in silence to the apartment which they had formerly
occupied, and where there was prepared a small refection, as the
Abbess termed it, consisting of milk and barley-bread. Magdalen
Graeme, summoned to take share in this collation, appeared from an
adjoining apartment, but Catherine was seen no more. There was little
said during the hasty meal, and after it was finished, Roland Graeme
was dismissed to the nearest cell, where some preparations had been
made for his repose.

The strange circumstances in which he found himself, had their usual
effect in preventing slumber from hastily descending on him, and he
could distinctly hear, by a low but earnest murmuring in the apartment
which he had left, that the matrons continued in deep consultation to
a late hour. As they separated he heard the Abbess distinctly express
herself thus: "In a word, my sister, I venerate your character and the
authority with which my Superiors have invested you; yet it seems to
me, that, ere entering on this perilous course, we should consult some
of the Fathers of the Church."

"And how and where are we to find a faithful Bishop or Abbot at whom
to ask counsel? The faithful Eustatius is no more--he is withdrawn
from a world of evil, and from the tyranny of heretics. May Heaven and
our Lady assoilzie him of his sins, and abridge the penance of his
mortal infirmities!--Where shall we find another, with whom to take
counsel?"

"Heaven will provide for the Church," said the Abbess; "and the
faithful fathers who yet are suffered to remain in the house of
Kennaquhair, will proceed to elect an Abbot. They will not suffer the
staff to fall down, or the mitre to be unfilled, for the threats of
heresy."

"That will I learn to-morrow," said Magdalen Graeme; "yet who now
takes the office of an hour, save to partake with the spoilers in
their work of plunder?--to-morrow will tell us if one of the thousand
saints who are sprung from the House of Saint Mary's continues to look
down on it in its misery.--Farewell, my sister--we meet at Edinburgh."

"Benedicito!" answered the Abbess, and they parted.

"To Kennaquhair and to Edinburgh we bend our way." thought Roland
Graeme. "That information have I purchased by a sleepless hour--it
suits well with my purpose. At Kennaquhair I shall see Father
Ambrose;--at Edinburgh I shall find the means of shaping my own course
through this bustling world, without burdening my affectionate
relation--at Edinburgh, too, I shall see again the witching novice,
with her blue eyes and her provoking smile."--He fell asleep, and it
was to dream of Catherine Seyton.




Chapter the Thirteenth.


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

Roland Graeme slept long and sound, and the sun was high over the
horizon, when the voice of his companion summoned him to resume their
pilgrimage; and when, hastily arranging his dress, he went to attend
her call, the enthusiastic matron stood already at the threshold,
prepared for her journey. There was in all the deportment of this
remarkable woman, a promptitude of execution, and a sternness of
perseverance, founded on the fanaticism which she nursed so deeply,
and which seemed to absorb all the ordinary purposes and feelings of
mortality. One only human affection gleamed through her enthusiastic
energies, like the broken glimpses of the sun through the rising
clouds of a storm. It was her maternal fondness for her grandson--a
fondness carried almost to the verge of dotage, in circumstances where
the Catholic religion was not concerned, but which gave way instantly
when it chanced either to thwart or come in contact with the more
settled purpose of her soul, and the more devoted duty of her life.
Her life she would willingly have laid down to save the earthly object
of her affection; but that object itself she was ready to hazard, and
would have been willing to sacrifice, could the restoration of the
Church of Rome have been purchased with his blood. Her discourse by
the way, excepting on the few occasions in which her extreme love of
her grandson found opportunity to display itself in anxiety for his
health and accommodation, turned entirely on the duty of raising up
the fallen honours of the Church, and replacing a Catholic sovereign
on the throne. There were times at which she hinted, though very
obscurely and distantly, that she herself was foredoomed by Heaven to
perform a part in this important task; and that she had more than mere
human warranty for the zeal with which she engaged in it. But on this
subject she expressed herself in such general language, that it was
not easy to decide whether she made any actual pretensions to a direct
and supernatural call, like the celebrated Elizabeth Barton, commonly
called the Nun of Kent; [Footnote: A fanatic nun, called the Holy Maid
of Kent, who pretended to the gift of prophecy and power of miracles.
Having denounced the doom of speedy death against Henry VIII. for his
marriage with Anne Boleyn, the prophetess was attainted in Parliament,
and executed with her accomplices. Her imposture was for a time so
successful, that even Sir Thomas More was disposed to be a believer.]
or whether she dwelt upon the general duty which was incumbent on all
Catholics of the time, and the pressure of which she felt in an
extraordinary degree.

