THE MONASTERY.

Chapter the First.

O ay! the Monks, the Monks they did the mischief!

Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition

Of a most gross and superstitious age--

May He be praised that sent the healthful tempest

And scatter'd all these pestilential vapours!

But that we owed them _all_ to yonder Harlot

Throned on the seven hills with her cup of gold,

I will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger,

That old Moll White took wing with cat and broomstick,

And raised the last night's thunder.

OLD PLAY.

The village described in the Benedictine's manuscript by the name

of Kennaquhair, bears the same Celtic termination which occurs in

Traquhair, Caquhair, and other compounds. The learned Chalmers derives

this word Quhair, from the winding course of a stream; a definition

which coincides, in a remarkable degree, with the serpentine turns of

the river Tweed near the village of which we speak. It has been long

famous for the splendid Monastery of Saint Mary, founded by David the

First of Scotland, in whose reign were formed, in the same county, the

no less splendid establishments of Melrose, Jedburgh, and Kelso. The

donations of land with which the King endowed these wealthy fraternities

procured him from the Monkish historians the epithet of Saint, and from

one of his impoverished descendants the splenetic censure, “that he had

been a sore saint for the Crown.”

It seems probable, notwithstanding, that David, who was a wise as well

as a pious monarch, was not moved solely by religious motives to those

great acts of munificence to the church, but annexed political views to

his pious generosity. His possessions in Northumberland and Cumberland

became precarious after the loss of the Battle of the Standard; and

since the comparatively fertile valley of Teviot-dale was likely to

become the frontier of his kingdom, it is probable he wished to secure

at least a part of these valuable possessions by placing them in the

hands of the monks, whose property was for a long time respected, even

amidst the rage of a frontier war. In this manner alone had the King

some chance of ensuring protection and security to the cultivators of

the soil; and, in fact, for several ages the possessions of these

Abbeys were each a sort of Goshen, enjoying the calm light of peace

and immunity, while the rest of the country, occupied by wild clans and

marauding barons, was one dark scene of confusion, blood, and unremitted

outrage.

But these immunities did not continue down to the union of the crowns.

Long before that period the wars betwixt England and Scotland had lost

their original character of international hostilities, and had become

on the part of the English, a struggle for subjugation, on that of

the Scots a desperate and infuriated defence of their liberties. This

introduced on both sides a degree of fury and animosity unknown to the

earlier period of their history; and as religious scruples soon gave way

to national hatred spurred by a love of plunder, the patrimony of the

Church was no longer sacred from incursions on either side. Still,

however, the tenants and vassals of the great Abbeys had many advantages

over those of the lay barons, who were harassed by constant military

duty, until they became desperate, and lost all relish for the arts of

peace. The vassals of the church, on the other hand, were only liable

to be called to arms on general occasions, and at other times were

permitted in comparative quiet to possess their farms and feus.

[Footnote: Small possessions conferred upon vassals and their heirs,

held for a small quit-rent, or a moderate proportion of the produce.

This was a favourite manner, by which the churchmen peopled the

patrimony of their convents; and many descendants of such _feuars_, as

they are culled, are still to be found in possession of their family

inheritances in the neighbourhood of the great Monasteries of Scotland.]

They of course exhibited superior skill in every thing that related

to the cultivation of the soil, and were therefore both wealthier and

better informed than the military retainers of the restless chiefs and

nobles in their neighbourhood.

The residence of these church vassals was usually in a small village or

hamlet, where, for the sake of mutual aid and protection, some thirty

or forty families dwelt together. This was called the Town, and the land

belonging to the various families by whom the Town was inhabited, was

called the Township. They usually possessed the land in common, though

in various proportions, according to their several grants. The part of

the Township properly arable, and kept as such continually under the

plough, was called _in-field_. Here the use of quantities of manure

supplied in some degree the exhaustion of the soil, and the feuars

raised tolerable oats and bear, [Footnote: Or bigg, a kind of coarse

barley.] usually sowed on alternate ridges, on which the labour of the

whole community was bestowed without distinction, the produce being

divided after harvest, agreeably to their respective interests.

There was, besides, _out-field_ land, from which it was thought possible

to extract a crop now and then, after which it was abandoned to the

“skiey influences,” until the exhausted powers of vegetation were

restored. These out-field spots were selected by any feuar at his own

choice, amongst the sheep-walks and hills which were always annexed to

the Township, to serve as pasturage to the community. The trouble of

cultivating these patches of out-field, and the precarious chance that

the crop would pay the labour, were considered as giving a right to any

feuar, who chose to undertake the adventure, to the produce which might

result from it.

There remained the pasturage of extensive moors, where the valleys often

afforded good grass, and upon which the whole cattle belonging to the

community fed indiscriminately during the summer, under the charge of

the Town-herd, who regularly drove them out to pasture in the morning,

and brought them back at night, without which precaution they would

have fallen a speedy prey to some of the Snatchers in the neighbourhood.

These are things to make modern agriculturists hold up their hands and

stare; but the same mode of cultivation is not yet entirely in desuetude

in some distant parts of North Britain, and may be witnessed in full

force and exercise in the Zetland Archipelago.

The habitations of the church-feuars were not less primitive than their

agriculture. In each village or town were several small towers, having

battlements projecting over the side walls, and usually an advanced

angle or two with shot-holes for flanking the door-way, which was always

defended by a strong door of oak, studded with nails, and often by an

exterior grated door of iron. These small peel-houses were ordinarily

inhabited by the principal feuars and their families; but, upon the

alarm of approaching danger, the whole inhabitants thronged from their

own miserable cottages, which were situated around, to garrison these

points of defence. It was then no easy matter for a hostile party to

penetrate into the village, for the men were habituated to the use of

bows and fire-arms, and the towers being generally so placed, that the

discharge from one crossed that of another, it was impossible to assault

any of them individually.

The interior of these houses was usually sufficiently wretched, for it

would have been folly to have furnished them in a manner which could

excite the avarice of their lawless neighbours. Yet the families

themselves exhibited in their appearance a degree of comfort,

information, and independence, which could hardly have been expected.

Their in-field supplied them with bread and home-brewed ale, their herds

and flocks with beef and mutton (the extravagance of killing lambs or

calves was never thought of). Each family killed a mart, or fat bullock,

in November, which was salted up for winter use, to which the good wife

could, upon great occasions, add a dish of pigeons or a fat capon,--the

ill-cultivated garden afforded “lang-cale,”--and the river gave salmon

to serve as a relish during the season of Lent.

Of fuel they had plenty, for the bogs afforded turf; and the remains

of the abused woods continued to give them logs for burning, as well as

timber for the usual domestic purposes. In addition to these comforts,

the good-man would now and then sally forth to the greenwood, and mark

down a buck of season with his gun or his cross-bow; and the Father

Confessor seldom refused him absolution for the trespass, if duly

invited to take his share of the smoking haunch. Some, still bolder,

made, either with their own domestics, or by associating themselves with

the moss-troopers, in the language of shepherds, “a start and overloup;”

and the golden ornaments and silken head-gear--worn by the females of

one or two families of note, were invidiously traced by their neighbours

to such successful excursions. This, however, was a more inexplicable

crime in the eyes of the Abbot and Community of Saint Mary's, than

the borrowing one of the “gude king's deer;” and they failed not to

discountenance and punish, by every means in their power, offences which

were sure to lead to severe retaliation upon the property of the church,

and which tended to alter the character of their peaceful vassalage.

As for the information possessed by those dependents of the Abbacies,

they might have been truly said to be better fed than taught, even

though their fare had been worse than it was. Still, however, they

enjoyed opportunities of knowledge from which others were excluded. The

monks were in general well acquainted with their vassals and tenants,

and familiar in the families of the better class among them, where they

were sure to be received with the respect due to their twofold character

of spiritual father and secular landlord. Thus it often happened, when

a boy displayed talents and inclination for study, one of the brethren,

with a view to his being bred to the church, or out of good-nature,

in order to pass away his own idle time, if he had no better motive,

initiated him into the mysteries of reading and writing, and imparted to

him such other knowledge as he himself possessed. And the heads of these

allied families, having more time for reflection, and more skill, as

well as stronger motives for improving their small properties, bore

amongst their neighbours the character of shrewd, intelligent men, who

claimed respect on account of their comparative wealth, even while they

were despised for a less warlike and enterprising turn than the other

Borderers. They lived as much as they well could amongst themselves,

avoiding the company of others, and dreading nothing more than to be

involved in the deadly feuds and ceaseless contentions of the secular

landholders.

Such is a general picture of these communities. During the fatal wars in

the commencement of Queen Mary's reign, they had suffered dreadfully by

the hostile invasions. For the English, now a Protestant people, were

so far from sparing the church-lands, that they forayed them with more

unrelenting severity than even the possessions of the laity. But

the peace of 1550 had restored some degree of tranquillity to those

distracted and harassed regions, and matters began again gradually

to settle upon the former footing. The monks repaired their ravaged

shrines--the feuar again roofed his small fortalice which the enemy had

ruined--the poor labourer rebuilt his cottage--an easy task, where a few

sods, stones, and some pieces of wood from the next copse, furnished

all the materials necessary. The cattle, lastly, were driven out of the

wastes and thickets in which the remnant of them had been secreted; and

the mighty bull moved at the head of his seraglio and their followers,

to take possession of their wonted pastures. There ensued peace and

quiet, the state of the age and nation considered, to the Monastery of

Saint Mary, and its dependencies, for several tranquil years.

Chapter the Second.

In yon lone vale his early youth was bred,

Not solitary then--the bugle-horn

Of fell Alecto often waked its windings,

From where the brook joins the majestic river,

To the wild northern bog, the curlew's haunt,

Where oozes forth its first and feeble streamlet.

OLD PLAY.

We have said, that most of the feuars dwelt in the village belonging to

their townships. This was not, however, universally the case. A lonely

tower, to which the reader must now be introduced, was at least one

exception to the general rule.

It was of small dimensions, yet larger than those which occurred in the

village, as intimating that, in case of assault, the proprietor would

have to rely upon his own unassisted strength. Two or three miserable

huts, at the foot of the fortalice, held the bondsmen and tenants of the

feuar. The site was a beautiful green knoll, which started up suddenly

in the very throat of a wild and narrow glen, and which, being

surrounded, except on one side, by the winding of a small stream,

afforded a position of considerable strength.

