FROM CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, LATE OF HIS MAJESTY'S ---- REGIMENT OF
INFANTRY, TO THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.
Sir,
Although I do not pretend to the pleasure of your personal acquaintance,
like many whom I believe to be equally strangers to you, I am
nevertheless interested in your publications, and desire their
continuance;-not that I pretend to much taste in fictitious composition,
or that I am apt to be interested in your grave scenes, or amused by
those which are meant to be lively. I will not disguise from you, that I
have yawned over the last interview of MacIvor and his sister, and fell
fairly asleep while the schoolmaster was reading the humours of Dandie
Dinmont. You see, sir, that I scorn to solicit your favour in a way
to which you are no stranger. If the papers I enclose you are worth
nothing, I will not endeavour to recommend them by personal flattery, as
a bad cook pours rancid butter upon stale fish. No, sir! what I
respect in you is the light you have occasionally thrown on national
antiquities, a study which I have commenced rather late in life, but to
which I am attached with the devotions of a first love, because it is
the only study I ever cared a farthing for.
You shall have my history, sir, (it will not reach to three volumes,)
before that of my manuscript; and as you usually throw out a few lines
of verse (by way of skirmishers, I suppose) at the head of each
division of prose, I have had the luck to light upon a stanza in the
schoolmaster's copy of Burns which describes me exactly. I love it
the better, because it was originally designed for Captain Grose, an
excellent antiquary, though, like yourself, somewhat too apt to treat
with levity his own pursuits:
'Tis said he was a soldier bred,
And ane wad rather fa'en than fled;
But now he's quit the spurtle blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And ta'en the--antiquarian trade,
I think, they call it.
I never could conceive what influenced me, when a boy, in the choice of
a profession. Military zeal and ardour it was not, which made me stand
out for a commission in the Scots Fusiliers, when my tutors and curators
wished to bind me apprentice to old David Stiles, Clerk to his Majesty's
Signet. I say, military zeal it was _not_; for I was no fighting boy in
my own person, and cared not a penny to read the history of the heroes
who turned the world upside down in former ages. As for courage, I had,
as I have since discovered, just as much of it as serve'd my turn, and
not one frain of surplus. I soon found out, indeed, that in action there
was more anger in running away than in standing fast; and besides, I
could not afford to lose my commission, which was my chief means of
support. But, as for that overboiling valour, which I have heard many of
_ours_ talk of, though I seldom observed that it influenced them in
the actual affair---that exuberant zeal, which courts Danger as a
bride,--truly my courage was of a complexion much less ecstatical.
Again, the love of a red coat, which, in default of all other aptitudes
to the profession, has made many a bad soldier and some good ones,
was an utter stranger to my disposition. I cared not a “bodle” for the
company of the misses: Nay, though there was a boarding-school in the
village, and though we used to meet with its fair inmates at Simon
Lightfoot's weekly Practising, I cannot recollect any strong emotions
being excited on these occasions, excepting the infinite regret with
which I went through the polite ceremonial of presenting my partner with
an orange, thrust into my pocket by my aunt for this special purpose,
but which, had I dared, I certainly would have secreted for my own
personal use. As for vanity, or love of finery for itself, I was such a
stranger to it, that the difficulty was great to make me brush my coat,
and appear in proper trim upon parade. I shall never forget the rebuke
of my old Colonel on a morning when the King reviewed a brigade of which
ours made part. “I am no friend to extravagance, Ensign Clutterbuck,”
said he; “but, on the day when we are to pass before the Sovereign of
the kingdom, in the name of God I would have at least shown him an inch
of clean linen.”
Thus, a stranger to the ordinary motives which lead young men to make
the army their choice, and without the least desire to become either a
hero or a dandy, I really do not know what determined my thoughts that
way, unless it were the happy state of half-pay indolence enjoyed
by Captain Doolittle, who had set up his staff of rest in my native
village. Every other person had, or seemed to have, something to do,
less or more. They did not, indeed, precisely go to school and learn
tasks, that last of evils in my estimation; but it did not escape my
boyish observation, that they were all bothered with something or other
like duty or labour--all but the happy Captain Doolittle. The minister
had his parish to visit, and his preaching to prepare, though perhaps he
made more fuss than he needed about both. The laird had his farming
and improving operations to superintend; and, besides, he had to
attend trustee meetings, and lieutenancy meetings, and head-courts, and
meetings of justices, and what not--was as early up, (that I detested,)
and as much in the open air, wet and dry, as his own grieve. The
shopkeeper (the village boasted but one of eminence) stood indeed pretty
much at his ease behind his counter, for his custom was by no means
overburdensome; but still he enjoyed his _status_, as the Bailie calls
it, upon condition of tumbling all the wares in his booth over and over,
when any one chose to want a yard of muslin, a mousetrap, an ounce of
caraways, a paper of pins, the Sermons of Mr. Peden, or the Life of
Jack the Giant-Queller, (not Killer, as usually erroneously written and
pronounced.--See my essay on the true history of this worthy, where real
facts have in a peculiar degree been obscured by fable.) In short, all
in the village were under the necessity of doing something which they
would rather have left undone, excepting Captain Doolittle, who walked
every morning in the open street, which formed the high mall of our
village, in a blue coat with a red neck, and played at whist the whole
evening, when he could make up a party. This happy vacuity of all
employment appeared to me so delicious, that it became the primary
hint, which, according to the system of Helvetius, as the minister says,
determined my infant talents towards the profession I was destined to
illustrate.