Yet though Magdalen Graeme gave no direct intimation of her
pretensions to be considered as something beyond the ordinary class of
mortals, the demeanour of one or two persons amongst the travellers
whom they occasionally met, as they entered the more fertile and
populous part of the valley, seemed to indicate their belief in her
superior attributes. It is true, that two clowns, who drove before
them a herd of cattle--one or two village wenches, who seemed bound
for some merry-making--a strolling soldier, in a rusted morion, and a
wandering student, as his threadbare black cloak and his satchel of
books proclaimed him--passed our travellers without observation, or
with a look of contempt; and, moreover, that two or three children,
attracted by the appearance of a dress so nearly resembling that of a
pilgrim, joined in hooting and calling "Out upon the mass-monger!" But
one or two, who nourished in their bosoms respect for the downfallen
hierarchy--casting first a timorous glance around, to see that no one
observed them--hastily crossed themselves--bent their knee to Sister
Magdalen, by which name they saluted her--kissed her hand, or even the
hem of her dalmatique--received with humility the Benedicite with
which she repaid their obeisance; and then starting up, and again
looking timidly round to see that they had been unobserved, hastily
resumed their journey. Even while within sight of persons of the
prevailing faith, there were individuals bold enough, by folding their
arms and bending their head, to give distant and silent intimation
that they recognized Sister Magdalen, and honoured alike her person
and her purpose.

She failed not to notice to her grandson these marks of honour and
respect which from time to time she received. "You see," she said, "my
son, that the enemies have been unable altogether to suppress the good
spirit, or to root out the true seed. Amid heretics and schismatics,
spoilers of the church's lands, and scoffers at saints and sacraments,
there is left a remnant."

"It is true, my mother," said Roland Graeme; "but methinks they are of
a quality which can help us but little. See you not all those who wear
steel at their side, and bear marks of better quality, ruffle past us
as they would past the meanest beggars? for those who give us any
marks of sympathy, are the poorest of the poor, and most outcast of
the needy, who have neither bread to share with us, nor swords to
defend us, nor skill to use them if they had. That poor wretch that
last kneeled to you with such deep devotion, and who seemed emaciated
by the touch of some wasting disease within, and the grasp of poverty
without--that pale, shivering, miserable caitiff, how can he aid the
great schemes you meditate?"

"Much, my son," said the Matron, with more mildness than the page
perhaps expected. "When that pious son of the church returns from the
shrine of Saint Ringan, whither he now travels by my counsel, and by
the aid of good Catholics,--when he returns, healed, of his wasting
malady, high in health, and strong in limb, will not the glory of his
faithfulness, and its miraculous reward, speak louder in the ears of
this besotted people of Scotland, than the din which is weekly made in
a thousand heretical pulpits?"

"Ay, but, mother, I fear the Saint's hand is out. It is long since we
have heard of a miracle performed at St. Ringan's."

The matron made a dead pause, and, with a voice tremulous with
emotion, asked, "Art thou so unhappy as to doubt the power of the
blessed Saint?"

"Nay, mother," the youth hastened to reply, "I believe as the Holy
Church commands, and doubt not Saint Ringan's power of healing; but,
be it said with reverence, he hath not of late showed the
inclination."

"And has this land deserved it?" said the Catholic matron, advancing
hastily while she spoke, until she attained the summit of a rising
ground, over which the path led, and then standing again still.
"Here," she said, "stood the Cross, the limits of the Halidome of
Saint Mary's--here--on this eminence--from which the eye of the holy
pilgrim might first catch a view of that ancient monastery, the light
of the land, the abode of Saints, and the grave of monarchs--Where is
now that emblem of our faith? It lies on the earth--a shapeless block,
from which the broken fragments have been carried off, for the meanest
uses, till now no semblance of its original form remains. Look towards
the east, my son, where the sun was wont to glitter on stately
spires--from which crosses and bells have now been hurled, as if the
land had been invaded once more by barbarous heathens.--Look at yonder
battlements, of which we can, even at this distance, descry the
partial demolition; and ask if this land can expect from the blessed
saints, whose shrines and whose images have been profaned, any other
miracles but those of vengeance? How long," she exclaimed, looking
upward, "How long shall it be delayed?" She paused, and then resumed
with enthusiastic rapidity, "Yes, my son, all on earth is but for a
period--joy and grief, triumph and desolation, succeed each other like
cloud and sunshine;--the vineyard shall not be forever trodden down,
the gaps shall be amended, and the fruitful branches once more dressed
and trimmed. Even this day--ay, even this hour, I trust to hear news
of importance. Dally not--let us on--time is brief, and judgment is
certain."