But the great security of Glendearg, for so the place was called, lay

in its secluded, and almost hidden situation. To reach the tower, it was

necessary to travel three miles up the glen, crossing about twenty times

the little stream, which, winding through the narrow valley, encountered

at every hundred yards the opposition of a rock or precipitous bank on

the one side, which altered its course, and caused it to shoot off in an

oblique direction to the other. The hills which ascend on each side of

this glen are very steep, and rise boldly over the stream, which is

thus imprisoned within their barriers. The sides of the glen are

impracticable for horse, and are only to be traversed by means of

the sheep-paths which lie along their sides. It would not be readily

supposed that a road so hopeless and so difficult could lead to any

habitation more important than the summer shealing of a shepherd.

Yet the glen, though lonely, nearly inaccessible, and sterile, was not

then absolutely void of beauty. The turf which covered the small portion

of level ground on the sides of the stream, was as close and verdant as

if it had occupied the scythes of a hundred gardeners once a-fortnight;

and it was garnished with an embroidery of daisies and wild flowers,

which the scythes would certainly have destroyed. The little brook, now

confined betwixt closer limits, now left at large to choose its course

through the narrow valley, danced carelessly on from stream to pool,

light and unturbid, as that better class of spirits who pass their way

through life, yielding to insurmountable obstacles, but as far from

being subdued by them as the sailor who meets by chance with an

unfavourable wind, and shapes his course so as to be driven back as

little as possible.

The mountains, as they would have been called in England, _Scottice_ the

steep _braes_, rose abruptly over the little glen, here presenting

the gray face of a rock, from which the turf had been peeled by the

torrents, and there displaying patches of wood and copse, which had

escaped the waste of the cattle and the sheep of the feuars, and which,

feathering naturally up the beds of empty torrents, or occupying the

concave recesses of the bank, gave at once beauty and variety to the

landscape. Above these scattered woods rose the hill, in barren, but

purple majesty; the dark rich hue, particularly in autumn, contrasting

beautifully with the thickets of oak and birch, the mountain ashes and

thorns, the alders and quivering aspens, which checquered and varied

the descent, and not less with the dark-green and velvet turf, which

composed the level part of the narrow glen.

Yet, though thus embellished, the scene could neither be strictly termed

sublime nor beautiful, and scarcely even picturesque or striking. But

its extreme solitude pressed on the heart; the traveller felt that

uncertainty whither he was going, or in what so wild a path was to

terminate, which, at times, strikes more on the imagination than the

grand features of a show-scene, when you know the exact distance of the

inn where your dinner is bespoke, and at the moment preparing. These

are ideas, however, of a far later age; for at the time we treat of,

the picturesque, the beautiful, the sublime, and all their intermediate

shades, were ideas absolutely unknown to the inhabitants and occasional

visitors of Glendearg.

These had, however, attached to the scene feelings fitting the time. Its

name, signifying the Red Valley, seems to have been derived, not only

from the purple colour of the heath, with which the upper part of the

rising banks was profusely clothed, but also from the dark red colour of

the rocks, and of the precipitous earthen banks, which in that country

are called _scaurs_. Another glen, about the head of Ettrick, has

acquired the same name from similar circumstances; and there are

probably more in Scotland to which it has been given.

As our Glendearg did not abound in mortal visitants, superstition, that

it might not be absolutely destitute of inhabitants, had peopled

its recesses with beings belonging to another world. The savage and

capricious Brown Man of the Moors, a being which seems the genuine

descendant of the northern dwarfs, was supposed to be seen there

frequently, especially after the autumnal equinox, when the fogs were

thick, and objects not easily distinguished. The Scottish fairies, too,

a whimsical, irritable, and mischievous tribe, who, though at times

capriciously benevolent, were more frequently adverse to mortals, were

also supposed to have formed a residence in a particularly wild

recess of the glen, of which the real name was, in allusion to that

circumstance, _Corrie nan Shian_, which, in corrupted Celtic, signifies

the Hollow of the Fairies. But the neighbours were more cautious in

speaking about this place, and avoided giving it a name, from an idea

common then throughout all the British and Celtic provinces of Scotland,

and still retained in many places, that to speak either good or ill

of this capricious race of imaginary beings, is to provoke their

resentment, and that secrecy and silence is what they chiefly desire

from those who may intrude upon their revels, or discover their haunts.

A mysterious terror was thus attached to the dale, which afforded

access from the broad valley of the Tweed, up the little glen we have

described, to the fortalice called the Tower of Glendearg. Beyond the

knoll, where, as we have said, the tower was situated, the hills grew

more steep, and narrowed on the slender brook, so as scarce to leave

a footpath; and there the glen terminated in a wild waterfall, where a

slender thread of water dashed in a precipitous line of foam over two

or three precipices. Yet farther in the same direction, and above these

successive cataracts, lay a wild and extensive morass, frequented only

by waterfowl, wide, waste, apparently almost interminable, and serving

in a great measure to separate the inhabitants of the glen from those

who lived to the northward.

To restless and indefatigable moss-troopers, indeed, these morasses were

well known, and sometimes afforded a retreat. They often rode down the

glen--called at this tower--asked and received hospitality--but still

with a sort of reserve on the part of its more peaceful inhabitants, who

entertained them as a party of North-American Indians might be received

by a new European settler, as much out of fear as hospitality, while

the uppermost wish of the landlord is the speedy departure of the savage

guests.

This had not always been the current of feeling in the little valley

and its tower. Simon Glendinning, its former inhabitant, boasted his

connexion by blood to that ancient family of Glendonwyne, on the western

border. He used to narrate, at his fireside, in the autumn evenings, the

feats of the family to which he belonged, one of whom fell by the side

of the brave Earl of Douglas at Otterbourne. On these occasions Simon

usually held upon his knee an ancient broadsword, which had belonged to

his ancestors before any of the family had consented to accept a fief

under the peaceful dominion of the monks of St. Mary's. In modern days,

Simon might have lived at ease on his own estate, and quietly murmured

against the fate that had doomed him to dwell there, and cut off his

access to martial renown. But so many opportunities, nay so many calls

there were for him, who in those days spoke big, to make good his words

by his actions, that Simon Glendinning was soon under the necessity of

marching with the men of the Halidome, as it was called, of St. Mary's,

in that disastrous campaign which was concluded by the battle of Pinkie.

The Catholic clergy were deeply interested in that national quarrel, the

principal object of which was, to prevent the union of the infant Queen

Mary, with the son of the heretical Henry VIII. The Monks had called out

their vassals, under an experienced leader. Many of themselves had taken

arms, and marched to the field, under a banner representing a female,

supposed to personify the Scottish Church, kneeling in the attitude of

prayer, with the legend, _Afflictae Sponsae ne obliviscaris_. [Footnote:

Forget not the afflicted spouse.]

The Scots, however, in all their wars, had more occasion for good

and cautious generals, than for excitation, whether political or

enthusiastic. Their headlong and impatient courage uniformly induced

them to rush into action without duly weighing either their own

situation, or that of their enemies, and the inevitable consequence was

frequent defeat. With the dolorous slaughter of Pinkie we have nothing

to do, excepting that, among ten thousand men of low and high degree,

Simon Glendinning, of the Tower of Glendearg, bit the dust, no way

disparaging in his death that ancient race from which he claimed his

descent.

When the doleful news, which spread terror and mourning through the

whole of Scotland, reached the Tower of Glendearg, the widow of

Simon, Elspeth Brydone by her family name, was alone in that desolate

habitation, excepting a hind or two, alike past martial and agricultural

labour, and the helpless widows and families of those who had fallen

with their master. The feeling of desolation was universal;--but what

availed it? The monks, their patrons and protectors, were driven from

their Abbey by the English forces, who now overran the country, and

enforced at least an appearance of submission on the part of the

inhabitants. The Protector, Somerset, formed a strong camp among the

ruins of the ancient Castle of Roxburgh, and compelled the neighbouring

country to come in, pay tribute, and take assurance from him, as the

phrase then went. Indeed, there was no power of resistance remaining;

and the few barons, whose high spirit disdained even the appearance

of surrender, could only retreat into the wildest fastnesses of the

country, leaving their houses and property to the wrath of the English,

who detached parties everywhere to distress, by military exaction, those

whose chiefs had not made their submission. The Abbot and his community

having retreated beyond the Forth, their lands were severely forayed,

as their sentiments were held peculiarly inimical to the alliance with

England.

Amongst the troops detached on this service was a small party, commanded

by Stawarth Bolton, a captain in the English army, and full of the

blunt and unpretending gallantry and generosity which has so often

distinguished that nation. Resistance was in vain. Elspeth Brydone, when

she descried a dozen of horsemen threading their way up the glen, with

a man at their head, whose scarlet cloak, bright armour, and dancing

plume, proclaimed him a leader, saw no better protection for herself

than to issue from the iron grate, covered with a long mourning

veil, and holding one of her two sons in each hand, to meet the

Englishman--state her deserted condition--place the little tower at his

command--and beg for his mercy. She stated, in a few brief words,

her intention, and added, “I submit, because I have nae means of

resistance.”

“And I do not ask your submission, mistress, for the same reason,”

replied the Englishman. “To be satisfied of your peaceful intentions

is all I ask; and, from what you tell me, there is no reason to doubt

them.”

“At least, sir,” said Elspeth Brydone, “take share of what our

spence and our garners afford. Your horses are tired--your folk want

refreshment.”

“Not a whit--not a whit,” answered the honest Englishman; “it shall

never be said we disturbed by carousal the widow of a brave soldier,

while she was mourning for her husband.--Comrades, face about.--Yet

stay,” he added, checking his war-horse, “my parties are out in every

direction; they must have some token that your family are under my

assurance of safety.--Here, my little fellow,” said he, speaking to

the eldest boy, who might be about nine or ten years old, “lend me thy

bonnet.”

The child reddened, looked sulky, and hesitated, while the mother,

with many a _fye_ and _nay pshaw_, and such sarsenet chidings as tender

mothers give to spoiled children, at length succeeded in snatching the

bonnet from him, and handing it to the English leader.