But who, alas! can form a just estimate of their future prospects in
this deceitful world? I was not long engaged in my new profession,
before I discovered, that if the independent indolence of half-pay was
a paradise, the officer must pass through the purgatory of duty and
service in order to gain admission to it. Captain Doolittle might brush
his blue coat with the red neck, or leave it unbrushed, at his pleasure;
but Ensign Clutterbuck had no such option. Captain Doolittle might go
to bed at ten o'clock, if he had a mind; but the Ensign must make the
rounds in his turn. What was worse, the Captain might repose under the
tester of his tent-bed until noon, if he was so pleased; but the Ensign,
God help him, had to appear upon parade at peep of day. As for duty,
I made that as easy as I could, had the sergeant to whisper to me the
words of command, and bustled through as other folks did. Of service, I
saw enough for an indolent man--was buffeted up and down the world, and
visited both the East and West Indies, Egypt, and other distant places,
which my youth had scarce dreamed of. The French I saw, and felt too;
witness two fingers on my right hand, which one of their cursed hussars
took off with his sabre as neatly as an hospital surgeon. At length, the
death of an old aunt, who left me some fifteen hundred pounds, snugly
vested in the three per cents, gave me the long-wished-for opportunity
of retiring, with the prospect of enjoying a clean shirt and a guinea
four times a-week at least.
For the purpose of commencing my new way of life, I selected for
my residence the village of Kennaquhair, in the south of Scotland,
celebrated for the ruins of its magnificent Monastery, intending there
to lead my future life in the _otium cum dignitate_ of half-pay and
annuity. I was not long, however, in making the grand discovery, that in
order to enjoy leisure, it is absolutely necessary it should be preceded
by occupation. For some time, it was delightful to wake at daybreak,
dreaming of the reveill?--then to recollect my happy emancipation from
the slavery that doomed me to start at a piece of clattering parchment,
turn on my other side, damn the parade, and go to sleep again. But even
this enjoyment had its termination; and time, when it became a stock
entirely at my own disposal, began to hang heavy on my hand.
I angled for two days, during which time I lost twenty hooks, and
several scores of yards of gut and line, and caught not even a minnow.
Hunting was out of the question, for the stomach of a horse by no means
agrees with the half-pay establishment. When I shot, the shepherds, and
ploughmen, and my very dog, quizzed me every time that I missed, which
was, generally speaking, every time I fired. Besides, the country
gentlemen in this quarter like their game, and began to talk of
prosecutions and interdicts. I did not give up fighting the French to
commence a domestic war with the “pleasant men of Teviotdale,” as the
song calls them; so I e'en spent three days (very agreeably) in cleaning
my gun, and disposing it upon two hooks over my chimney-piece.
The success of this accidental experiment set me on trying my skill in
the mechanical arts. Accordingly I took down and cleaned my landlady's
cuckoo-clock, and in so doing, silenced that companion of the spring for
ever and a day. I mounted a turning-lathe, and in attempting to use
it, I very nearly cribbed off, with an inch-and-half former, one of the
fingers which the hussar had left me.
Books I tried, both those of the little circulating library, and of the
more rational subscription collection maintained by this intellectual
people. But neither the light reading of the one, nor the heavy
artillery of the other, suited my purpose. I always fell asleep at
the fourth or fifth page of history or disquisition; and it took me a
month's hard reading to wade through a half-bound trashy novel, during
which I was pestered with applications to return the volumes, by every
half-bred milliner's miss about the place. In short, during the time
when all the town besides had something to do, I had nothing for it, but
to walk in the church-yard, and whistle till it was dinner-time.
During these promenades, the ruins necessarily forced themselves on my
attention, and, by degrees, I found myself engaged in studying the
more minute ornaments, and at length the general plan, of this noble
structure. The old sexton aided my labours, and gave me his portion of
traditional lore. Every day added something to my stock of knowledge
respecting the ancient state of the building; and at length I made
discoveries concerning the purpose of several detached and very ruinous
portions of it, the use of which had hitherto been either unknown
altogether or erroneously explained.
The knowledge which I thus acquired I had frequent opportunities of
retailing to those visiters whom the progress of a Scottish tour brought
to visit this celebrated spot. Without encroaching on the privilege of
my friend the sexton, I became gradually an assistant Cicerone in the
task of description and explanation, and often (seeing a fresh party of
visiters arrive) has he turned over to me those to whom he had told half
his story, with the flattering observation, “What needs I say ony mair
about it? There's the Captain kens mair anent it than I do, or any
man in the town.” Then would I salute the strangers courteously, and
expatiate to their astonished minds upon crypts and chancels, and naves,
arches, Gothic and Saxon architraves, mullions and flying buttresses. It
not unfrequently happened, that an acquaintance which commenced in the
Abbey concluded in the inn, which served to relieve the solitude as
well as the monotony of my landlady's shoulder of mutton, whether roast,
cold, or hashed.