She resumed the path which led to the Abbey--a path which, in ancient
times, was carefully marked out by posts and rails, to assist the
pilgrim in his journey--these were now torn up and destroyed. A
half-hour's walk placed them in front of the once splendid Monastery,
which, although the church was as yet entire, had not escaped the fury
of the times. The long range of cells and of apartments for the use of
the brethren, which occupied two sides of the great square, were
almost entirely ruinous, the interior having been consumed by fire,
which only the massive architecture of the outward walls had enabled
them to resist. The Abbot's house, which formed the third side of the
square, was, though injured, still inhabited, and afforded refuge to
the few brethren, who yet, rather by connivance than by actual
authority,--were permitted to remain at Kennaquhair. Their stately
offices--their pleasant gardens--the magnificent cloisters constructed
for their recreation, were all dilapidated and ruinous; and some of
the building materials had apparently been put into requisition by
persons in the village and in the vicinity, who, formerly vassals of
the Monastery, had not hesitated to appropriate to themselves a part
of the spoils. Roland saw fragments of Gothic pillars richly carved,
occupying the place of door-posts to the meanest huts; and here and
there a mutilated statue, inverted or laid on its side, made the
door-post, or threshold, of a wretched cow-house. The church itself
was less injured than the other buildings of the Monastery. But the
images which had been placed in the numerous niches of its columns and
buttresses, having all fallen under the charge of idolatry, to which
the superstitious devotion of the Papists had justly exposed them, had
been broken and thrown down, without much regard to the preservation
of the rich and airy canopies and pedestals on which they were placed;
nor, if the devastation had stopped short at this point, could we have
considered the preservation of these monuments of antiquity as an
object to be put in the balance with the introduction of the reformed
worship.

Our pilgrims saw the demolition of these sacred and venerable
representations of saints and angels--for as sacred and venerable they
had been taught to consider them--with very different feelings. The
antiquary may be permitted to regret the necessity of the action, but
to Magdalen Graeme it seemed a deed of impiety, deserving the instant
vengeance of heaven,--a sentiment in which her relative joined for the
moment as cordially as herself. Neither, however, gave vent to their
feelings in words, and uplifted hands and eyes formed their only mode
of expressing them. The page was about to approach the great eastern
gate of the church, but was prevented by his guide. "That gate," she
said, "has long been blockaded, that the heretical rabble may not know
there still exist among the brethren of Saint Mary's men who dare
worship where their predecessors prayed while alive, and were interred
when dead--follow me this way, my son."

Roland Graeme followed accordingly; and Magdalen, casting a hasty
glance to see whether they were observed, (for she had learned caution
from the danger of the times,) commanded her grandson to knock at a
little wicket which she pointed out to him. "But knock gently," she
added, with a motion expressive of caution. After a little space,
during which no answer was returned, she signed to Roland to repeat
his summons for admission; and the door at length partially opening,
discovered a glimpse of the thin and timid porter, by whom the duty
was performed, skulking from the observation of those who stood
without; but endeavouring at the same time to gain a sight of them
without being himself seen. How different from the proud consciousness
of dignity with which the porter of ancient days offered his important
brow, and his goodly person, to the pilgrims who repaired to
Kennaquhair! His solemn "_Intrate, mei filii,_" was exchanged for
a tremulous "You cannot enter now--the brethren are in their
chambers." But, when Magdalen Graeme asked, in an under tone of voice,
"Hast thou forgotten me, my brother?" he changed his apologetic
refusal to "Enter, my honoured sister, enter speedily, for evil eyes
are upon us"

They entered accordingly, and having waited until the porter had, with
jealous haste, barred and bolted the wicket, were conducted by him
through several dark and winding passages. As they walked slowly on,
he spoke to the matron in a subdued voice, as if he feared to trust
the very walls with the avowal which he communicated.

