sensible of the danger of expressing his rising indignation, which he
was scarcely able to suppress. He made a gesture with his hand as if
commanding silence, which was at first only replied to by redoubled
shouts, and peals of wild laughter. When, however, the same motion,
and as nearly in the same manner, had been made by Howleglas, it was
immediately obeyed by his riotous companions, who expected fresh food
for mirth in the conversation betwixt the real and mock Abbot, having
no small confidence in the vulgar wit and impudence of their leader.
Accordingly, they began to shout, “To it, fathers--to it I”--“Fight
monk, fight madcap--Abbot against Abbot is fair play, and so is reason
against unreason, and malice against monkery!”
“Silence, my mates!” said Howleglas; “cannot two learned Fathers of
the Church hold communion together, but you must come here with your
bear-garden whoop and hollo, as if you were hounding forth a mastiff
upon a mad bull? I say silence! and let this learned Father and me
confer, touching matters affecting our mutual state and authority.”
“My children”--said Father Ambrose.
“_My_ children too,--and happy children they are!” said his burlesque
counterpart; “many a wise child knows not its own father, and it is well
they have two to choose betwixt.”
“If thou hast aught in thee, save scoffing and ribaldry,” said the real
Abbot, “permit me, for thine own soul's sake, to speak a few words to
these misguided men.”
“Aught in me but scoffing, sayest thou?” retorted the Abbot of Unreason;
“why, reverend brother, I have all that becomes mine office at this
time a-day--I have beef, ale, and brandy-wine, with other condiments not
worth mentioning; and for speaking, man--why, speak away, and we will
have turn about, like honest fellows.”
During this discussion the wrath of Magdalen Graeme had risen to the
uttermost; she approached the Abbot, and placing herself by his side,
said in a low and yet distinct tone-“Wake and arouse thee, Father--the
sword of Saint Peter is in thy hand--strike and avenge Saint Peter's
patrimony!--Bind them in the chains which, being riveted by the church
on earth, are riveted in Heaven--”
“Peace, sister!” said the Abbot; “let not their madness destroy our
discretion--I pray thee, peace, and let me do mine office. It is the
first, peradventure it may be the last time, I shall be called on to
discharge it.”
“Nay, my holy brother!” said Howleglas, “I rede you, take the holy
sister's advice--never throve convent without woman's counsel.”
“Peace, vain man!” said the Abbot; “and you, my brethren--”
“Nay, nay!” said the Abbot of Unreason, “no speaking to the lay people,
until you have conferred with your brother of the cowl. I swear by bell,
book, and candle, that no one of my congregation shall listen to one
word you have to say; so you had as well address yourself to me who
will.”
To escape a conference so ludicrous, the Abbot again attempted an appeal
to what respectful feelings might yet remain amongst the inhabitants of
the Halidome, once so devoted to their spiritual Superiors. Alas!
the Abbot of Unreason had only to nourish his mock crosier, and the
whooping, the hallooing, and the dancing, were renewed with a vehemence
which would have defied the lungs of Stentor.
“And now, my mates,” said the Abbot of Unreason, “once again dight your
gabs and be hushed-let us see if the Cock of Kennaquhair will fight or
flee the pit.”
There was again a dead silence of expectation, of which Father Ambrose
availed himself to address his antagonist, seeing plainly that he could
gain an audience on no other terms. “Wretched man!” said he, “hast thou
no better employment for thy carnal wit, than to employ it in leading
these blind and helpless creatures into the pit of utter darkness?”
“Truly, my brother,” replied Howleglas, “I can see little difference
betwixt your employment and mine, save that you make a sermon of a jest,
and I make a jest of a sermon.”
“Unhappy being,” said the Abbot, “who hast no better subject of
pleasantry than that which should make thee tremble--no sounder jest
than thine own sins, and no better objects for laughter than those who
can absolve thee from the guilt of them!”
“Verily, my reverend brother,” said the mock Abbot, “what you say
might be true, if, in laughing at hypocrites, I meant to laugh at
religion.--Oh, it is a precious thing to wear a long dress, with a
girdle and a cowl--we become a holy pillar of Mother Church, and a boy
must not play at ball against the walls for fear of breaking a painted
window!”