By degrees my mind became enlarged; I found a book or two which
enlightened me on the subject of Gothic architecture, and I read now
with pleasure, because I was interested in what I read about. Even my
character began to dilate and expand. I spoke with more authority at
the club, and was listened to with deference, because on one subject, at
least, I possessed more information than any of its members. Indeed,
I found that even my stories about Egypt, which, to say truth, were
somewhat threadbare, were now listened to with more respect than
formerly. “The Captain,” they said, “had something in him after
a',--there were few folk kend sae muckle about the Abbey.”
With this general approbation waxed my own sense of self-importance, and
my feeling of general comfort. I ate with more appetite, I digested with
more ease, I lay down at night with joy, and slept sound till morning,
when I arose with a sense of busy importance, and hied me to measure, to
examine, and to compare the various parts of this interesting structure.
I lost all sense and consciousness of certain unpleasant sensations of
a nondescript nature, about my head and stomach, to which I had been in
the habit of attending, more for the benefit of the village apothecary
than my own, for the pure want of something else to think about. I
had found out an occupation unwittingly, and was happy because I had
something to do. In a word, I had commenced local antiquary, and was not
unworthy of the name.
Whilst I was in this pleasing career of busy idleness, for so it might
at best be called, it happened that I was one night sitting in my little
parlour, adjacent to the closet which my landlady calls my bedroom, in
the act of preparing for an early retreat to the realms of Morpheus.
Dugdale's Monasticon, borrowed from the library at A------, was lying
on the table before me, flanked by some excellent Cheshire cheese,
(a present, by the way, from an honest London citizen, to whom I had
explained the difference between a Gothic and a Saxon arch,) and a glass
of Vanderhagen's best ale. Thus armed at all points against my old enemy
Time, I was leisurely and deliciously preparing for bed--now reading
a line of old Dugdale--now sipping my ale, or munching my bread and
cheese--now undoing the strings at my breeches' knees, or a button or
two of my waistcoat, until the village clock should strike ten, before
which time I make it a rule never to go to bed. A loud knocking,
however, interrupted my ordinary process on this occasion, and the voice
of my honest landlord of the George was heard vociferating, [Footnote:
The George was, and is, the principal inn in the village of Kennaquhair,
or Melrose. But the landlord of the period was not the same civil
and quiet person by whom the inn is now kept. David Kyle, a Melrose
proprietor of no little importance, a first-rate person of consequence
in whatever belonged to the business of the town, was the original owner
and landlord of the inn. Poor David, like many other busy men, took so
much care of public affairs, as in some degree to neglect his own. There
are persons still alive at Kennaquhair who can recognise him and his
peculiarities in the following sketch of mine Host of the George.]
“What the deevil, Mrs. Grimslees, the Captain is no in his bed? and
a gentleman at our house has ordered a fowl and minced collops, and a
bottle of sherry, and has sent to ask him to supper, to tell him all
about the Abbey.”
“Na,” answered Luckie Grimslees, in the true sleepy tone of a Scottish
matron when ten o'clock is going to strike, “he's no in his bed, but
I'se warrant him no gae out at this time o' night to keep folks sitting
up waiting for him--the Captain's a decent man.”
I plainly perceived this last compliment was made for my hearing, by way
both of indicating and of recommending the course of conduct which Mrs.
Grimslees desired I should pursue. But I had not been knocked about
the world for thirty years and odd, and lived a bluff bachelor all
the while, to come home and be put under petticoat government by my
landlady. Accordingly I opened my chamber-door, and desired my old
friend David to walk up stairs.
“Captain,” said he, as he entered, “I am as glad to find you up as if
I had hooked a twenty pound saumon. There's a gentleman up yonder that
will not sleep sound in his bed this blessed night unless he has the
pleasure to drink a glass of wine with you.”
“You know, David,” I replied, with becoming dignity, “that I cannot with
propriety go out to visit strangers at this time of night, or accept of
invitations from people of whom I know nothing.”
David swore a round oath, and added, “Was ever the like heard of? He has
ordered a fowl and egg sauce, a pancake and minced collops and a bottle
of sherry--D'ye think I wad come and ask you to go to keep company with
ony bit English rider that sups on toasted cheese, and a cheerer of
rum-toddy? This is a gentleman every inch of him, and a virtuoso, a
clean virtuoso-a sad-coloured stand of claithes, and a wig like the
curled back of a mug-ewe. The very first question he speered was about
the auld drawbrig that has been at the bottom of the water these
twal score years--I have seen the fundations when we were sticking
saumon--And how the deevil suld he ken ony thing about the old drawbrig,
unless he were a virtuoso?” [Footnote: There is more to be said about
this old bridge hereafter. See Note, p. 57.]
David being a virtuoso in his own way, and moreover a landholder and
heritor, was a qualified judge of all who frequented his house, and
therefore I could not avoid again tying the strings of my knees.
“That's right, Captain,” vociferated David; “you twa will be as thick
as three in a bed an ance ye forgather. I haena seen the like o' him
my very sell since I saw the great Doctor Samuel Johnson on his tower
through Scotland, whilk tower is lying in my back parlour for the
amusement of my guests, wi' the twa boards torn aff.”
“Then the gentleman is a scholar, David?”