Stawarth Bolton took his embroidered red cross from his barret-cap, and

putting it into the loop of the boy's bonnet, said to the mistress, (for

the title of lady was not given to dames of her degree,) “By this token,

which all my people will respect, you will be freed from any importunity

on the part of our forayers.” [Footnote: As gallantry of all times and

nations has the same mode of thinking and acting, so it often expresses

itself by the same symbols. In the civil war 1745-6, a party of

Highlanders, under a Chieftain of rank, came to Rose Castle, the seat of

the Bishop of Carlisle, but then occupied by the family of Squire Dacre

of Cumberland. They demanded quarters, which of course were not to be

refused to armed men of a strange attire and unknown language. But the

domestic represented to the captain of the mountaineers, that the lady

of the mansion had been just delivered of a daughter, and expressed her

hope, that, under these circumstances, his party would give as little

trouble as possible. “God forbid,” said the gallant chief, “that I or

mine should be the means of adding to a lady's inconvenience at such a

time. May I request to see the infant?” The child was brought, and the

Highlander, taking his cockade out of his bonnet, and pinning it on the

child's breast, “That will be a token,” he said, “to any of our people

who may come hither, that Donald McDonald of Kinloch-Moidart, has taken

the family of Rose Castle under his protection.” The lady who received

in infancy this gage of Highland protection, is now Mary, Lady Clerk

of Pennycuik; and on the 10th of June still wears the cockade which was

pinned on her breast, with a white rose as a kindred decoration.] He

placed it on the boy's head; but it was no sooner there, than the little

fellow, his veins swelling, and his eyes shooting fire through tears,

snatched the bonnet from his head, and, ere his mother could interfere,

skimmed it into the brook. The other boy ran instantly to fish it out

again, threw it back to his brother, first taking out the cross, which,

with great veneration, he kissed and put into his bosom. The Englishman

was half diverted, half surprised, with the scene.

“What mean ye by throwing away Saint George's red cross?” said he to the

elder boy, in a tone betwixt jest and earnest.

“Because Saint George is a southern saint,” said the child, sulkily.

“Good”--said Stawarth Bolton.--“And what did you mean by taking it

out of the brook again, my little fellow?” he demanded of the younger.

“Because the priest says it is the common sign of salvation to all good

Christians.”

“Why, good again!” said the honest soldier. “I protest unto you,

mistress, I envy you these boys. Are they both yours?”

Stawarth Bolton had reason to put the question, for Halbert Glendinning,

the elder of the two, had hair as dark as the raven's plumage, black

eyes, large, bold, and sparkling, that glittered under eyebrows of the

same complexion; a skin deep embrowned, though it could not be termed

swarthy, and an air of activity, frankness, and determination, far

beyond his age. On the other hand, Edward, the younger brother, was

light-haired, blue-eyed, and of fairer complexion, in countenance rather

pale, and not exhibiting that rosy hue which colours the sanguine cheek

of robust health. Yet the boy had nothing sickly or ill-conditioned in

his look, but was, on the contrary, a fair and handsome child, with a

smiling face, and mild, yet cheerful eye.

The mother glanced a proud motherly glance, first at the one, and then

at the other, ere she answered the Englishman, “Surely, sir, they are

both my children.”

“And by the same father, mistress?” said Stawarth; but, seeing a blush

of displeasure arise on her brow, he instantly added, “Nay, I mean no

offence; I would have asked the same question at any of my gossips in

merry Lincoln.--Well, dame, you have two fair boys; I would I could

borrow one, for Dame Bolton and I live childless in our old hall.--Come,

little fellows, which of you will go with me?”

The trembling mother, half-fearing as he spoke, drew the children

towards her, one with either hand, while they both answered the

stranger. “I will not go with you,” said Halbert, boldly, “for you are

a false-hearted Southern; and the Southerns killed my father; and I will

war on you to the death, when I can draw my father's sword.”

“God-a-mercy, my little levin-bolt,” said Stawarth, “the goodly custom

of deadly feud will never go down in thy day, I presume.--And you, my

fine white-head, will you not go with me, to ride a cock-horse?” “No,”

said Edward, demurely, “for you are a heretic.”

“Why, God-a-mercy still!” said Stawarth Bolton. “Well, dame, I see I

shall find no recruits for my troop from you; and yet I do envy you

these two little chubby knaves.” He sighed a moment, as was visible,

in spite of gorget and corslet, and then added, “And yet, my dame and I

would but quarrel which of the knaves we should like best; for I

should wish for the black-eyed rogue--and she, I warrant me, for that

blue-eyed, fair-haired darling. Natheless, we must brook our solitary

wedlock, and wish joy to those that are more fortunate. Sergeant

Brittson, do thou remain here till recalled--protect this family, as

under assurance--do them no wrong, and suffer no wrong to be done to

them, as thou wilt answer it.--Dame, Brittson is a married man, old and

steady; feed him on what you will, but give him not over much liquor.”

Dame Glendinning again offered refreshments, but with a faltering voice,

and an obvious desire her invitation should not be accepted. The fact

was, that, supposing her boys as precious in the eyes of the Englishman

as in her own, (the most ordinary of parental errors,) she was half

afraid, that the admiration he expressed of them in his blunt manner

might end in his actually carrying off one or other of the little

darlings whom he appeared to covet so much. She kept hold of their

hands, therefore, as if her feeble strength could have been of service,

had any violence been intended, and saw with joy she could not disguise,

the little party of horse countermarch, in order to descend the glen.

Her feelings did not escape Bolton: “I forgive you, dame,” he said, “for

being suspicious that an English falcon was hovering over your Scottish

moor-brood. But fear not--those who have fewest children have fewest

cares; nor does a wise man covet those of another household. Adieu,

dame; when the black-eyed rogue is able to drive a foray from England,

teach him to spare women and children, for the sake of Stawarth Bolton.”

“God be with you, gallant Southern!” said Elspeth Glendinning, but not

till he was out of hearing, spurring on his good horse to regain the

head of his party, whose plumage and armour were now glancing and

gradually disappearing in the distance, as they winded down the glen.

“Mother,” said the elder boy, “I will not say amen to a prayer for a

Southern.”

“Mother,” said the younger, more reverentially, “is it right to pray for

a heretic?”

“The God to whom I pray only knows,” answered poor Elspeth; “but these

two words, Southern and heretic, have already cost Scotland ten thousand

of her best and bravest, and me a husband, and you a father; and,

whether blessing or banning, I never wish to hear them more.--Follow me

to the Place, sir,” she said to Brittson, “and such as we have to offer

you shall be at your disposal.”

Chapter the Third.

They lighted down on Tweed water

And blew their coals sae het,

And fired the March and Teviotdale,

All in an evening late.

AULD MAITLAND.

The report soon spread through the patrimony of Saint Mary's and its

vicinity, that the Mistress of Glendearg had received assurance from the

English Captain, and that her cattle were not to be driven off, or her

corn burned. Among others who heard this report, it reached the ears of

a lady, who, once much higher in rank than Elspeth Glendinning, was now

by the same calamity reduced to even greater misfortune.

She was the widow of a brave soldier, Walter Avenel, descended of a very

ancient Border family, who once possessed immense estates in Eskdale.

These had long since passed from them into other hands, but they still

enjoyed an ancient Barony of considerable extent, not very far from the

patrimony of Saint Mary's, and lying upon the same side of the river

with the narrow vale of Glendearg, at the head of which was the little

tower of the Glendinnings. Here they had lived, bearing a respectable

rank amongst the gentry of their province, though neither wealthy nor

powerful. This general regard had been much augmented by the skill,

courage, and enterprise which had been displayed by Walter Avenel, the

last Baron.

When Scotland began to recover from the dreadful shock she had sustained

after the battle of Pinkie-Cleuch, Avenel was one of the first who,

assembling a small force, set an example in those bloody and unsparing

skirmishes, which showed that a nation, though conquered and overrun by

invaders, may yet wage against them such a war of detail as shall in

the end become fatal to the foreigners. In one of these, however, Walter

Avenel fell, and the news which came to the house of his fathers was

followed by the distracting intelligence, that a party of Englishmen

were coming to plunder the mansion and lands of his widow, in order, by

this act of terror, to prevent others from following the example of the

deceased.

The unfortunate lady had no better refuge than the miserable cottage

of a shepherd among the hills, to which she was hastily removed, scarce

conscious where or for what purpose her terrified attendants were

removing her and her infant daughter from her own house. Here she was

tended with all the duteous service of ancient times by the shepherd's

wife, Tibb Tacket, who in better days had been her own bowerwoman. For a

time the lady was unconscious of her misery; but when the first stunning

effect of grief was so far passed away that she could form an estimate

of her own situation, the widow of Avenel had cause to envy the lot of

her husband in his dark and silent abode. The domestics who had guided

her to her place of refuge, were presently obliged to disperse for their

own safety, or to seek for necessary subsistence; and the shepherd and

his wife, whose poor cottage she shared, were soon after deprived of the

means of affording their late mistress even that coarse sustenance

which they had gladly shared with her. Some of the English forayers

had discovered and driven off the few sheep which had escaped the first

researches of their avarice. Two cows shared the fate of the remnant of

their stock; they had afforded the family almost their sole support, and

now famine appeared to stare them in the face.

“We are broken and beggared now, out and out,” said old Martin the

shepherd--and he wrung his hands in the bitterness of agony, “the

thieves, the harrying thieves I not a cloot left of the haill hirsel!”

“And to see poor Grizzle and Crumbie,” said his wife, “turning back

their necks to the byre, and routing while the stony-hearted villains

were brogging them on wi' their lances!”

“There were but four of them,” said Martin, “and I have seen the day

forty wad not have ventured this length. But our strength and manhood is

gane with our puir maister.”

“For the sake of the holy rood, whisht, man,” said the goodwife, “our

leddy is half gane already, as ye may see by that fleightering of the

ee-lid--a word mair and she's dead outright.”

“I could almost wish,” said Martin, “we were a' gane, for what to do

passes my puir wit. I care little for mysell, or you, Tibb,--we can make

a fend--work or want--we can do baith, but she can do neither.”

They canvassed their situation thus openly before the lady, convinced by

the paleness of her look, her quivering lip, and dead-set eye, that she

neither heard nor understood what they were saying.