“And will you, my friends,” said the Abbot, looking round and speaking
with a vehemence which secured him a tranquil audience for some
time,--“will you suffer a profane buffoon, within the very church of
God, to insult his ministers? Many of you--all of you, perhaps--have
lived under my holy predecessors, who were called upon to rule in this
church where I am called upon to suffer. If you have worldly goods, they
are their gift; and, when you scorned not to accept better gifts--the
mercy and forgiveness of the church--were they not ever at your
command?--did we not pray while you were jovial--wake while you slept?”
“Some of the good wives of the Halidome were wont to say so,” said
the Abbot of Unreason; but his jest met in this instance but slight
applause, and Father Ambrose, having gained a moment's attention,
hastened to improve it.
“What!” said he; “and is this grateful--is it seemly--is it honest--to
assail with scorn a few old men, from whose predecessors you hold all,
and whose only wish is to die in peace among these fragments of what was
once the light of the land, and whose daily prayer is, that they may be
removed ere that hour comes when the last spark shall be extinguished,
and the land left in the darkness which it has chosen rather than light?
We have not turned against you the edge of the spiritual sword, to
revenge our temporal persecution; the tempest of your wrath hath
despoiled us of land, and deprived us almost of our daily food, but we
have not repaid it with the thunders of excommunication--we only pray
your leave to live and die within the church which is our own, invoking
God, our Lady, and the Holy Saints to pardon your sins, and our own,
undisturbed by scurril buffoonery and blasphemy.”
This speech, so different in tone and termination from that which the
crowd had expected, produced an effect upon their feelings unfavourable
to the prosecution of their frolic. The morris-dancers stood still--the
hobby-horse surceased his capering--pipe and tabor were mute, and
“silence, like a heavy cloud,” seemed to descend on the once noisy
rabble. Several of the beasts were obviously moved to compunction; the
bear could not restrain his sobs, and a huge fox was observed to wipe
his eyes with his tail. But in especial the dragon, lately so formidably
rampant, now relaxed the terror of his claws, uncoiled his tremendous
rings, and grumbled out of his fiery throat in a repentant tone, “By
the mass, I thought no harm in exercising our old pastime, but an I had
thought the good Father would have taken it so to heart, I would as soon
have played your devil, as your dragon.”
In this momentary pause, the Abbot stood amongst the miscellaneous and
grotesque forms by which he was surrounded, triumphant as Saint Anthony,
in Callot's Temptations; but Howleglas would not so resign his purpose.
“And how now, my masters!” said he, “is this fair play or no? Have you
not chosen me Abbot of Unreason, and is it lawful for any of you to
listen to common sense to-day? Was I not formally elected by you in
solemn chapter, held in Luckie Martin's change-house, and will you now
desert me, and give up your old pastime and privilege? Play out the
play--and he that speaks the next word of sense or reason, or bids us
think or consider, or the like of that, which befits not the day, I will
have him solemnly ducked in the mill-dam!”
The rabble, mutable as usual, huzzaed, the pipe and tabor struck up, the
hobby-horse pranced, the beasts roared, and even the repentant dragon
began again to coil up his spires, and prepare himself for fresh
gambols. But the Abbot might still have overcome, by his eloquence and
his entreaties, the malicious designs of the revellers, had not Dame
Magdalen Graeme given loose to the indignation which she had long
suppressed.
“Scoffers,” she said, “and men of Belial--Blasphemous heretics, and
truculent tyrants----”
“Your patience, my sister, I entreat and I command you!” said the Abbot;
“let me do my duty--disturb me not in mine office!”
But Dame Magdalen continued to thunder forth her threats in the name
of Popes and Councils, and in the name of every Saint, from St. Michael
downward.
“My comrades!” said the Abbot of Unreason, “this good dame hath not
spoken a single word of reason, and therein may esteem herself free from
the law. But what she spoke was meant for reason, and, therefore, unless
she confesses and avouches all which she has said to be nonsense, it
shall pass for such, so far as to incur our statutes. Wherefore, holy
dame, pilgrim, or abbess, or whatever thou art, be mute with thy mummery
or beware the mill-dam. We will have neither spiritual nor temporal
scolds in our Diocese of Unreason!”
As he spoke thus, he extended his hand towards the old woman, while his
followers shouted, “A doom--a doom!” and prepared to second his purpose,
when lo! it was suddenly frustrated. Roland Graeme had witnessed with
indignation the insults offered to his old spiritual preceptor, but yet
had wit enough to reflect he could render him no assistance, but might
well, by ineffective interference, make matters worse. But when he saw
his aged relative in danger of personal violence, he gave way to the
natural impetuosity of his temper, and, stepping forward, struck his
poniard into the body of the Abbot of Unreason, whom the blow instantly
prostrated on the pavement.