“I'se uphaud him a scholar,” answered David: “he has a black coat on, or
a brown ane, at ony-rate.”
“Is he a clergyman?”
“I am thinking no, for he looked after his horse's supper before he
spoke o' his ain,” replied mine host.
“Has he a servant?” demanded I.
“Nae servant,” answered David; “but a grand face o' his ain, that wad
gar ony body be willing to serve him that looks upon him.”
“And what makes him think of disturbing me? Ah, David, this has been
some of your chattering; you are perpetually bringing your guests on my
shoulders, as if it were my business to entertain every man who comes to
the George.”
“What the deil wad ye hae me do, Captain?” answered mine host; “a
gentleman lights down, and asks me in a most earnest manner, what man of
sense and learning there is about our town, that can tell him about the
antiquities of the place, and specially about the auld Abbey--ye wadna
hae me tell the gentleman a lee? and ye ken weel eneugh there is naebody
in the town can say a reasonable word about it, be it no yoursell,
except the bedral, and he is as fou as a piper by this time. So, says
I, there's Captain Clutterbuck, that's a very civil gentleman and has
little to do forby telling a' the auld cracks about the Abbey, and
dwells just hard by. Then says the gentleman to me, 'Sir,' says he,
very civilly, 'have the goodness to step to Captain Clutterbuck with my
compliments, and say I am a stranger, who have been led to these parts
chiefly by the fame of these Ruins, and that I would call upon him, but
the hour is late.' And mair he said that I have forgotten, but I weel
remember it ended,--'And, landlord, get a bottle of your best sherry,
and supper for two.'--Ye wadna have had me refuse to do the gentleman's
bidding, and me a publican?”
“Well, David,” said I, “I wish your virtuoso had taken a fitter
hour--but as you say he is a gentleman--”
“I'se uphaud him that--the order speaks for itsell--a bottle of
sherry--minched collops and a fowl--that's speaking like a gentleman, I
trow?--That's right, Captain, button weel up, the night's raw--but the
water's clearing for a' that; we'll be on't neist night wi' my Lord's
boats, and we'll hae ill luck if I dinna send you a kipper to relish
your ale at e'en.” [Footnote: The nobleman whose boats are mentioned
in the text, is the late kind and amiable Lord Sommerville, an intimate
friend of the author. David Kyle was a constant and privileged
attendant when Lord Sommerville had a party for spearing salmon; on such
occasions, eighty or a hundred fish were often killed between Gleamer
and Leaderfoot.]
In five minutes after this dialogue, I found myself in the parlour of
the George, and in the presence of the stranger.
He was a grave personage, about my own age, (which we shall call about
fifty,) and really had, as my friend David expressed it, something
in his face that inclined men to oblige and to serve him. Yet this
expression of authority was not at all of the cast which I have seen
in the countenance of a general of brigade, neither was the stranger's
dress at all martial. It consisted of a uniform suit of iron-gray
clothes, cut in rather an old-fashioned form. His legs were defended
with strong leathern gambadoes, which, according to an antiquarian
contrivance, opened at the sides, and were secured by steel clasps.
His countenance was worn as much by toil and sorrow as by age, for it
intimated that he had seen and endured much. His address was singularly
pleasing and gentlemanlike, and the apology which he made for disturbing
me at such an hour, and in such a manner, was so well and handsomely
expressed, that I could not reply otherwise than by declaring my
willingness to be of service to him.
“I have been a traveller to-day, sir,” said he, “and I would willingly
defer the little I have to say till after supper, for which I feel
rather more appetized than usual.”
We sate down to table, and notwithstanding the stranger's alleged
appetite, as well as the gentle preparation of cheese and ale which
I had already laid aboard, I really believe that I of the two did the
greater honour to my friend David's fowl and minced collops.
When the cloth was removed, and we had each made a tumbler of negus, of
that liquor which hosts call Sherry, and guests call Lisbon, I perceived
that the stranger seemed pensive, silent, and somewhat embarrassed,
as if he had something to communicate which he knew not well how to
introduce. To pave the way for him, I spoke of the ancient ruins of the
Monastery, and of their history. But, to my great surprise, I found I
had met my match with a witness. The stranger not only knew all that
I could tell him, but a great deal more; and, what was still more
mortifying, he was able, by reference to dates, charters, and other
evidence of facts, that, as Burns says, “downa be disputed,” to
correct many of the vague tales which I had adopted on loose and vulgar
tradition, as well as to confute more than one of my favourite theories
on the subject of the old monks and their dwellings, which I had sported
freely in all the presumption of superior information. And here I cannot
but remark, that much of the stranger's arguments and inductions rested
upon the authority of Mr. Deputy Register of Scotland, [Footnote:
Thomas Thomson, Esq., whose well-deserved panegyric ought to be found
on another page than one written by an intimate friend of thirty
years' standing.] and his lucubrations; a gentleman whose indefatigable
research into the national records is like to destroy my trade, and that
of all local antiquaries, by substituting truth instead of legend and
romance. Alas! I would the learned gentleman did but know how difficult
it is for us dealers in petty wares of antiquity to--
Pluck from our memories a rooted “legend,”
Raze out the written records of our brain.