“There is a way,” said the shepherd, “but I kenna if she could bring her

heart to it,--there's Simon Glendinning's widow of the glen yonder, has

had assurance from the Southern loons, and nae soldier to steer them

for one cause or other. Now, if the leddy could bow her mind to take

quarters with Elspeth Glendinning till better days cast up, nae doubt it

wad be doing an honour to the like of her, but----”

“An honour,” answered Tibb, “ay, by my word, sic an honour as wad be

pride to her kin mony a lang year after her banes were in the mould. Oh!

gudeman, to hear ye even the Lady of Avenel to seeking quarters wi' a

Kirk-vassal's widow!”

“Loath should I be to wish her to it,” said Martin; “but what may we

do?--to stay here is mere starvation; and where to go, I'm sure I ken

nae mair than ony tup I ever herded.”

“Speak no more of it,” said the widow of Avenel, suddenly joining in the

conversation, “I will go to the tower.--Dame Elspeth is of good folk,

a widow, and the mother of orphans,--she will give us house-room until

something be thought upon. These evil showers make the low bush better

than no bield.”

“See there, see there,” said Martin, “you see the leddy has twice our

sense.”

“And natural it is,” said Tibb, “seeing that she is convent-bred, and

can lay silk broidery, forby white-seam and shell-work.”

“Do you not think,” said the lady to Martin, still clasping her child to

her bosom and making it clear from what motives she desired the refuge,

“that Dame Glendinning will make us welcome?”

“Blithely welcome, blithely welcome, my leddy,” answered Martin,

cheerily, “and we shall deserve a welcome at her hand. Men are scarce

now, my leddy, with these wars; and gie me a thought of time to it, I

can do as good a day's darg as ever I did in my life, and Tibb can sort

cows with ony living woman.”

“And muckle mair could I do,” said Tibb, “were it ony feasible house;

but there will be neither pearlins to mend, nor pinners to busk up, in

Elspeth Glendinning's.”

“Whisht wi' your pride, woman,” said the shepherd; “eneugh you can do,

baith outside and inside, an ye set your mind to it; and hard it is

if we twa canna work for three folk's meat, forby my dainty wee leddy

there. Come awa, come awa, nae use in staying here langer; we have five

Scots miles over moss and muir, and that is nae easy walk for a leddy

born and bred.”

Household stuff there was little or none to remove or care for; an

old pony which had escaped the plunderers, owing partly to its pitiful

appearance, partly from the reluctance which it showed to be caught

by strangers, was employed to carry the few blankets and other trifles

which they possessed. When Shagram came to his master's well-known

whistle, he was surprised to find the poor thing had been wounded,

though slightly, by an arrow, which one of the forayers had shot off in

anger after he had long chased it in vain.

“Ay, Shagram,” said the old man, as he applied something to the wound,

“must you rue the lang-bow as weel as all of us?”

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

“Ay, ay, madam,” said Martin, “God keep the kindly Scot from the

cloth-yard shaft, and he will keep himself from the handy stroke. But

let us go our way; the trash that is left I can come back for. There is

nae ane to stir it but the good neighbours, and they----”

“For the love of God, goodman,” said his wife, in a remonstrating tone,

“haud your peace! Think what ye're saying, and we hae sae muckle wild

land to go over before we win to the girth gate.”

The husband nodded acquiescence; for it was deemed highly imprudent to

speak of the fairies, either by their title of _good neighbours_ or

by any other, especially when about to pass the places which they were

supposed to haunt.

[Footnote: This superstition continues to prevail, though one would

suppose it must now be antiquated. It is only a year or two since an

itinerant puppet show-man, who, disdaining to acknowledge the profession

of Gines de Passamonte, called himself an artist from Vauxhall, brought

a complaint of a singular nature before the author, as Sheriff of

Selkirkshire. The singular dexterity with which the show-man had

exhibited the machinery of his little stage, had, upon a Selkirk

fair-day, excited the eager curiosity of some mechanics of Galashiels.

These men, from no worse motive that could be discovered than a thirst

after knowledge beyond their sphere, committed a burglary upon the barn

in which the puppets had been consigned to repose, and carried them off

in the nook of their plaids, when returning from Selkirk to their own

village.

“But with the morning cool reflection came.”

The party found, however, they could not make Punch dance, and that

the whole troop were equally intractable; they had also, perhaps, some

apprehensions of the Rhadamanth of the district; and, willing to be quit

of their booty, they left the puppets seated in a grove by the side of

the Ettrick, where they were sure to be touched by the first beams of

the rising sun. Here a shepherd, who was on foot with sunrise to pen

his master's sheep on a field of turnips, to his utter astonishment, saw

this train, profusely gay, sitting in the little grotto. His examination

proceeded thus:--

_Sheriff_. You saw these gay-looking things? what did you think they

were?

_Shepherd_. Ou, I am no that free to say what I might think they were.

_Sheriff_. Come, lad, I must have a direct answer--who did you think

they were?

_Shepherd_. Ou, sir, troth I am no that free to say that I mind wha I

might think they were.

_Sheriff_. Come, come sir! I ask you distinctly, did you think they were

the fairies you saw?

_Shepherd_. Indeed, sir, and I winna say but I might think it was the

Good Neighbours.

Thus unwillingly was he brought to allude to the irritable and captious

inhabitants of fairy land.]

They set forward on their pilgrimage on the last day of October. “This

is thy birthday, my sweet Mary,” said the mother, as a sting of bitter

recollection crossed her mind. “Oh, who could have believed that the

head, which, a few years since, was cradled amongst so many rejoicing

friends, may perhaps this night seek a cover in vain!”

The exiled family then set forward,--Mary Avenel, a lovely girl between

five and six years old, riding gipsy fashion upon Shagram, betwixt two

bundles of bedding; the Lady of Avenel walking by the animal's side;

Tibb leading the bridle, and old Martin walking a little before, looking

anxiously around him to explore the way.

Martin's task as guide, after two or three miles' walking, became more

difficult than he himself had expected, or than he was willing to avow.

It happened that the extensive range of pasturage, with which he was

conversant, lay to the west, and to get into the little valley of

Glendearg he had to proceed easterly. In the wilder districts of

Scotland, the passage from one vale to another, otherwise than by

descending that which you leave, and reascending the other, is often

very difficult.--Heights and hollows, mosses and rocks intervene, and

all those local impediments which throw a traveller out of his course.

So that Martin, however sure of his general direction, became conscious,

and at length was forced reluctantly to admit, that he had missed the

direct road to Glendearg, though he insisted they must be very near it.

“If we can but win across this wide bog,” he said, “I shall warrant ye

are on the top of the tower.” But to get across the bog was a point

of no small difficulty. The farther they ventured into it, though

proceeding with all the caution which Martin's experience recommended,

the more unsound the ground became, until, after they had passed some

places of great peril, their best argument for going forward came to be,

that they had to encounter equal danger in returning. The Lady of Avenel

had been tenderly nurtured, but what will not a woman endure when her

child is in danger? Complaining less of the dangers of the road than

her attendants, who had been inured to such from their infancy, she kept

herself close by the side of the pony, watching its every footstep, and

ready, if it should flounder in the morass, to snatch her little Mary

from its back. At length they came to a place where the guide greatly

hesitated, for all around him was broken lumps of heath, divided

from each other by deep sloughs of black tenacious mire. After great

consideration, Martin, selecting what he thought the safest path, began

himself to lead forward Shagram, in order to afford greater security to

the child. But Shagram snorted, laid his ears back, stretched his two

feet forward, and drew his hind feet under him, so as to adopt the best

possible posture for obstinate resistance, and refused to move one yard

in the direction indicated. Old Martin, much puzzled, now hesitated

whether to exert his absolute authority, or to defer to the contumacious

obstinacy of Shagram, and was not greatly comforted by his wife's

observation, who, seeing Shagram stare with his eyes, distend his

nostrils, and tremble with terror, hinted that “he surely saw more than

they could see.”

In this dilemma, the child suddenly exclaimed--“Bonny leddy signs to

us to come yon gate.” They all looked in the direction where the child

pointed, but saw nothing, save a wreath, of rising mist, which fancy

might form into a human figure; but which afforded to Martin only the

sorrowful conviction, that the danger of their situation was about to be

increased by a heavy fog. He once more essayed to lead forward Shagram;

but the animal was inflexible in its determination not to move in the

direction Martin recommended. “Take your awn way for it, then,” said

Martin, “and let us see what you can do for us.”

Shagram, abandoned to the discretion of his own free-will, set off

boldly in the direction the child had pointed. There was nothing

wonderful in this, nor in its bringing them safe to the other side of

the dangerous morass; for the instinct of these animals in traversing

bogs is one of the most curious parts of their nature, and is a fact

generally established. But it was remarkable, that the child more than

once mentioned the beautiful lady and her signals, and that Shagram

seemed to be in the secret, always moving in the same direction which

she indicated. The Lady of Avenel took little notice at the time, her

mind being probably occupied by the instant danger; but her attendants

changed expressive looks with each other more than once.

“All-Hallow Eve!” said Tibb, in a whisper to Martin.

“For the mercy of Our Lady, not a word of that now!” said Martin in

reply. “Tell your beads, woman, if you cannot be silent.”

When they got once more on firm ground, Martin recognized certain

land-marks, or cairns, on the tops of the neighbouring hills, by which

he was enabled to guide his course, and ere long they arrived at the

Tower of Glendearg.

It was at the sight of this little fortalice that the misery of her lot

pressed hard on the poor Lady of Avenel. When by any accident they had

met at church, market, or other place of public resort, she remembered

the distant and respectful air with which the wife of the warlike baron

was addressed by the spouse of the humble feuar. And now, so much was

her pride humbled, that she was to ask to share the precarious safety of

the same feuar's widow, and her pittance of food, which might perhaps

be yet more precarious. Martin probably guessed what was passing in her

mind, for he looked at her with a wistful glance, as if to deprecate any

change of resolution; and answering to his looks, rather than his words,

she said, while the sparkle of subdued pride once more glanced from

her eye, “If it were for myself alone, I could but die-but for this

infant--the last pledge of Avenel--”

“True, my lady,” said Martin, hastily; and, as if to prevent the

possibility of her retracting, he added, “I will step on and see Dame

Elspeth--I kend her husband weel, and have bought and sold with him, for

as great a man as he was.”

Martin's tale was soon told, and met all acceptance from her companion

in misfortune. The Lady of Avenel had been meek and courteous in her

prosperity; in adversity, therefore, she met with the greatest sympathy.