Chapter the Fifteenth.
As when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd,
Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud,
And stones and brands in rattling furies fly,
And all the rustic arms which fury can supply--
Then if some grave and pious man appear,
They hush their noise, and lend a listening ear.
DRYDEN'S VIRGIL
A dreadful shout of vengeance was raised by the revellers, whose sport
was thus so fearfully interrupted; but for an instant, the want of
weapons amongst the multitude, as well as the inflamed features and
brandished poniard of Roland Graeme, kept them at bay, while the Abbot,
horror-struck at the violence, implored, with uplifted hands, pardon
for blood-shed committed within the sanctuary. Magdalen Graeme alone
expressed triumph in the blow her descendant had dealt to the scoffer,
mixed, however, with a wild and anxious expression of terror for her
grandson's safety. “Let him perish,” she said, “in his blasphemy--let
him die on the holy pavement which he has insulted!”
But the rage of the multitude, the grief of the Abbot, the exultation of
the enthusiastic Magdalen, were all mistimed and unnecessary. Howleglas,
mortally wounded as he was supposed to be, sprung alertly up from the
floor, calling aloud, “A miracle, a miracle, my masters! as brave a
miracle as ever was wrought in the kirk of Kennaquhair. And I charge
you, my masters, as your lawfully chosen Abbot, that you touch no one
without my command--You, wolf and bear, will guard this pragmatic youth,
but without hurting him--And you, reverend brother, will, with your
comrades, withdraw to your cells; for our conference has ended like all
conferences, leaving each of his own mind, as before; and if we
fight, both you, and your brethren, and the Kirk, will have the worst
on't--Wherefore, pack up you pipes and begone.”
The hubbub was beginning again to awaken, but still Father Ambrose
hesitated, as uncertain to what path his duty called him, whether to
face out the present storm, or to reserve himself for a better moment.
His brother of Unreason observed his difficulty, and said, in a tone
more natural and less affected than that with which he had hitherto
sustained his character, “We came hither, my good sir, more in mirth
than in mischief--our bark is worse than our bite--and, especially, we
mean you no personal harm--wherefore, draw off while the play is good;
for it is ill whistling for a hawk when she is once on the soar, and
worse to snatch the quarry from the ban-dog--Let these fellows once
begin their brawl, and it will be too much for madness itself, let alone
the Abbot of Unreason, to bring them back to the lure.”
The brethren crowded around Father Ambrosius, and joined in urging
him to give place to the torrent. The present revel was, they said,
an ancient custom which his predecessors had permitted, and old
Father Nicholas himself had played the dragon in the days of the Abbot
Ingelram.
“And we now reap the fruit of the seed which they have so unadvisedly
sown,” said Ambrosius; “they taught men to make a mock of what is
holy, what wonder that the descendants of scoffers become robbers
and plunderers? But be it as you list, my brethren--move towards the
dortour--And you, dame, I command you, by the authority which I have
over you, and by your respect for that youth's safety, that you go with
us without farther speech--Yet, stay--what are your intentions towards
that youth whom you detain prisoner?--Wot ye,” he continued, addressing
Howleglas in a stern tone of voice, “that he bears the livery of the
House of Avenel? They who fear not the anger of Heaven, may at least
dread the wrath of man.”
“Cumber not yourself concerning him,” answered Howleglas, “we know right
well who and what he is.”
“Let me pray,” said the Abbot, in a tone of entreaty, “that you do him
no wrong for the rash deed--which he attempted in his imprudent zeal.”
“I say, cumber not yourself about it, father,” answered Howleglas, “but
move off with your train, male and female, or I will not undertake to
save yonder she-saint from the ducking-stool--And as for bearing of
malice, my stomach has no room for it; it is,” he added, clapping
his hand on his portly belly, “too well bumbasted out with straw and
buckram--gramercy to them both--they kept out that madcap's dagger as
well as a Milan corslet could have done.”
In fact, the home-driven poniard of Roland Graeme had lighted upon the
stuffing of the fictitious paunch, which the Abbot of Unreason wore as a
part of his characteristic dress, and it was only the force of the blow
which had prostrated that reverend person on the ground for a moment.