Or cleanse our bosoms of that perilous stuff--
and so forth. It would, I am sure, move his pity to think how many old
dogs he hath set to learn new tricks, how many venerable parrots he hath
taught to sing a new song, how many gray heads he hath addled by vain
attempts to exchange their old _Mumpsimus_ for his new _Sumpsimus_.
But let it pass. _Humana perpessi sumus_--All changes round us, past,
present, and to come; that which was history yesterday becomes fable
to-day, and the truth of to-day is hatched into a lie by to-morrow.
Finding myself like to be overpowered in the Monastery, which I had
hitherto regarded as my citadel, I began, like a skilful general, to
evacuate that place of defence, and fight my way through the adjacent
country. I had recourse to my acquaintance with the families and
antiquities of the neighbourhood, ground on which I thought I might
skirmish at large without its being possible for the stranger to meet me
with advantage. But I was mistaken.
The man in the iron-gray suit showed a much more minute knowledge of
these particulars than I had the least pretension to. He could tell the
very year in which the family of De Haga first settled on their ancient
barony.
[Footnote: The family of De Haga, modernized into Haig, of Bemerside, is
of the highest antiquity, and is the subject of one of the prophecies of
Thomas the Rhymer:--
Betide, betide, whate'er betide.
Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside. ]
Not a Thane within reach but he knew his family and connexions, how many
of his ancestors had fallen by the sword of the English, how many
in domestic brawl, and how many by the hand of the executioner for
march-treason. Their castles he was acquainted with from turret to
foundation-stone; and as for the miscellaneous antiquities scattered
about the country, he knew every one of them, from a _cromlech_ to a
_cairn_, and could give as good an account of each as if he had lived in
the time of the Danes or Druids.
I was now in the mortifying predicament of one who suddenly finds
himself a scholar when he came to teach, and nothing was left for me but
to pick up as much of his conversation as I could, for the benefit of
the next company. I told, indeed, Allan Ramsay's story of the Monk and
Miller's Wife, in order to retreat with some honour under cover of a
parting volley. Here, however, my flank was again turned by the eternal
stranger.
“You are pleased to be facetious, sir,” said he; “but you cannot be
ignorant that the ludicrous incident you mentioned is the subject of a
tale much older than that of Allan Ramsay.”
I nodded, unwilling to acknowledge my ignorance, though, in fact, I knew
no more what he meant than did one of my friend David's post-horses.
“I do not allude,” continued my omniscient companion, “to the curious
poem published by Pinkerton from the Maitland Manuscript, called the
Fryars of Berwick, although it presents a very minute and amusing
picture of Scottish manners during the reign of James V.; but rather
to the Italian novelist, by whom, so far as I know, the story was first
printed, although unquestionably he first took his original from some
ancient _fabliau_.” [Footnote: It is curious to remark at how little
expense of invention successive ages are content to receive amusement.
The same story which Ramsay and Dunbar have successively handled, forms
also the subject of the modern farce, No Song, no Supper.]
“It is not to be doubted,” answered I, not very well understanding,
however, the proposition to which I gave such unqualified assent.
“Yet,” continued my companion, “I question much, had you known my
situation and profession, whether you would have pitched upon this
precise anecdote for my amusement.”
This observation he made in a tone of perfect good-humour. I pricked
up my ears at the hint, and answered as politely as I could, that my
ignorance of his condition and rank could be the only cause of my
having stumbled on anything disagreeable; and that I was most willing to
apologize for my unintentional offence, so soon as I should know wherein
it consisted.
“Nay, no offence, sir,” he replied; “offence can only exist where it
is taken. I have been too long accustomed to more severe and cruel
misconstructions, to be offended at a popular jest, though directed at
my profession.”
“Am I to understand, then,” I answered, “that I am speaking with a
Catholic clergyman?”
“An unworthy monk of the order of Saint Benedict,” said the stranger,
“belonging to a community of your own countrymen, long established
in France, and scattered unhappily by the events of the Revolution.”
“Then,” said I, “you are a native Scotchman, and from this
neighbourhood?”
“Not so,” answered the monk; “I am a Scotchman by extraction only, and
never was in this neighbourhood during my whole life.”
“Never in this neighbourhood, and yet so minutely acquainted with its
history, its traditions, and even its external scenery! You surprise me,
sir,” I replied.
“It is not surprising,” he said, “that I should have that sort of local
information, when it is considered, that my uncle, an excellent man,
as well as a good Scotchman, the head also of our religious community,
employed much of his leisure in making me acquainted with these
particulars; and that I myself, disgusted with what has been passing
around me, have for many years amused myself, by digesting and arranging
the various scraps of information which I derived from my worthy
relative, and other aged brethren of our order.”
“I presume, sir,” said I, “though I would by no means intrude the
question, that you are now returned to Scotland with a view to settle
amongst your countrymen, since the great political catastrophe of our
time has reduced your corps?”
“No, sir,” replied the Benedictine, “such is not my intention. A
European potentate, who still cherishes the Catholic faith, has offered
us a retreat within his dominions, where a few of my scattered brethren
are already assembled, to pray to God for blessings on their protector,
and pardon to their enemies. No one, I believe, will be able to object
to us under our new establishment, that the extent of our revenues will
be inconsistent with our vows of poverty and abstinence; but, let us
strive to be thankful to God, that the snare of temporal abundance is
removed from us.”
