The stranger continued:
“Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves!”
“We are now clear of the churchyard,” said I, “and have but a short walk
to David's, where I hope we shall find a cheerful fire to enliven us
after our night's work.”
We entered, accordingly, the little parlour, into which Mattocks was
also about to push himself with sufficient effrontery, when David, with
a most astounding oath, expelled him by head and shoulders, d--ning his
curiosity, that would not let gentlemen be private in their own inn.
Apparently mine host considered his own presence as no intrusion, for he
crowded up to the table on which I had laid down the leaden box. It was
frail and wasted, as might be guessed, from having lain so many years
in the ground. On opening it, we found deposited within, a case made of
porphyry, as the stranger had announced to us.
“I fancy,” he said, “gentlemen, your curiosity will not be
satisfied,--perhaps I should say that your suspicions will not be
removed,--unless I undo this casket; yet it only contains the mouldering
remains of a heart, once the seat of the noblest thoughts.”
He undid the box with great caution; but the shrivelled substance which
it contained bore now no resemblance to what it might once have been,
the means used having been apparently unequal to preserve its shape and
colour, although they were adequate to prevent its total decay. We
were quite satisfied, notwithstanding, that it was, what the stranger
asserted, the remains of a human heart; and David readily promised his
influence in the village, which was almost co-ordinate with that of the
bailie himself, to silence all idle rumours. He was, moreover, pleased
to favour us with his company to supper; and having taken the lion's
share of two bottles of sherry, he not only sanctioned with his plenary
authority the stranger's removal of the heart, but, I believe, would
have authorized the removal of the Abbey itself, were it not that it
happens considerably to advantage the worthy publican's own custom.
The object of the Benedictine's visit to the land of his forefathers
being now accomplished, he announced his intention of leaving us early
in the ensuing day, but requested my company to breakfast with him
before his departure. I came accordingly, and when we had finished our
morning's meal, the priest took me apart, and pulling from his pocket
a large bundle of papers, he put them into my hands. “These,” said he,
“Captain Clutterbuck, are genuine Memoirs of the sixteenth century, and
exhibit in a singular, and, as I think, an interesting point of
view, the manners of that period. I am induced to believe that their
publication will not be an unacceptable present to the British public;
and willingly make over to you any profit that may accrue from such a
transaction.”
I stared a little at this annunciation, and observed, that the hand
seemed too modern for the date he assigned to the manuscript.
“Do not mistake me, sir,” said the Benedictine; “I did not mean to say
the Memoirs were written in the sixteenth century, but only, that they
were compiled from authentic materials of that period, but written in
the taste and language of the present day. My uncle commenced this book;
and I, partly to improve my habit of English composition, partly to
divert melancholy thoughts, amused my leisure hours with continuing
and concluding it. You will see the period of the story where my uncle
leaves off his narrative, and I commence mine. In fact, they relate in a
great measure to different persons, as well as to a different period.”
Retaining the papers in my hand, I proceeded to state to him my doubts,
whether, as a good Protestant, I could undertake or superintend a
publication written probably in the spirit of Popery.
“You will find,” he said, “no matter of controversy in these sheets, nor
any sentiments stated, with which, I trust, the good in all persuasions
will not be willing to join. I remembered I was writing for a land
unhappily divided from the Catholic faith; and I have taken care to say
nothing which, justly interpreted, could give ground for accusing me of
partiality. But if, upon collating my narrative with the proofs to which
I refer you--for you will find copies of many of the original papers
in that parcel--you are of opinion that I have been partial to my own
faith, I freely give you leave to correct my errors in that respect. I
own, however, I am not conscious of this defect, and have rather to
fear that the Catholics may be of opinion, that I have mentioned
circumstances respecting the decay of discipline which preceded, and
partly occasioned, the great schism, called by you the Reformation, over
which I ought to have drawn a veil. And indeed, this is one reason why I
choose the papers should appear in a foreign land, and pass to the press
through the hands of a stranger.”
To this I had nothing to reply, unless to object my own incompetency to
the task the good father was desirous to impose upon me. On this subject
he was pleased to say more, I fear, than his knowledge of me fully
warranted--more, at any rate, than my modesty will permit me to record.
At length he ended, with advising me, if I continued to feel the
diffidence which I stated, to apply to some veteran of literature, whose
experience might supply my deficiencies. Upon these terms we parted,
with mutual expressions of regard, and I have never since heard of him.
After several attempts to peruse the quires of paper thus singularly
conferred on me, in which I was interrupted by the most inexplicable
fits of yawning, I at length, in a sort of despair, communicated them to
our village club, from whom they found a more favourable reception than
the unlucky conformation of my nerves had been able to afford them. They
unanimously pronounced the work to be exceedingly good, and assured me
I would be guilty of the greatest possible injury to our flourishing
village, if I should suppress what threw such an interesting and radiant
light upon the history of the ancient Monastery of Saint Mary.
At length, by dint of listening to their opinion, I became dubious of my
own; and, indeed, when I heard passages read forth by the sonorous voice
of our worthy pastor, I was scarce more tired than I have felt myself
at some of his own sermons. Such, and so great is the difference
betwixt reading a thing one's self, making toilsome way through all the
difficulties of manuscript, and, as the man says in the play, “having
the same read to you;”--it is positively like being wafted over a creek
in a boat, or wading through it on your feet, with the mud up to your
knees. Still, however, there remained the great difficulty of finding
some one who could act as editor, corrector at once of the press and
of the language, which, according to the schoolmaster, was absolutely
necessary.
Since the trees walked forth to choose themselves a king, never was an
honour so bandied about. The parson would not leave the quiet of his
chimney-corner--the bailie pleaded the dignity of his situation, and the
approach of the great annual fair, as reasons against going to Edinburgh
to make arrangements for printing the Benedictine's manuscript. The
schoolmaster alone seemed of malleable stuff; and, desirous perhaps of
emulating the fame of Jedediah Cleishbotham, evinced a wish to undertake
this momentous commission. But a remonstrance from three opulent
farmers, whose sons he had at bed, board, and schooling, for twenty
pounds per annum a-head, came like a frost over the blossoms of his
literary ambition, and he was compelled to decline the service.
In these circumstances, sir, I apply to you, by the advice of our little
council of war, nothing doubting you will not be disinclined to take
the duty upon you, as it is much connected with that in which you have
distinguished yourself. What I request is, that you will review, or
rather revise and correct, the enclosed packet, and prepare it for the
press, by such alterations, additions, and curtailments, as you think
necessary. Forgive my hinting to you, that the deepest well may be
exhausted,--the best corps of grenadiers, as our old general of brigade
expressed himself, may be _used up_. A few hints can do you no harm;
and, for the prize-money, let the battle be first won, and it shall be
parted at the drum-head. I hope you will take nothing amiss that I have
said. I am a plain soldier, and little accustomed to compliments. I
may add, that I should be well contented to march in the front with
you--that is, to put my name with yours on the title-page. I have the
honour to be, Sir, Your unknown humble Servant, Cuthbert Clutterbuck.
Village of Kennaquhair, -- of April, 18--
_For the Author of “Waverley,” &c. care of Mr. John Ballantyne, Hanover
Street, Edinburgh._
* * * * *