Satisfied in some degree by this man's assurances, and compelled--to
give way to superior force, the Abbot Ambrosius retired from the Church
at the head of the monks, and left the court free for the revellers
to work their will. But, wild and wilful as these rioters were, they
accompanied the retreat of the religionists with none of those shouts
of contempt and derision with which they had at first hailed them. The
Abbot's discourse had affected some of them with remorse, others with
shame, and all with a transient degree of respect. They remained
silent until the last monk had disappeared through the side-door which
communicated with their dwelling-place, and even then it cost
some exhortations on the part of Howleglas, some caprioles of the
hobby-horse, and some wallops of the dragon, to rouse once more the
rebuked spirit of revelry.
“And how now, my masters?” said the Abbot of Unreason; “and wherefore
look on me with such blank Jack-a-Lent visages? Will you lose your old
pastime for an old wife's tale of saints and purgatory? Why, I thought
you would have made all split long since--Come, strike up, tabor and
harp, strike up, fiddle and rebeck--dance and be merry to-day, and
let care come to-morrow. Bear and wolf, look to your prisoner--prance,
hobby--hiss, dragon, and halloo, boys--we grow older every moment we
stand idle, and life is too short to be spent in playing mumchance.”
This pithy exhortation was attended with the effect desired. They
fumigated the Church with burnt wool and feathers instead of incense,
put foul water into the holy-water basins, and celebrated a parody on
the Church-service, the mock Abbot officiating at the altar; they sung
ludicrous and indecent parodies, to the tunes of church hymns; they
violated whatever vestments or vessels belonging to the Abbey they could
lay their hands upon; and, playing every freak which the whim of the
moment could suggest to their wild caprice, at length they fell to
more lasting deeds of demolition, pulled down and destroyed some carved
wood-work, dashed out the painted windows which had escaped former
violence, and in their rigorous search after sculpture dedicated to
idolatry, began to destroy what ornaments yet remained entire upon the
tombs, and around the cornices of the pillars.
The spirit of demolition, like other tastes, increases by indulgence;
from these lighter attempts at mischief, the more tumultuous part of the
meeting began to meditate destruction on a more extended scale--“Let
us heave it down altogether, the old crow's nest,” became a general cry
among them; “it has served the Pope and his rooks too long;” and up
they struck a ballad which was then popular among the lower classes.
[Footnote: These rude rhymes are taken, with some trifling alterations,
from a ballad called Trim-go-trix. It occurs in a singular collection,
entitled; “A Compendious Book of Godly and Spiritual Songs, collected
out of sundrie parts of the Scripture, with sundry of other ballatis
changed out of prophane sanges for avoyding of sin and harlotrie, with
Augmentation of sundrie Gude and Godly Ballates. Edinburgh, printed by
Andro Hart.” This curious collection has been reprinted in Mr. John.
Grahame Dalyell's Scottish Poems of the 16th century Edin. 1801, 2
vols.]
“The Paip, that pagan full of pride,
Hath blinded us ower lang.
For where the blind the blind doth lead,
No marvel baith gae wrang.
Like prince and king,
He led the ring
Of all iniquity.
Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix,
Under the greenwood tree.
“The Bishop rich, he could not preach
For sporting with the lasses;
The silly friar behoved to fleech
For awmous as he passes:
The curate his creed
He could not read,--
Shame fa' company!
Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix,
Under the greenwood tree.”
Thundering out this chorus of a notable hunting song, which had been
pressed into the service of some polemical poet, the followers of the
Abbot of Unreason were turning every moment more tumultuous, and getting
beyond the management even of that reverend prelate himself, when a
knight in full armour, followed by two or three men-at-arms, entered
the church, and in a stern voice commanded them to forbear their riotous
mummery.
His visor was up, but if it had been lowered, the cognizance of the
holly-branch sufficiently distinguished Sir Halbert Glendinning, who, on
his homeward road, was passing through the village of Kennaquhair; and
moved, perhaps, by anxiety for his brother's safety, had come directly
to the church on hearing of the uproar.
“What is the meaning of this,” he said, “my masters? are ye Christian
men, and the king's subjects, and yet waste and destroy church and
chancel like so many heathens?”
All stood silent, though doubtless there were several disappointed
and surprised at receiving chiding instead of thanks from so zealous a
protestant.
The dragon, indeed, did at length take upon him to be spokesman, and
growled from the depth of his painted maw, that they did but sweep
Popery out of the church with the besom of destruction.