Besides, there was a point of pride in sheltering and supporting a woman

of such superior birth and rank; and, not to do Elspeth Glendinning

injustice, she felt sympathy for one whose fate resembled her own in so

many points, yet was so much more severe. Every species of hospitality

was gladly and respectfully extended to the distressed travellers,

and they were kindly requested to stay as long at Glendearg as their

circumstances rendered necessary, or their inclination prompted.

Chapter the Fourth.

Ne'er be I found by thee unawed,

On that thrice hallow'd eve abroad.

When goblins haunt from flood and fen,

The steps of men.

COLLINS'S _Ode to Fear_.

As the country became more settled, the Lady of Avenel would have

willingly returned to her husband's mansion. But that was no longer in

her power. It was a reign of minority, when the strongest had the best

right, and when acts of usurpation were frequent amongst those who had

much power and little conscience.

Julian Avenel, the younger brother of the deceased Walter, was a person

of this description. He hesitated not to seize upon his brother's house

and lands, so soon as the retreat of the English permitted him. At

first, he occupied the property in the name of his niece; but when the

lady proposed to return with her child to the mansion of its fathers, he

gave her to understand, that Avenel, being a male fief, descended to

the brother, instead of the daughter, of the last possessor. The ancient

philosopher declined a dispute with the emperor who commanded twenty

legions, and the widow of Walter Avenel was in no condition to maintain

a contest with the leader of twenty moss-troopers. Julian was also a

man of service, who could back a friend in case of need, and was sure,

therefore, to find protectors among the ruling powers. In short, however

clear the little Mary's right to the possessions of her father, her

mother saw the necessity of giving way, at least for the time, to the

usurpation of her uncle.

Her patience and forbearance were so far attended with advantage,

that Julian, for very shame's sake, could no longer suffer her to be

absolutely dependant on the charity of Elspeth Glendinning. A drove of

cattle and a bull (which were probably missed by some English farmer)

were driven to the pastures of Glendearg; presents of raiment and

household stuff were sent liberally, and some little money, though with

a more sparing hand: for those in the situation of Julian Avenel could

come more easily by the goods, than the representing medium of value,

and made their payments chiefly in kind.

In the meantime, the widows of Walter Avenel and Simon Glendinning had

become habituated to each other's society, and were unwilling to part.

The lady could hope no more secret and secure residence than in the

Tower of Glendearg, and she was now in a condition to support her share

of the mutual housekeeping. Elspeth, on the other hand, felt pride, as

well as pleasure, in the society of a guest of such distinction, and

was at all times willing to pay much greater deference than the Lady of

Walter Avenel could be prevailed on to accept.

Martin and his wife diligently served the united family in their several

vocations, and yielded obedience to both mistresses, though always

considering themselves as the especial servants of the Lady of Avenel.

This distinction sometimes occasioned a slight degree of difference

between Dame Elspeth and Tibb; the former being jealous of her own

consequence, and the latter apt to lay too much stress upon the rank

and family of her mistress. But both were alike desirous to conceal such

petty squabbles from the lady, her hostess scarce yielding to her old

domestic in respect for her person. Neither did the difference exist in

such a degree as to interrupt the general harmony of the family, for the

one wisely gave way as she saw the other become warm; and Tibb, though

she often gave the first provocation, had generally the sense to be the

first in relinquishing the argument.

The world which lay beyond was gradually forgotten by the inhabitants

of this sequestered glen, and unless when she attended mass at the

Monastery Church upon some high holiday, Alice of Avenel almost

forgot that she once held an equal rank with the proud wives of the

neighbouring barons and nobles who on such occasions crowded to the

solemnity. The recollection gave her little pain. She loved her husband

for himself, and in his inestimable loss all lesser subjects of regret

had ceased to interest her. At times, indeed, she thought of claiming

the protection of the Queen Regent (Mary of Guise) for her little

orphan, but the fear of Julian Avenel always came between. She was

sensible that he would have neither scruple nor difficulty in spiriting

away the child, (if he did not proceed farther,) should he once consider

its existence as formidable to his interest. Besides, he led a wild and

unsettled life, mingling in all feuds and forays, wherever there was

a spear to be broken; he evinced no purpose of marrying, and the fate

which he continually was braving might at length remove him from his

usurped inheritance. Alice of Avenel, therefore, judged it wise to check

all ambitious thoughts for the present, and remain quiet in the rude,

but peaceable retreat, to which Providence had conducted her.

It was upon an All-Hallow's eve, when the family had resided together

for the space of three years, that the domestic circle was assembled

round the blazing turf-fire, in the old narrow hall of the Tower of

Glendearg. The idea of the master or mistress of the mansion feeding or

living apart from their domestics, was at this period never entertained.

The highest end of the board, the most commodious settle by the

fire,--these were the only marks of distinction; and the servants

mingled, with deference indeed, but unreproved and with freedom, in

whatever conversation was going forward. But the two or three domestics,

kept merely for agricultural purposes, had retired to their own cottages

without, and with them a couple of wenches, usually employed within

doors, the daughters of one of the hinds.

After their departure, Martin locked, first, the iron grate; and,

secondly, the inner door of the tower, when the domestic circle was thus

arranged. Dame Elspeth sate pulling the thread from her distaff; Tibb

watched the progress of scalding the whey, which hung in a large pot

upon the _crook_, a chain terminated by a hook, which was suspended

in the chimney to serve the purpose of the modern crane. Martin, while

busied in repairing some of the household articles, (for every man in

those days was his own carpenter and smith, as well as his own tailor

and shoemaker,) kept from time to time a watchful eye upon the three

children.

They were allowed, however, to exercise their juvenile restlessness by

running up and down the hall, behind the seats of the elder members of

the family, with the privilege of occasionally making excursions into

one or two small apartments which opened from it, and gave excellent

opportunity to play at hide-and-seek. This night, however, the children

seemed not disposed to avail themselves of their privilege of visiting

these dark regions, but preferred carrying on their gambols in the

vicinity of the light.

In the meanwhile, Alice of Avenel, sitting close to an iron candlestick,

which supported a misshapen torch of domestic manufacture, read small

detached passages from a thick clasped volume, which she preserved

with the greatest care. The art of reading the lady had acquired by her

residence in a nunnery during her youth, but she seldom, of late years,

put it to any other use than perusing this little volume, which formed

her whole library. The family listened to the portions which she

selected, as to some good thing which there was a merit in hearing with

respect, whether it was fully understood or no. To her daughter, Alice

of Avenel had determined to impart their mystery more fully, but the

knowledge was at that period attended with personal danger, and was not

rashly to be trusted to a child.

The noise of the romping children interrupted, from time to time, the

voice of the lady, and drew on the noisy culprits the rebuke of Elspeth.

“Could they not go farther a-field, if they behoved to make such a din,

and disturb the lady's good words?” And this command was backed with

the threat of sending the whole party to bed if it was not attended to

punctually. Acting under the injunction, the children first played at

a greater distance from the party, and more quietly, and then began

to stray into the adjacent apartments, as they became impatient of the

restraint to which they were subjected. But, all at once, the two boys

came open-mouthed into the hall, to tell that there was an armed man in

the spence.

“It must be Christie of Clint-hill,” said Martin, rising; “what can have

brought him here at this time?”

“Or how came he in?” said Elspeth.

“Alas! what can he seek?” said the Lady of Avenel, to whom this man,

a retainer of her husband's brother, and who sometimes executed his

commissions at Glendearg, was an object of secret apprehension and

suspicion. “Gracious heavens!” she added, rising up, “where is my

child?” All rushed to the spence, Halbert Glendinning first arming

himself with a rusty sword, and the younger seizing upon the lady's

book. They hastened to the spence, and were relieved of a part of their

anxiety by meeting Mary at the door of the apartment. She did not seem

in the slightest degree alarmed, or disturbed. They rushed into the

spence, (a sort of interior apartment in which the family ate their

victuals in the summer season,) but there was no one there.

“Where is Christie of Clint-hill?” said Martin.

“I do not know,” said little Mary; “I never saw him.”

“And what made you, ye misleard loons,” said Dame Elspeth to her two

boys, “come yon gate into the ha', roaring like bullsegs, to frighten

the leddy, and her far frae strong?” The boys looked at each other in

silence and confusion, and their mother proceeded with her lecture.

“Could ye find nae night for daffin but Hallowe'en, and nae time but

when the leddy was reading to us about the holy Saints? May ne'er be in

my fingers, if I dinna sort ye baith for it!” The eldest boy bent his

eyes on the ground, the younger began to weep, but neither spoke;

and the mother would have proceeded to extremities, but for the

interposition of the little maiden.

“Dame Elspeth, it was _my_ fault--I did say to them, that I saw a man in

the spence.”

“And what made you do so, child,” said her mother, “to startle us all

thus?”

“Because,” said Mary, lowering her voice, “I could not help it.”

“Not help it, Mary!--you occasioned all this idle noise, and you could

not help it? How mean you by that, minion?”

“There really was an armed man in this spence,” said Mary; “and because

I was surprised to see him, I cried out to Halbert and Edward--”

“She has told it herself,” said Halbert Glendinning, “or it had never

been told by me.”

“Nor by me neither,” said Edward, emulously.

“Mistress Mary,” said Elspeth, “you never told us anything before that

was not true; tell us if this was a Hallowe'en cantrip, and make an end

of it.” The Lady of Avenel looked as if she would have interfered, but

knew not how; and Elspeth, who was too eagerly curious to regard any

distant hint, persevered in her inquiries. “Was it Christie of the

Clint-hill?--I would not for a mark that he were about the house, and a

body no ken whare.”

“It was not Christie,” said Mary; “it was--it was a gentleman--a

gentleman with a bright breastplate, like what I hae seen langsyne, when

we dwelt at Avenel--”

“What like was he?” continued Tibb, who now took share in the

investigation.

“Black-haired, black-eyed, with a peaked black beard,” said the child;

“and many a fold of pearling round his neck, and hanging down his breast

ower his breastplate; and he had a beautiful hawk, with silver bells,

standing on his left hand, with a crimson silk hood upon its head--”

“Ask her no more questions, for the love of God,” said the anxious

menial to Elspeth, “but look to my leddy!” But the Lady of Avenel,

taking Mary in her hand, turned hastily away, and, walking into the

hall, gave them no opportunity of remarking in what manner she received

the child's communication, which she thus cut short. What Tibb thought

of it appeared from her crossing herself repeatedly, and whispering

into Elspeth's ear, “Saint Mary preserve us!--the lassie has seen her

father!”