"Our Fathers are assembled in the Chapter-house, worthy sister--yes,
in the Chapter-house--for the election of an Abbott.--Ah, Benedicite!
there must be no ringing of bells--no high mass--no opening of the
great gates now, that the people might see and venerate their
spiritual Father! Our Fathers must hide themselves rather like robbers
who choose a leader, than godly priests who elect a mitred Abbot."

"Regard not that, my brother," answered Magdalen Graeme; "the first
successors of Saint Peter himself were elected, not in sunshine, but
in tempests--not in the halls of the Vatican, but in the subterranean
vaults and dungeons of heathen Rome--they were not gratulated with
shouts and salvos of cannon-shot and of musketry, and the display of
artificial fire--no, my brother--but by the hoarse summons of Lictors
and Praetors, who came to drag the Fathers of the Church to martyrdom.
From such adversity was the Church once raised, and by such will it
now be purified.--And mark me, brother! not in the proudest days of
the mitred Abbey, was a Superior ever chosen, whom his office shall so
much honour, as _he_ shall be honoured, who now takes it upon him
in these days of tribulation. On whom, my brother, will the choice
fall?"

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

"I know it," said Magdalen; "my heart told me long ere your lips had
uttered his name. Stand forth, courageous champion, and man the fatal
breach!--Rise, bold and experienced pilot, and seize the helm while
the tempest rages!--Turn back the battle, brave raiser of the fallen
standard!--Wield crook and slang, noble shepherd of a scattered
flock!"

"I pray you, hush, my sister!" said the porter, opening a door which
led into the great church, "the brethren will be presently here to
celebrate their election with a solemn mass--I must marshal them the
way to the high altar--all the offices of this venerable house have
now devolved on one poor decrepit old man."

He left the church, and Magdalen and Roland remained alone in that
great vaulted space, whose style of rich, yet chaste architecture,
referred its origin to the early part of the fourteenth century, the
best period of Gothic building. But the niches were stripped of their
images in the inside as well as the outside of the church; and in the
pell-mell havoc, the tombs of warriors and of princes had been
included in the demolition of the idolatrous shrines. Lances and
swords of antique size, which had hung over the tombs of mighty
warriors of former days, lay now strewed among relics, with which the
devotion of pilgrims had graced those of their peculiar saints; and
the fragments of the knights and dames, which had once lain recumbent,
or kneeled in an attitude of devotion, where their mortal relics were
reposed, were mingled with those of the saints and angels of the
Gothic chisel, which the hand of violence had sent headlong from their
stations.

The most fatal symptom of the whole appeared to be, that, though this
violence had now been committed for many months, the Fathers had lost
so totally all heart and resolution, that they had not adventured even
upon clearing away the rubbish, or restoring the church to some decent
degree of order. This might have been done without much labour. But
terror had overpowered the scanty remains of a body once so powerful,
and, sensible they were only suffered to remain in this ancient seat
by connivance and from compassion, they did not venture upon taking
any step which might be construed into an assertion of their ancient
rights, contenting themselves with the secret and obscure exercise of
their religious ceremonial, in as unostentatious a manner as was
possible.

Two or three of the more aged brethren had sunk under the pressure of
the times, and the ruins had been partly cleared away to permit their
interment. One stone had been laid over Father Nicholas, which
recorded of him in special, that he had taken the vows during the
incumbency of Abbot Ingelram, the period to which his memory so
frequently recurred. Another flag-stone, yet more recently deposited,
covered the body of Philip the Sacristan, eminent for his aquatic
excursion with the phantom of Avenel, and a third, the most recent of
all, bore the outline of a mitre, and the words _Hic jacet Eustatius
Abbas_; for no one dared to add a word of commendation in favour of
his learning, and strenuous zeal for the Roman Catholic faith.

Magdalen Graeme looked at and perused the brief records of these
monuments successively, and paused over that of Father Eustace. "In a
good hour for thyself," she said, "but oh! in an evil hour for the
Church, wert thou called from us. Let thy spirit be with us, holy
man--encourage thy successor to tread in thy footsteps--give him thy
bold and inventive capacity, thy zeal and thy discretion--even
_thy_ piety exceeds not his." As she spoke, a side door, which
closed a passage from the Abbot's house into the church, was thrown
open, that the Fathers might enter the choir, and conduct to the high
altar the Superior whom they had elected.