“What! my friends,” replied Sir Halbert Glendinning, “think you this
mumming and masking has not more of Popery in it than have these stone
walls? Take the leprosy out of your flesh, before you speak of purifying
stone walls--abate your insolent license, which leads but to idle vanity
and sinful excess; and know, that what you now practise, is one of
the profane and unseemly sports introduced by the priests of Rome
themselves, to mislead and to brutify the souls which fell into their
net.”
“Marry come up--are you there with your bears?” muttered the dragon,
with a draconic sullenness, which was in good keeping with his
character, “we had as good have been Romans still, if we are to have no
freedom in our pastimes!”
“Dost thou reply to me so?” said Halbert Glendinning; “or is there
any pastime in grovelling on the ground there like a gigantic
kail-worm?--Get out of thy painted case, or, by my knighthood, I will
treat you like the beast and reptile you have made yourself.”
“Beast and reptile?” retorted the offended dragon, “setting aside your
knighthood, I hold myself as well a born man as thyself.”
The Knight made no answer in words, but bestowed two such blows with the
butt of his lance on the petulant dragon, that had not the hoops which
constituted the ribs of the machine been pretty strong, they would
hardly have saved those of the actor from being broken. In all haste the
masker crept out of his disguise, unwilling to abide a third buffet from
the lance of the enraged Knight. And when the ex-dragon stood on the
floor of the church, he presented to Halbert Glendinning the well-known
countenance of Dan of the Howlet-hirst, an ancient comrade of his own,
ere fate had raised him so high above the rank to which he was born.
The clown looked sulkily upon the Knight, as if to upbraid him for his
violence towards an old acquaintance, and Glendinning's own good-nature
reproached him for the violence he had acted upon him.
“I did wrong to strike thee,” he said, “Dan; but in truth, I knew thee
not--thou wert ever a mad fellow--come to Avenel Castle, and we shall
see how my hawks fly.”
“And if we show him not falcons that will mount as merrily as rockets,”
said the Abbot of Unreason, “I would your honour laid as hard on my
bones as you did on his even now.”
“How now, Sir Knave,” said the Knight, “and what has brought you
hither?”
The Abbot, hastily ridding himself of the false nose which mystified
his physiognomy, and the supplementary belly which made up his disguise,
stood before his master in his real character, of Adam Woodcock, the
falconer of Avenel.
“How, varlet!” said the Knight; “hast thou dared to come here and
disturb the very house my brother was dwelling in?”
“And it was even for that reason, craving your honour's pardon, that I
came hither--for I heard the country was to be up to choose an Abbot of
Unreason, and sure, thought I, I that can sing, dance, leap backwards
over a broadsword, and am as good a fool as ever sought promotion, have
all chance of carrying the office; and if I gain my election, I may
stand his honour's brother in some stead, supposing things fall roughly
out at the Kirk of Saint Mary's.”
“Thou art but a cogging knave,” said Sir Halbert, “and well I wot, that
love of ale and brandy, besides the humour of riot and frolic, would
draw thee a mile, when love of my house would not bring thee a yard.
But, go to--carry thy roisterers elsewhere--to the alehouse if they
list, and there are crowns to pay your charges--make out the day's
madness without doing more mischief, and be wise men to-morrow--and
hereafter learn to serve a good cause better than by acting like
buffoons or ruffians.”
Obedient to his master's mandate, the falconer was collecting
his discouraged followers, and whispering into their ears--“Away,
away--_tace_ is Latin for a candle--never mind the good Knight's
puritanism--we will play the frolic out over a stand of double ale in
Dame Martin the Brewster's barn-yard--draw off, harp and tabor--bagpipe
and drum--mum till you are out of the church-yard, then let the welkin
ring again--move on, wolf and bear--keep the hind legs till you cross
the kirk-stile, and then show yourselves beasts of mettle--what devil
sent him here to spoil our holiday!--but anger him not, my hearts; his
lance is no goose-feather, as Dan's ribs can tell.”
“By my soul,” said Dan, “had it been another than my ancient comrade, I
would have made my father's old fox [Footnote: _Fox_, An old-fashioned
broadsword was often so called.] fly about his ears!”
“Hush! hush! man,” replied Adam Woodcock, “not a word that way, as you
value the safety of your bones--what man? we must take a clink as it
passes, so it is not bestowed in downright ill-will.”