When they reached the hall, they found the lady holding her daughter

on her knee, and kissing her repeatedly. When they entered, she again

arose, as if to shun observation, and retired to the little apartment

where her child and she occupied the same bed.

The boys were also sent to their cabin, and no one remained by the hall

fire save the faithful Tibb and dame Elspeth, excellent persons both,

and as thorough gossips as ever wagged a tongue.

It was but natural that they should instantly resume the subject of the

supernatural appearance, for such they deemed it, which had this night

alarmed the family.

“I could hae wished it had been the deil himself--be good to and

preserve us!--rather than Christie o' the Clint-hill,” said the matron

of the mansion, “for the word runs rife in the country, that he is ane

of the maist masterfu' thieves ever lap on horse.”

“Hout-tout, Dame Elspeth,” said Tibb, “fear ye naething frae Christie;

tods keep their ain holes clean. You kirk-folk make sic a fasherie about

men shifting a wee bit for their living! Our Border-lairds would ride

with few men at their back, if a' the light-handed lads were out o'

gate.”

“Better they rade wi' nane than distress the country-side the gate they

do,” said Dame Elspeth.

“But wha is to haud back the Southron, then,” said Tibb, “if ye take

away the lances and broadswords? I trow we auld wives couldna do that

wi' rock and wheel, and as little the monks wi' bell and book.”

“And sae weel as the lances and broadswords hae kept them back, I

trow!--I was mair beholden to ae Southron, and that was Stawarth Bolton,

than to a' the border-riders ever wore Saint Andrew's cross--I reckon

their skelping back and forward, and lifting honest men's gear, has been

a main cause of a' the breach between us and England, and I am sure that

cost me a kind goodman. They spoke about the wedding of the Prince and

our Queen, but it's as like to be the driving of the Cumberland folk's

stocking that brought them down on us like dragons.” Tibb would not have

failed in other circumstances to answer what she thought reflections

disparaging to her country folk; but she recollected that Dame Elspeth

was mistress of the family, curbed her own zealous patriotism, and

hastened to change the subject.

“And is it not strange,” she said, “that the heiress of Avenel should

have seen her father this blessed night?”

“And ye think it was her father, then?” said Elspeth Glendinning.

“What else can I think?” said Tibb.

“It may hae been something waur, in his likeness,” said Dame

Glendinning.

“I ken naething about that,” said Tibb,--“but his likeness it was, that

I will be sworn to, just as he used to ride out a-hawking; for having

enemies in the country, he seldom laid off the breast-plate; and for my

part,” added Tibb, “I dinna think a man looks like a man unless he has

steel on his breast, and by his side too.”

“I have no skill of your harness on breast or side either,” said Dame

Glendinning; “but I ken there is little luck in Hallowe'en sights, for I

have had ane myself.”

“Indeed, Dame Elspeth?” said old Tibb, edging her stool closer to the

huge elbow-chair occupied by her friend, “I should like to hear about

that.”

“Ye maun ken, then, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, “that when I was a

hempie of nineteen or twenty, it wasna my fault if I wasna at a' the

merry-makings time about.”

“That was very natural,” said Tibb; “but ye hae sobered since that, or

ye wadna haud our braw gallants sae lightly.”

“I have had that wad sober me or ony ane,” said the matron, “Aweel,

Tibb, a lass like me wasna to lack wooers, for I wasna sae ill-favoured

that the tikes wad bark after me.”

“How should that be,” said Tibb, “and you sic a weel-favoured woman to

this day?”

“Fie, fie, cummer,” said the matron of Glendearg, hitching her seat of

honour, in her turn, a little nearer to the cuttle-stool on which Tibb

was seated; “weel-favoured is past my time of day; but I might pass

then, for I wasna sae tocherless but what I had a bit land at my

breast-lace. My father was portioner of Little-dearg.”

“Ye hae tell'd me that before,” said Tibb; “but anent the Hallowe'en?”

“Aweel, aweel, I had mair joes than ane, but I favoured nane o' them;

and sae, at Hallowe'en, Father Nicolas the cellarer--he was cellarer

before this father, Father Clement, that now is--was cracking his nuts

and drinking his brown beer with us, and as blithe as might be, and they

would have me try a cantrip to ken wha suld wed me: and the monk said

there was nae ill in it, and if there was, he would assoil me for

it. And wha but I into the barn to winnow my three weights o'

naething--sair, sair my mind misgave me for fear of wrang-doing and

wrang-suffering baith; but I had aye a bauld spirit. I had not winnowed

the last weight clean out, and the moon was shining bright upon the

floor, when in stalked the presence of my dear Simon Glendinning, that

is now happy. I never saw him plainer in my life than I did that moment;

he held up an arrow as he passed me, and I swarf'd awa wi' fright.

Muckle wark there was to bring me to mysell again, and sair they tried

to make me believe it was a trick of Father Nicolas and Simon between

them, and that the arrow was to signify Cupid's shaft, as the Father

called it; and mony a time Simon wad threep it to me after I was

married--gude man, he liked not it should be said that he was seen out

o' the body!--But mark the end o' it, Tibb; we were married, and the

gray-goose wing was the death o' him after a'!”

“As it has been of ower mony brave men,” said Tibb; “I wish there wasna

sic a bird as a goose in the wide warld, forby the clecking that we hae

at the burn-side.”

“But tell me, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, “what does your leddy aye do

reading out o' that thick black book wi' the silver clasps?--there are

ower mony gude words in it to come frae ony body but a priest--An it

were about Robin Hood, or some o' David Lindsay's ballants, ane wad ken

better what to say to it. I am no misdoubting your mistress nae way,

but I wad like ill to hae a decent house haunted wi' ghaists and

gyrecarlines.”

“Ye hae nae reason to doubt my leddy, or ony thing she says or does,

Dame Glendinning,” said the faithful Tibb, something offended; “and

touching the bairn, it's weel kend she was born on Hallowe'en, was nine

years gane, and they that are born on Hallowe'en whiles see mair than

ither folk.”

“And that wad be the cause, then, that the bairn didna mak muckle din

about what it saw?--if it had been my Halbert himself, forby Edward, who

is of softer nature, he wad hae yammered the haill night of a constancy.

But it's like Mistress Mary hae sic sights mair natural to her.”

“That may weel be,” said Tibb; “for on Hallowe'en she was born, as I

tell ye, and our auld parish priest wad fain hae had the night ower,

and All-Hallow day begun. But for a' that, the sweet bairn is just like

ither bairns, as ye may see yourself; and except this blessed night,

and ance before when we were in that weary bog on the road here, I kenna

that it saw mair than ither folk.”

“But what saw she in the bog, then,” said Dame Glendinning, “forby

moor-cocks and heather-blutters?”

“The wean saw something like a white leddy that weised us the gate,”

said Tibb; “when we were like to hae perished in the moss-hags--certain

it was that Shagram reisted, and I ken Martin thinks he saw something.”

“And what might the white leddy be?” said Elspeth; “have ye ony guess o'

that?”

“It's weel kend that, Dame Elspeth,” said Tibb; “if ye had lived under

grit folk, as I hae dune, ye wadna be to seek in that matter.”

“I hae aye keepit my ain ha' house abune my head,” said Elspeth, not

without emphasis, “and if I havena lived wi' grit folk, grit folk have

lived wi' me.”

“Weel, weel, dame,” said Tibb, “your pardon's prayed, there was nae

offence meant. But ye maun ken the great ancient families canna be just

served wi' the ordinary saunts, (praise to them!) like Saunt Anthony,

Saunt Cuthbert, and the like, that come and gang at every sinner's

bidding, but they hae a sort of saunts or angels, or what not, to

themsells; and as for the White Maiden of Avenel, she is kend ower the

haill country. And she is aye seen to yammer and wail before ony o' that

family dies, as was weel kend by twenty folk before the death of Walter

Avenel, haly be his cast!”

“If she can do nae mair than that,” said Elspeth, somewhat scornfully,

“they needna make mony vows to her, I trow. Can she make nae better fend

for them than that, and has naething better to do than wait on them?”

“Mony braw services can the White Maiden do for them to the boot of

that, and has dune in the auld histories,” said Tibb, “but I mind o'

naething in my day, except it was her that the bairn saw in the bog.”

“Aweel, aweel, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, rising and lighting the

iron lamp, “these are great privileges of your grand folk. But our Lady

and Saunt Paul are good eneugh saunts for me, and I'se warrant them

never leave me in a bog that they can help me out o', seeing I send four

waxen candles to their chapels every Candlemas; and if they are not seen

to weep at my death, I'se warrant them smile at my joyful rising again,

whilk Heaven send to all of us, Amen.”

“Amen,” answered Tibb, devoutly; “and now it's time I should hap up the

wee bit gathering turf, as the fire is ower low.”

Busily she set herself to perform this duty. The relict of Simon

Glendinning did but pause a moment to cast a heedful and cautious glance

all around the hall, to see that nothing was out of its proper place;

then, wishing Tibb good-night, she retired to repose.

“The deil's in the carline,” said Tibb to herself, “because she was

the wife of a cock-laird, she thinks herself grander, I trow, than the

bower-woman of a lady of that ilk!” Having given vent to her suppressed

spleen in this little ejaculation, Tibb also betook herself to slumber.

Chapter the Fifth.

A priest, ye cry, a priest!--lame shepherds they,

How shall they gather in the straggling flock?

Dumb dogs which bark not--how shall they compel

The loitering vagrants to the Master's fold?

Fitter to bask before the blazing fire,

And snuff the mess neat-handed Phillis dresses,

Than on the snow-wreath battle with the wolf.

REFORMATION.

The health of the Lady of Avenel had been gradually decaying ever since

her disaster. It seemed as if the few years which followed her husband's

death had done on her the work of half a century. She lost the fresh

elasticity of form, the colour and the mien of health, and became

wasted, wan, and feeble. She appeared to have no formed complaint;

yet it was evident to those who looked on her, that her strength waned

daily. Her lips at length became blenched and her eye dim; yet she spoke

not of any desire to see a priest, until Elspeth Glendinning in her zeal

could not refrain from touching upon a point which she deemed essential

to salvation. Alice of Avenel received her hint kindly, and thanked her

for it.