“Many of your convents abroad, sir,” said I, “enjoyed very handsome
incomes--and yet, allowing for times, I question if any were better
provided for than the Monastery of this village. It is said to have
possessed nearly two thousand pounds in yearly money-rent, fourteen
chalders and nine bolls of wheat, fifty-six chalders five bolls barley,
forty-four chalders and ten bolls oats, capons and poultry, butter,
salt, carriage and arriage, peats and kain, wool and ale.”
“Even too much of all these temporal goods, sir,” said my companion,
“which, though well intended by the pious donors, served only to make
the establishment the envy and the prey of those by whom it was finally
devoured.”
“In the meanwhile, however,” I observed, “the monks had an easy life of
it, and, as the old song goes,
--made gude kale
On Fridays when they fasted.”
“I understand you, sir,” said the Benedictine; “it is difficult, saith
the proverb, to carry a full cup without spilling. Unquestionably
the wealth of the community, as it endangered the safety of the
establishment by exciting the cupidity of others, was also in frequent
instances a snare to the brethren themselves. And yet we have seen
the revenues of convents expended, not only in acts of beneficence
and hospitality to individuals, but in works of general and permanent
advantage to the world at large. The noble folio collection of French
historians, commenced in 1737, under the inspection and at the expense
of the community of Saint Maur, will long show that the revenues of
the Benedictines were not always spent in self-indulgence, and that the
members of that order did not uniformly slumber in sloth and indolence,
when they had discharged the formal duties of their rule.”
As I knew nothing earthly at the time about the community of St. Maur,
and their learned labours, I could only return a mumbling assent to
this proposition. I have since seen this noble work in the library of a
distinguished family, and I must own I am ashamed to reflect, that, in
so wealthy a country as ours, a similar digest of our historians should
not be undertaken, under the patronage of the noble and the learned, in
rivalry of that which the Benedictines of Paris executed at the expense
of their own conventual funds.
“I perceive,” said the ex-Benedictine, smiling, “that your heretical
prejudices are too strong to allow us poor brethren any merit, whether
literary or spiritual.”
“Far from it, sir,” said I; “I assure you I have been much obliged to
monks in my time. When I was quartered in a Monastery in Flanders, in
the campaign of 1793, I never lived more comfortably in my life. They
were jolly fellows, the Flemish Canons, and right sorry was I to leave
my good quarters, and to know that my honest hosts were to be at the
mercy of the Sans-Culottes. But _fortune de la guerre!_”
The poor Benedictine looked down and was silent. I had unwittingly
awakened a train of bitter reflections, or rather I had touched somewhat
rudely upon a chord which seldom ceased to vibrate of itself. But he
was too much accustomed to this sorrowful train of ideas to suffer it to
overcome him. On my part, I hastened to atone for my blunder. “If there
was any object of his journey to this country in which I could, with
propriety, assist him, I begged to offer him my best services.” I own
I laid some little emphasis on the words “with propriety,” as I felt it
would ill become me, a sound Protestant, and a servant of government so
far as my half-pay was concerned, to implicate myself in any recruiting
which my companion might have undertaken in behalf of foreign
seminaries, or in any similar design for the advancement of Popery,
which, whether the Pope be actually the old lady of Babylon or no, it
did not become me in any manner to advance or countenance.
My new friend hastened to relieve my indecision. “I was about to request
your assistance, sir,” he said, “in a matter which cannot but interest
you as an antiquary, and a person of research. But I assure you it
relates entirely to events and persons removed to the distance of two
centuries and a half. I have experienced too much evil from the violent
unsettlement of the country in which I was born, to be a rash labourer
in the work of innovation in that of my ancestors.”
I again assured him of my willingness to assist him in anything that was
not contrary to my allegiance or religion.
“My proposal,” he replied, “affects neither.--May God bless the reigning
family in Britain! They are not, indeed, of that dynasty to restore
which my ancestors struggled and suffered in vain; but the Providence
who has conducted his present Majesty to the throne, has given him the
virtues necessary to his time--firmness and intrepidity--a true love
of his country, and an enlightened view of the dangers by which she is
surrounded.--For the religion of these realms, I am contented to hope
that the great Power, whose mysterious dispensation has rent them from
the bosom of the church, will, in his own good time and manner, restore
them to its holy pale. The efforts of an individual, obscure and
humble as myself, might well retard, but could never advance, a work so
mighty.”
“May I then inquire, sir,” said I, “with what purpose you seek this
country?”
Ere my companion replied, he took from his pocket a clasped paper book,
about the size of a regimental orderly-book, full, as it seemed, of
memoranda; and, drawing one of the candles close to him, (for David,
as a strong proof of his respect for the stranger, had indulged us with
two,) he seemed to peruse the contents very earnestly.
“There is among the ruins of the western end of the Abbey church,” said
he, looking up to me, yet keeping the memorandum-book half open, and
occasionally glancing at it, as if to refresh his memory, “a sort of
recess or chapel beneath a broken arch, and in the immediate vicinity
of one of those shattered Gothic columns which once supported the
magnificent roof, whose fall has now encumbered that part of the
building with its ruins.”