In former times, this was one of the most splendid of the many
pageants which the hierarchy of Rome had devised to attract the
veneration of the faithful. The period during which the Abbacy
remained vacant, was a state of mourning, or, as their emblematical
phrase expressed it, of widowhood; a melancholy term, which was
changed into rejoicing and triumph when a new Superior was chosen.
When the folding doors were on such solemn occasions thrown open, and
the new Abbot appeared on the threshold in full-blown dignity, with
ring and mitre, and dalmatique and crosier, his hoary standard-bearers
and his juvenile dispensers of incense preceding him, and the
venerable train of monks behind him, with all besides which could
announce the supreme authority to which he was now raised, his
appearance was a signal for the magnificent _jubilate_ to rise
from the organ and music-loft, and to be joined by the corresponding
bursts of Alleluiah from the whole assembled congregation. Now all was
changed.  In the midst of rubbish and desolation, seven or eight old
men, bent and shaken as much by grief and fear as by age, shrouded
hastily in the proscribed dress of their order, wandered like a
procession of spectres, from the door which had been thrown open, up
through the encumbered passage, to the high altar, there to instal
their elected Superior a chief of ruins. It was like a band of
bewildered travellers choosing a chief in the wilderness of Arabia; or
a shipwrecked crew electing a captain upon the barren island on which
fate has thrown them.

They who, in peaceful times, are most ambitious of authority among
others, shrink from the competition at such eventful periods, when
neither ease nor parade attend the possession of it, and when it gives
only a painful pre-eminence both in danger and in labour, and exposes
the ill-fated chieftain to the murmurs of his discontented associates,
as well as to the first assault of the common enemy. But he on whom
the office of the Abbot of Saint Mary's was now conferred, had a mind
fitted for the situation to which he was called. Bold and
enthusiastic, yet generous and forgiving--wise and skilful, yet
zealous and prompt--he wanted but a better cause than the support of a
decaying superstition, to have raised him to the rank of a truly great
man. But as the end crowns the work, it also forms the rule by which
it must be ultimately judged; and those who, with sincerity and
generosity, fight and fall in an evil cause, posterity can only
compassionate as victims of a generous but fatal error. Amongst these,
we must rank Ambrosius, the last Abbot of Kennaqubair, whose designs
must be condemned, as their success would have riveted on Scotland the
chains of antiquated superstition and spiritual tyranny; but whose
talents commanded respect, and whose virtues, even from the enemies of
his faith, extorted esteem.

The bearing of the new Abbot served of itself to dignify a ceremonial
which was deprived of all other attributes of grandeur. Conscious of
the peril in which they stood, and recalling, doubtless, the better
days they had seen, there hung over his brethren an appearance of
mingled terror, and grief, and shame, which induced them to hurry over
the office in which they were engaged, as something at once degrading
and dangerous.

But not so Father Ambrose. His features, indeed, expressed a deep
melancholy, as he walked up the centre aisle, amid the ruin of things
which he considered as holy, but his brow was undejected, and his step
firm and solemn. He seemed to think that the dominion which he was
about to receive, depended in no sort upon the external circumstances
under which it was conferred; and if a mind so firm was accessible to
sorrow or fear, it was not on his own account, but on that of the
Church to which he had devoted himself.

At length he stood on the broken steps of the high altar, barefooted,
as was the rule, and holding in his hand his pastoral staff, for the
gemmed ring and jewelled mitre had become secular spoils. No obedient
vassals came, man after man, to make their homage, and to offer the
tribute which should provide their spiritual Superior with palfrey and
trappings. No Bishop assisted at the solemnity, to receive into the
higher ranks of the Church nobility a dignitary, whose voice in the
legislature was as potential as his own. With hasty and maimed rites,
the few remaining brethren stepped forward alternately to give their
new Abbot the kiss of peace, in token of fraternal affection and
spiritual homage. Mass was then hastily performed, but in such
precipitation as if it had been hurried over rather to satisfy the
scruples of a few youths, who were impatient to set out on a hunting
party, than as if it made the most solemn part of a solemn ordination.
The officiating priest faltered as he spoke the service, and often
looked around, as if he expected to be interrupted in the midst of his
office; and the brethren listened to that which, short as it was, they
wished yet more abridged.[Footnote: In Catholic countries, in order to
reconcile the pleasures of the great with the observances of religion,
it was common, when a party was bent for the chase, to celebrate mass,
abridged and maimed of its rites, called a hunting-mass, the brevity
of which was designed to correspond with the impatience of the
audience.]