“If any good priest would take the trouble of such a journey,” she said,

“he should be welcome; for the prayers and lessons of the good must be

at all times advantageous.”

This quiet acquiescence was not quite what Elspeth Glendinning wished

or expected. She made up, however, by her own enthusiasm, for the lady's

want of eagerness to avail herself of ghostly counsel, and Martin was

despatched with such haste as Shagram would make, to pray one of

the religious men of Saint Mary's to come up to administer the last

consolations to the widow of Walter Avenel.

When the Sacristan had announced to the Lord Abbot, that the Lady of

the umquhile Walter de Avenel was in very weak health in the Tower of

Glendearg, and desired the assistance of a father confessor, the lordly

monk paused on the request.

“We do remember Walter de Avenel,” he said; “a good knight and

a valiant: he was dispossessed of his lands, and slain by the

Southron--May not the lady come hither to the sacrament of confession?

the road is distant and painful to travel.”

“The lady is unwell, holy father,” answered the Sacristan, “and unable

to bear the journey.”

“True--ay,--yes--then must one of our brethren go to her--Knowest thou

if she hath aught of a jointure from this Walter de Avenel?”

“Very little, holy father,” said the Sacristan; “she hath resided at

Glendearg since her husband's death, well-nigh on the charity of a poor

widow, called Elspeth Glendinning.”

“Why, thou knowest all the widows in the country-side!” said the Abbot.

“Ho! ho! ho!” and he shook his portly sides at his own jest.

“Ho! ho! ho!” echoed the Sacristan, in the tone and tune in which

an inferior applauds the jest of his superior.--Then added, with a

hypocritical shuffle, and a sly twinkle of his eye, “It is our duty,

most holy father, to comfort the widow--He! he! he!”

This last laugh was more moderate, until the Abbot should put his

sanction on the jest.

“Ho! ho!” said the Abbot; “then, to leave jesting, Father Philip, take

thou thy riding gear, and go to confess this Dame Avenel.”

“But,” said the Sacristan----

“Give me no _Buts;_ neither But nor If pass between monk and Abbot,

Father Philip; the bands of discipline must not be relaxed--heresy

gathers force like a snow-ball--the multitude expect confessions and

preachings from the Benedictine, as they would from so many beggarly

friars--and we may not desert the vineyard, though the toil be grievous

unto us.”

“And with so little advantage to the holy monastery,” said the

Sacristan.

“True, Father Philip; but wot you not that what preventeth harm doth

good? This Julian de Avenel lives a light and evil life, and should we

neglect the widow of his brother, he might foray our lands, and we never

able to show who hurt us--moreover it is our duty to an ancient family,

who, in their day, have been benefactors to the Abbey. Away with thee

instantly, brother; ride night and day, an it be necessary, and let men

see how diligent Abbot Boniface and his faithful children are in the

execution of their spiritual duty--toil not deterring them, for the glen

is five miles in length--fear not withholding them, for it is said to be

haunted of spectres--nothing moving them from pursuit of their spiritual

calling; to the confusion of calumnious heretics, and the comfort and

edification of all true and faithful sons of the Catholic Church. I

wonder what our brother Eustace will say to this?”

Breathless with his own picture of the dangers and toil which he was to

encounter, and the fame which he was to acquire, (both by proxy,) the

Abbot moved slowly to finish his luncheon in the refectory, and the

Sacristan, with no very good will, accompanied old Martin in his return

to Glendearg; the greatest impediment in the journey being the trouble

of restraining his pampered mule, that she might tread in something like

an equal pace with poor jaded Shagram.

After remaining an hour in private with his penitent, the monk returned

moody and full of thought. Dame Elspeth, who had placed for the honoured

guest some refreshment in the hall, was struck with the embarrassment

which appeared in his countenance. Elspeth watched him with great

anxiety. She observed there was that on his brow which rather resembled

a person come from hearing the confession of some enormous crime, than

the look of a confessor who resigns a reconciled penitent, not to earth,

but to heaven. After long hesitating, she could not at length refrain

from hazarding a question. She was sure she said, the leddy had made an

easy shrift. Five years had they resided together, and she could safely

say, no woman lived better.

“Woman,” said the Sacristan, sternly, “thou speakest thou knowest not

what--What avails clearing the outside of the platter, if the inside be

foul with heresy?”

“Our dishes and trenchers are not so clean as they could be wished,

holy father,” said Elspeth, but half understanding what he said, and

beginning with her apron to wipe the dust from the plates, of which she

supposed him to complain.

“Forbear, Dame Elspeth” said the monk; “your plates are as clean as

wooden trenchers and pewter flagons can well be; the foulness of which

I speak is of that pestilential heresy which is daily becoming ingrained

in this our Holy Church of Scotland, and as a canker-worm in the

rose-garland of the Spouse.”

“Holy Mother of Heaven!” said Dame Elspeth, crossing herself, “have I

kept house with a heretic?”

“No, Elspeth, no,” replied the monk; “it were too strong a speech for me

to make of this unhappy lady, but I would I could say she is free

from heretical opinions. Alas! they fly about like the pestilence by

noon-day, and infect even the first and fairest of the flock! For it

is easy to see of this dame, that she hath been high in judgment as in

rank.”

“And she can write and read, I had almost said, as weel as your

reverence” said Elspeth.

“Whom doth she write to, and what doth she read?” said the monk,

eagerly.

“Nay,” replied Elspeth, “I cannot say I ever saw her write at all, but

her maiden that was--she now serves the family--says she can write--And

for reading, she has often read to us good things out of a thick black

volume with silver clasps.”

“Let me see it,” said the monk, hastily, “on your allegiance as a true

vassal--on your faith as a Catholic Christian--instantly--instantly let

me see it.”

The good woman hesitated, alarmed at the tone in which the confessor

took up her information; and being moreover of opinion, that what so

good a woman as the Lady of Avenel studied so devoutly, could not be of

a tendency actually evil. But borne down by the clamour, exclamations,

and something like threats used by Father Philip, she at length brought

him the fatal volume. It was easy to do this without suspicion on the

part of the owner, as she lay on her bed exhausted with the fatigue of a

long conference with her confessor, and as the small _round_, or turret

closet, in which was the book and her other trifling property, was

accessible by another door. Of all her effects the book was the last she

would have thought of securing, for of what use or interest could it be

in a family who neither read themselves, nor were in the habit of

seeing any who did? so that Dame Elspeth had no difficulty in possessing

herself of the volume, although her heart all the while accused her of

an ungenerous and an inhospitable part towards her friend and inmate.

The double power of a landlord and a feudal superior was before her

eyes; and to say truth, the boldness, with which she might otherwise

have resisted this double authority, was, I grieve to say it, much

qualified by the curiosity she entertained, as a daughter of Eve, to

have some explanation respecting the mysterious volume which the lady

cherished with so much care, yet whose contents she imparted with such

caution. For never had Alice of Avenel read them any passage from the

book in question until the iron door of the tower was locked, and all

possibility of intrusion prevented. Even then she had shown, by the

selection of particular passages, that she was more anxious to impress

on their minds the principles which the volume contained, than to

introduce them to it as a new rule of faith.

When Elspeth, half curious, half remorseful, had placed the book in the

monk's hands, he exclaimed, after turning over the leaves, “Now, by mine

order, it is as I suspected!--My mule, my mule!--I will abide no longer

here--well hast thou done, dame, in placing in my hands this perilous

volume.”

“Is it then witchcraft or devil's work?” said Dame Elspeth, in great

agitation.

“Nay, God forbid!” said the monk, signing himself with the cross, “it

is the Holy Scripture. But it is rendered into the vulgar tongue, and

therefore, by the order of the Holy Catholic Church, unfit to be in the

hands of any lay person.”

“And yet is the Holy Scripture communicated for our common salvation,”

said Elspeth. “Good Father, you must instruct mine ignorance better; but

lack of wit cannot be a deadly sin, and truly, to my poor thinking, I

should be glad to read the Holy Scripture.”

“I dare say thou wouldst,” said the monk; “and even thus did our mother

Eve seek to have knowledge of good and evil, and thus Sin came into the

world, and Death by Sin.”

“I am sure, and it is true,” said Elspeth. “Oh, if she had dealt by the

counsel of Saint Peter and Saint Paul!”

“If she had reverenced the command of Heaven,” said the monk, “which,

as it gave her birth, life, and happiness, fixed upon the grant such

conditions as best corresponded with its holy pleasure. I tell thee,

Elspeth, _the Word slayeth_--that is, the text alone, read with

unskilled eye and unhallowed lips, is like those strong medicines which

sick men take by the advice of the learned. Such patients recover and

thrive; while those dealing in them at their own hand, shall perish by

their own deed.”

“Nae doubt, nae doubt,” said the poor woman, “your reverence knows

best.”

“Not I,” said Father Philip, in a tone as deferential as he thought

could possibly become the Sacristan of Saint Mary's,--“Not I, but the

Holy Father of Christendom, and our own holy father, the Lord Abbot,

know best. I, the poor Sacristan of Saint Mary's, can but repeat what I

hear from others my superiors. Yet of this, good woman, be assured,--the

Word, the mere Word, slayetlh. But the church hath her ministers to

gloze and to expound the same unto her faithful congregation; and this

I say, not so much, my beloved brethren--I mean my beloved sister,” (for

the Sacristan had got into the end of one of his old sermons,)--“This I

speak not so much of the rectors, curates, and secular clergy, so called

because they live after the fashion of the _seculum_ or age, unbound by

those ties which sequestrate us from the world; neither do I speak

this of the mendicant friars, whether black or gray, whether crossed or

uncrossed; but of the monks, and especially of the monks Benedictine,

reformed on the rule of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, thence called

Cistercian, of which monks, Christian brethren--sister, I would

say--great is the happiness and glory of the country in possessing the

holy ministers of Saint Mary's, whereof I, though an unworthy brother,

may say it hath produced more saints, more bishops, more popes--may

our patrons make us thankful!--than any holy foundation in Scotland.

Wherefore--But I see Martin hath my mule in readiness, and I will but

salute you with the kiss of sisterhood, which maketh not ashamed, and so

betake me to my toilsome return, for the glen is of bad reputation for

the evil spirits which haunt it. Moreover, I may arrive too late at the

bridge, whereby I may be obliged to take to the river, which I observed

to be somewhat waxen.”