“I think,” said I, “that I know whereabouts you are. Is there not in the
side wall of the chapel, or recess, which you mention, a large carved
stone, bearing a coat of arms, which no one hitherto has been able to
decipher?”
“You are right,” answered the Benedictine; and again consulting
his memoranda, he added, “the arms on the dexter side are those of
Glendinning, being a cross parted by a cross indented and countercharged
of the same; and on the sinister three spur-rowels for those of Avenel;
they are two ancient families, now almost extinct in this country--the
arms _part y per pale_.”
“I think,” said I, “there is no part of this ancient structure with
which you are not as well acquainted as was the mason who built it. But
if your information be correct, he who made out these bearings must have
had better eyes than mine.”
“His eyes,” said the Benedictine, “have long been closed in death;
probably when he inspected the monument it was in a more perfect state,
or he may have derived his information from the tradition of the place.”
“I assure you,” said I, “that no such tradition now exists. I have
made several reconnoissances among the old people, in hopes to learn
something of the armorial bearings, but I never heard of such a
circumstance. It seems odd that you should have acquired it in a foreign
land.”
“These trifling particulars,” he replied, “were formerly looked upon
as more important, and they were sanctified to the exiles who retained
recollection of them, because they related to a place dear indeed to
memory, but which their eyes could never again behold. It is possible,
in like manner, that on the Potomac or Susquehannah, you may find
traditions current concerning places in England, which are utterly
forgotten in the neighbourhood where they originated. But to my purpose.
In this recess, marked by the armorial bearings, lies buried a treasure,
and it is in order to remove it that I have undertaken my present
journey.”
“A treasure!” echoed I, in astonishment.
“Yes,” replied the monk, “an inestimable treasure, for those who know
how to use it rightly.”
I own my ears did tingle a little at the word treasure, and that a
handsome tilbury, with a neat groom in blue and scarlet livery, having
a smart cockade on his glazed hat, seemed as it were to glide across the
room before gay eyes, while a voice, as of a crier, pronounced my ear,
“Captain Clutterbuck's tilbury--drive up.” But I resisted the devil, and
he fled from me.
“I believe,” said I, “all hidden treasure belongs either to the king or
the lord of the soil; and as I have served his majesty, I cannot
concern myself in any adventure which may have an end in the Court of
Exchequer.”
“The treasure I seek,” said the stranger, smiling, “will not be envied
by princes or nobles,---it is simply the heart of an upright man.”
“Ah! I understand you,” I answered; “some relic, forgotten in the
confusion of the Reformation. I know the value which men of your
persuasion put upon the bodies and limbs of saints. I have seen the
Three Kings of Cologne.”
“The relics which I seek, however,” said the Benedictine, “are not
precisely of that nature. The excellent relative whom I have already
mentioned, amused his leisure hours with putting into form the
traditions of his family, particularly some remarkable circumstances
which took place about the first breaking out of the schism of the
church in Scotland. He became so much interested in his own labours,
that at length he resolved that the heart of one individual, the hero of
his tale, should rest no longer in a land of heresy, now deserted by all
his kindred. As he knew where it was deposited, he formed the resolution
to visit his native country for the purpose of recovering this valued
relic. But age, and at length disease, interfered with his resolution,
and it was on his deathbed that he charged me to undertake the task in
his stead. The various important events which have crowded upon each
other, our ruin and our exile, have for many years obliged me to
postpone this delegated duty. Why, indeed, transfer the relics of a holy
and worthy man to a country, where religion and virtue are become
the mockery of the scorner? I have now a home, which I trust may be
permanent, if any thing in this earth can be, termed so. Thither will I
transport the heart of the good father, and beside the shrine which it
shall occupy, I will construct my own grave.”
“He must, indeed, have been an excellent man,” replied I, “whose memory,
at so distant a period, calls forth such strong marks of regard.”
“He was, as you justly term him,” said the ecclesiastic, “indeed
excellent--excellent in his life and doctrine--excellent, above all, in
his self-denied and disinterested sacrifice of all that life holds dear
to principle and to friendship. But you shall read his history. I shall
be happy at once to gratify your curiosity, and to show my sense of
your kindness, if you will have the goodness to procure me the means
of accomplishing my object.” I replied to the Benedictine, that, as the
rubbish amongst which he proposed to search was no part of the ordinary
burial-ground, and as I was on the best terms with the sexton, I had
little doubt that I could procure him the means of executing his pious
purpose.
With this promise we parted for the night; and on the ensuing morning
I made it my business to see the sexton, who, for a small gratuity,
readily granted permission of search, on condition, however, that he
should be present himself, to see that the stranger removed nothing of
intrinsic value.
“To banes, and skulls, and hearts, if he can find ony, he shall be
welcome,” said this guardian of the ruined Monastery, “there's plenty
a' about, an he's curious of them; but if there be ony picts” (meaning
perhaps _pyx_) “or chalishes, or the like of such Popish veshells of
gold and silver, deil hae me an I conneve at their being removed.”
The sexton also stipulated, that our researches should take place at
night, being unwilling to excite observation, or give rise to scandal.