These symptoms of alarm increased as the ceremony proceeded, and, as
it seemed, were not caused by mere apprehension alone; for, amid the
pauses of the hymn, there were heard without sounds of a very
different sort, beginning faintly and at a distance, but at length
approaching close to the exterior of the church, and stunning with
dissonant clamour those engaged in the service. The winding of horns,
blown with no regard to harmony or concert; the jangling of bells, the
thumping of drums, the squeaking of bagpipes, and the clash of
cymbals--the shouts of a multitude, now as in laughter, now as in
anger--the shrill tones of female voices, and of those of children,
mingling with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds,
which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official
hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary
interruption will be explained in the next chapter.




Chapter the Fourteenth.


  Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier--
  Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern--
  Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together,
  And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest,
  Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting--
  Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive.
                              THE CONSPIRACY.

The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the
legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of
consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence
of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in
different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope,
huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty
and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole
ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be
the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and
to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford
them no other protection.

Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from
the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached
to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the
monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot;
and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards
the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and
which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand
upon his dagger.

The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: "Peace, my sister," he said, in
a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary
sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the
tumult;--"Peace," he said, "my sister; let the new Superior of Saint
Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the
vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son,
forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the
pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by
deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I
charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church."

The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment
louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The
Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of
danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the
portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that
disturbed their worship, and what they desired?

There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At
length a voice replied, "We desire entrance into the church; and when
the door is opened you will soon see who we are."

"By whose authority do you require entrance?" said the Father.

"By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason,"

[Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon
Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and
ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so
very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated
with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when
the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it
peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which
inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been
commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all
countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church,
that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and
magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external
display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special
occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all
Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of
making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of
Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the
churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred
rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The
indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the
indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes
encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which
they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach
any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the
singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross
novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed
upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in
both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and
allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent
satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning
the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense
fabric of ecclesiastical power.

But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so
soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license
which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and
without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics,
were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying
their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies.

I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick
from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle,
who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer
of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and
obliged to eat up his parchment citation.

The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this
incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year
1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master
George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of
excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the
contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or
macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these
letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to
publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the
inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite
sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in
which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in
England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the
church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue,
notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church,
seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging
him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to
leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the
Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet
sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on
his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and
perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to
the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of
excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine;
the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was
but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and
swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the
comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive
during the continuance of his office, "they should a' gang the same
gate," _i. e._ go the same road.

A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester,
and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John
Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his
citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most
of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an
extraordinary occasion:

_Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment?

_Sumner._ Yes, marry is it.

_Harpool._ And this seal wax?

_Sumner._ It is so.

_Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this
parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat
your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour.

_Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my
office, and thou shall answer it.

_Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth.
Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest
it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat
thyself?

_Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat.

_Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make
you eat it for bringing it.

_Sumner._ I cannot eat it.

_Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a
stomach! (_Beats him._)

_Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it.

_Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you
rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey.

_Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh!

_Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot
you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch
in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with
process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester
Church, thou shouldst eat it.

_Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked!

_Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there
no beer in the house? Butler, I say.

    _Enter_ BUTLER.

_Butler._ Here, here.

_Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat.

    _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.]

replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed,
it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under
this reply.

"I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning," replied the Abbot,
"since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and
leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority
to command here."

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

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

The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which
the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the
Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to
incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence
earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. "My children," said
he, "I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will
presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray
you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to
cross the holy threshold."

"Tillyvally for your papistry!" was answered from without; "we are in
the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they
sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout,
let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well,
comrades?"

"Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done," said the multitude;
and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty
terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the
populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so,
the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a
flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation.
The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the
Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the
entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His
brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert
him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close
together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and
huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have
been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church.
On the contrary, there was a cry of "A halt!-a halt--to order, my
masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems
them."

The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was
grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children,
ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally
diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted
before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long
foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled,
caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part
of the hobby-horse,

[Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high
among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden
chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's
ejaculation,--

    But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot!

There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of "Woman
Pleased," where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to
dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great
variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit.

The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration
of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this
pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised.

"The hobby-horse," says Mr. Douce, "was represented by a man equipped
with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder
parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long
mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on
this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In
Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the
hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in
competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse
among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a
hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my
ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and
shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the
fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new
shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the
hobby-horse?"

--_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468]