Accordingly, he took his leave of Dame Elspeth, who was confounded by

the rapidity of his utterance, and the doctrine he gave forth, and by no

means easy on the subject of the book, which her conscience told her she

should not have communicated to any one, without the knowledge of its

owner.

Notwithstanding the haste which the monk as well as the mule made to

return to better quarters than they had left at the head of Glendearg;

notwithstanding the eager desire Father Philip had to be the very first

who should acquaint the Abbot that a copy of the book they most

dreaded had been found within the Halidome, or patrimony of the Abbey;

notwithstanding, moreover, certain feelings which induced him to hurry

as fast as possible through the gloomy and evil-reputed glen, still

the difficulties of the road, and the rider's want of habitude of quick

motion, were such, that twilight came upon him ere he had nearly cleared

the narrow valley. It was indeed a gloomy ride. The two sides of the

vale were so near, that at every double of the river the shadows from

the western sky fell upon, and totally obscured, the eastern bank; the

thickets of copsewood seemed to wave with a portentous agitation of

boughs and leaves, and the very crags and scaurs seemed higher and

grimmer than they had appeared to the monk while he was travelling in

daylight, and in company. Father Philip was heartily rejoiced, when,

emerging from the narrow glen, he gained the open valley of the Tweed,

which held on its majestic course from current to pool, and from pool

stretched away to other currents, with a dignity peculiar to itself

amongst the Scottish rivers; for whatever may have been the drought

of the season, the Tweed usually fills up the space between its banks,

seldom leaving those extensive sheets of shingle which deform the

margins of many of the celebrated Scottish streams.

The monk, insensible to beauties which the age had not regarded as

deserving of notice, was, nevertheless, like a prudent general, pleased

to find himself out of the narrow glen in which the enemy might have

stolen upon him unperceived. He drew up his bridle, reduced his mule

to her natural and luxurious amble, instead of the agitating and

broken trot at which, to his no small inconvenience, she had hitherto

proceeded, and, wiping his brow, gazed forth at leisure on the broad

moon, which, now mingling with the lights of evening, was rising over

field and forest, village and fortalice, and, above all, over the

stately Monastery, seen far and dim amid the vellow light.

The worst part of the magnificent view, in the monk's apprehension, was,

that the Monastery stood on the opposite side of the river, and that of

the many fine bridges which have since been built across that classical

stream, not one then existed. There was, however, in recompense, a

bridge then standing which has since disappeared, although its ruins may

still be traced by the curious.

It was of a very peculiar form. Two strong abutments were built on

either side of the river, at a part where the stream was peculiarly

contracted. Upon a rock in the centre of the current was built a solid

piece of masonry, constructed like the pier of a bridge, and presenting,

like a pier, an angle to the current of the stream. The masonry

continued solid until the pier rose to a level with the two abutments

upon either side, and from thence the building rose in the form of a

tower. The lower story of this tower consisted only of an archway or

passage through the building, over either entrance to which hung a

drawbridge with counterpoises, either of which, when dropped, connected

the archway with the opposite abutment, where the farther end of the

drawbridge rested. When both bridges were thus lowered, the passage over

the river was complete.

The bridge-keeper, who was the dependant of a neighbouring baron,

resided with his family in the second and third stories of the tower,

which, when both drawbridges were raised, formed an insulated fortalice

in the midst of the river. He was entitled to a small toll or custom

for the passage, concerning the amount of which disputes sometimes

arose between him and the passengers. It is needless to say, that the

bridge-ward had usually the better in these questions, since he could at

pleasure detain the traveller on the opposite side; or, suffering him

to pass half way, might keep him prisoner in his tower till they were

agreed on the rate of pontage.

[Footnote: A bridge of the very peculiar construction described in the

text, actually existed at a small hamlet about a mile and a half above

Melrose, called from the circumstance Bridge-end. It is thus noticed in

Gordon's _Iter Septentrionale_:--

“In another journey through the south parts of Scotland, about a mile

and a half from Melrose, in the shire of Teviotdale, I saw the remains

of a curious bridge over the river Tweed, consisting of three octangular

pillars, or rather towers, standing within the water, without any arches

to join them. The middle one, which is the most entire, has a door

towards the north, and I suppose another opposite one toward the south,

which I could not see without crossing the water. In the middle of this

tower is a projection or cornice surrounding it: the whole is hollow

from the door upwards, and now open at the top, near which is a small

window. I was informed that not long agro a countryman and his family

lived in this tower--and got his livelihood by laying out planks from

pillar to pillar, and conveying passengers over the river. Whether this

be ancient or modern, I know not; but as it is singular in its kind I

have thought fit to exhibit it.”

The vestiges of this uncommon species of bridge still exist, and the

author has often seen the foundations of the columns when drifting down

the Tweed at night for the purpose of killing salmon by torch-light.

Mr. John Mercer of Bridge-end recollects, that about fifty years ago the

pillars were visible above water; and the late Mr. David Kyle, of the

George Inn, Melrose, told the author that he saw a stone taken from the

river bearing this inscription:--

“I, Sir John Pringle of Palmer stede, Give an hundred markis of gowd sae

reid, To help to bigg my brigg ower Tweed.”

Pringle of Galashiels, afterwards of Whytbank, was the Baron to whom the

bridge belonged.]

But it was most frequently with the Monks of Saint Mary's that the

warder had to dispute his perquisites. These holy men insisted for, and

at length obtained, a right of gratuitous passage to themselves, greatly

to the discontent of the bridge-keeper. But when they demanded the

same immunity for the numerous pilgrims who visited the shrine, the

bridge-keeper waxed restive, and was supported by his lord in his

resistance. The controversy grew animated on both sides; the Abbot

menaced excommunication, and the keeper of the bridge, though unable to

retaliate in kind, yet made each individual monk who had to cross and

recross the river, endure a sort of purgatory, ere he would accommodate

them with a passage. This was a great inconvenience, and would have

proved a more serious one, but that the river was fordable for man and

horse in ordinary weather.

It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, when Father

Philip approached this bridge, the singular construction of which gives

a curious idea of the insecurity of the times. The river was not in

flood, but it was above its ordinary level--_a heavy water_, as it

is called in that country, through which the monk had no particular

inclination to ride, if he could manage the matter better.

“Peter, my good friend,” cried the Sacristan, raising his voice; “my

very excellent friend, Peter, be so kind as to lower the drawbridge.

Peter, I say, dost thou not hear?--it is thy gossip, Father Philip, who

calls thee.”

Peter heard him perfectly well, and saw him into the bargain; but as he

had considered the Sacristan as peculiarly his enemy in his dispute

with the convent, he went quietly to bed, after reconnoitring the monk

through his loop-hole, observing to his wife, that “riding the water in

a moonlight night would do the Sacristan no harm, and would teach him

the value of a brig the neist time, on whilk a man might pass high and

dry, winter and summer, flood and ebb.”

After exhausting his voice in entreaties and threats, which were equally

unattended to by Peter of the Brig, as he was called, Father Philip at

length moved down the river to take the ordinary ford at the head of

the next stream. Cursing the rustic obstinacy of Peter, he began,

nevertheless, to persuade himself that the passage of the river by the

ford was not only safe, but pleasant. The banks and scattered trees were

so beautifully reflected from the bosom of the dark stream, the whole

cool and delicious picture formed so pleasing a contrast to his late

agitation, to the warmth occasioned by his vain endeavours to move the

relentless porter of the bridge, that the result was rather agreeable

than otherwise.

As Father Philip came close to the water's edge, at the spot where

he was to enter it, there sat a female under a large broken scathed

oak-tree, or rather under the remains of such a tree, weeping, wringing

her hands, and looking earnestly on the current of the river. The monk

was struck with astonishment to see a female there at that time of

night. But he was, in all honest service,--and if a step farther, I put

it upon his own conscience,--a devoted squire of dames. After observing

the maiden for a moment, although she seemed to take no notice of

his presence, he was moved by her distress, and willing to offer his

assistance. “Damsel,” said he, “thou seemest in no ordinary distress;

peradventure, like myself, thou hast been refused passage at the bridge

by the churlish keeper, and thy crossing may concern thee either for

performance of a vow, or some other weighty charge.”

The maiden uttered some inarticulate sounds, looked at the river, and

then in the face of the Sacristan. It struck Father Philip at that

instant, that a Highland chief of distinction had been for some time

expected to pay his vows at the shrine of Saint Mary's; and that

possibly this fair maiden might be one of his family, travelling alone

for accomplishment of a vow, or left behind by some accident, to whom,

therefore, it would be but right and prudent to use every civility

in his power, especially as she seemed unacquainted with the Lowland

tongue. Such at least was the only motive the Sacristan was ever known

to assign for his courtesy; if there was any other, I once more refer it

to his own conscience.

To express himself by signs, the common language of all nations, the

cautious Sacristan first pointed to the river, then to his mule's

crupper, and then made, as gracefully as he could, a sign to induce the

fair solitary to mount behind him. She seemed to understand his meaning,

for she rose up as if to accept his offer; and while the good monk, who,

as we have hinted, was no great cavalier, laboured, with the pressure of

the right leg and the use of the left rein, to place his mule with her

side to the bank in such a position that the lady might mount with ease,

she rose from the ground with rather portentous activity, and at one

bound sate behind the monk upon the animal, much the firmer rider of the

two. The mule by no means seemed to approve of this double burden; she

bounded, bolted, and would soon have thrown Father Philip over her head,

had not the maiden with a firm hand detained him in the saddle.

At last the restive brute changed her humour; and, from refusing to

budge off the spot, suddenly stretched her nose homeward, and dashed

into the ford as fast as she could scamper. A new terror now invaded

the monk's mind--the ford seemed unusually deep, the water eddied off in

strong ripple from the counter of the mule, and began to rise upon her

side. Philip lost his presence of mind,--which was at no time his most

ready attribute, the mule yielded to the weight of the current, and as

the rider was not attentive to keep her head turned up the river, she

drifted downward, lost the ford and her footing at once, and began to

swim with her head down the stream. And what was sufficiently strange,

at the same moment, notwithstanding the extreme peril, the damsel began

to sing, thereby increasing, if anything could increase, the bodily fear

of the worthy Sacristan.