My new acquaintance and I spent the day as became lovers of hoar
antiquity. We visited every corner of these magnificent ruins again
and again during the forenoon; and, having made a comfortable dinner at
David's, we walked in the afternoon to such places in the neighbourhood
as ancient tradition or modern conjecture had rendered mark worthy.
Night found us in the interior of the ruins, attended by the sexton, who
carried a dark lantern, and stumbling alternately over the graves of
the dead, and the fragments of that architecture, which they doubtless
trusted would have canopied their bones till doomsday.
I am by no means particularly superstitious, and yet there was that in
the present service which I did not very much like. There was something
awful in the resolution of disturbing, at such an hour, and in such a
place, the still and mute sanctity of the grave. My companions were free
from this impression--the stranger from his energetic desire to
execute the purpose for which he came--and the sexton from habitual
indifference. We soon stood in the aisle, which, by the account of the
Benedictine, contained the bones of the family of Glendinning, and were
busily employed in removing the rubbish from a corner which the stranger
pointed out. If a half-pay Captain could have represented an ancient
Border-knight, or an ex-Benedictine of the nineteenth century a wizard
monk of the sixteenth, we might have aptly enough personified the search
after Michael Scott's lamp and book of magic power. But the sexton
would have been _de trop_ in the group. [Footnote: This is one of those
passages which must now read awkwardly, since every one knows that the
Novelist and the author of the Lay of the Minstrel, is the same person.
But before the avowal was made, the author was forced into this
and similar offences against good taste, to meet an argument, often
repeated, that there was something very mysterious in the Author of
Waverley's reserve concerning Sir Walter Scott, an author sufficiently
voluminous at least. I had a great mind to remove the passages from this
edition, but the more candid way is to explain how they came there.]
Ere the stranger, assisted by the sexton in his task, had been long at
work, they came to some hewn stones, which seemed to have made part of a
small shrine, though now displaced and destroyed.
“Let us remove these with caution, my friend,” said the stranger, “lest
we injure that which I come to seek.”
“They are prime stanes,” said the sexton, “picked free every ane of
them;--warse than the best wad never serve the monks, I'se warrant.”
A minute after he had made this observation, he exclaimed, “I hae fund
something now that stands again' the spade, as if it were neither earth
nor stane.”
The stranger stooped eagerly to assist him.
“Na, na, haill o' my ain,” said the sexton; “nae halves or
quarters;”--and he lifted from amongst the ruins a small leaden box.
“You will be disappointed, my friend,” said the Benedictine, “if you
expect any thing there but the mouldering dust of a human heart, closed
in an inner case of porphyry.”
I interposed as a neutral party, and taking the box from the sexton,
reminded him, that if there were treasure concealed in it, still it
could not become the property of the finder. I then proposed, that as
the place was too dark to examine the contents of the leaden casket, we
should adjourn to David's, where we might have the advantage of light
and fire while carrying on our investigation. The stranger requested us
to go before, assuring us that he would follow in a few minutes.
I fancy that old Mattocks suspected these few minutes might be employed
in effecting farther discoveries amongst the tombs, for he glided back
through a side-aisle to watch the Benedictine's motions, but presently
returned, and told me in a whisper that “the gentleman was on his knees
amang the cauld stanes, praying like ony saunt.”
I stole back, and beheld the old man actually employed as Mattocks had
informed me. The language seemed to be Latin; and as, the whispered, yet
solemn accent, glided away through the ruined aisles, I could not
help reflecting how long it was since they had heard the forms of that
religion, for the exercise of which they had been reared at such cost of
time, taste, labour, and expense. “Come away, come away,” said I; “let
us leave him to himself, Mattocks; this is no business of ours.”
“My certes, no, Captain,” said Mattocks; “ne'ertheless, it winna
be amiss to keep an eye on him. My father, rest his saul, was a
horse-couper, and used to say he never was cheated in a naig in his
life, saving by a west-country whig frae Kilmarnock, that said a
grace ower a dram o' whisky. But this gentleman will be a Roman, I'se
warrant?”
“You are perfectly right in that, Saunders,” said I.
“Ay, I have seen twa or three of their priests that were chased ower
here some score o' years syne. They just danced like mad when they
looked on the friars' heads, and the nuns' heads, in the cloister
yonder; they took to them like auld acquaintance like.--Od, he is
not stirring yet, mair than he were a through-stane! [Footnote: A
tombstone.] I never kend a Roman, to say kend him, but ane--mair by
token, he was the only ane in the town to ken--and that was auld Jock of
the Pend. It wad hae been lang ere ye fand Jock praying in the Abbey in
a thick night, wi' his knees on a cauld stane. Jock likit a kirk wi'
a chimley in't. Mony a merry ploy I hae had wi' him down at the inn
yonder; and when he died, decently I wad hae earded him; but, or I gat
his grave weel howkit, some of the quality, that were o' his ain unhappy
persuasion, had the corpse whirried away up the water, and buried him
after their ain pleasure, doubtless--they kend best. I wad hae made
nae great charge. I wadna hae excised Johnnie, dead or alive.--Stay,
see--the strange gentleman is coming.”
“Hold the lantern to assist him, Mattocks,” said I.--“This is rough
walking, sir.”
“Yes,” replied the Benedictine; “I may say with a poet, who is doubtless
familiar to you----”