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Books: The Monastery

S >> Sir Walter Scott >> The Monastery




"He must, indeed, have been an excellent man," replied I, "whose
memory, at so distant a period, calls forth such strong marks of
regard."

"He was, as you justly term him," said the ecclesiastic, "indeed
excellent--excellent in his life and doctrine--excellent, above all,
in his self-denied and disinterested sacrifice of all that life holds
dear to principle and to friendship. But you shall read his history. I
shall be happy at once to gratify your curiosity, and to show my sense
of your kindness, if you will have the goodness to procure me the
means of accomplishing my object." I replied to the Benedictine, that,
as the rubbish amongst which he proposed to search was no part of the
ordinary burial-ground, and as I was on the best terms with the
sexton, I had little doubt that I could procure him the means of
executing his pious purpose.

With this promise we parted for the night; and on the ensuing morning
I made it my business to see the sexton, who, for a small gratuity,
readily granted permission of search, on condition, however, that he
should be present himself, to see that the stranger removed nothing of
intrinsic value.

"To banes, and skulls, and hearts, if he can find ony, he shall be
welcome," said this guardian of the ruined Monastery, "there's plenty
a' about, an he's curious of them; but if there be ony picts" (meaning
perhaps _pyx_) "or chalishes, or the like of such Popish veshells
of gold and silver, deil hae me an I conneve at their being removed."

The sexton also stipulated, that our researches should take place at
night, being unwilling to excite observation, or give rise to scandal.
My new acquaintance and I spent the day as became lovers of hoar
antiquity. We visited every corner of these magnificent ruins again
and again during the forenoon; and, having made a comfortable dinner
at David's, we walked in the afternoon to such places in the
neighbourhood as ancient tradition or modern conjecture had rendered
mark worthy. Night found us in the interior of the ruins, attended by
the sexton, who carried a dark lantern, and stumbling alternately over
the graves of the dead, and the fragments of that architecture, which
they doubtless trusted would have canopied their bones till doomsday.

I am by no means particularly superstitious, and yet there was that in
the present service which I did not very much like. There was
something awful in the resolution of disturbing, at such an hour, and
in such a place, the still and mute sanctity of the grave. My
companions were free from this impression--the stranger from his
energetic desire to execute the purpose for which he came--and the
sexton from habitual indifference. We soon stood in the aisle, which,
by the account of the Benedictine, contained the bones of the family
of Glendinning, and were busily employed in removing the rubbish from
a corner which the stranger pointed out. If a half-pay Captain could
have represented an ancient Border-knight, or an ex-Benedictine of the
nineteenth century a wizard monk of the sixteenth, we might have aptly
enough personified the search after Michael Scott's lamp and book of
magic power. But the sexton would have been _de trop_ in the
group. [Footnote: This is one of those passages which must now read
awkwardly, since every one knows that the Novelist and the author of
the Lay of the Minstrel, is the same person. But before the avowal was
made, the author was forced into this and similar offences against
good taste, to meet an argument, often repeated, that there was
something very mysterious in the Author of Waverley's reserve
concerning Sir Walter Scott, an author sufficiently voluminous at
least. I had a great mind to remove the passages from this edition,
but the more candid way is to explain how they came there.]

Ere the stranger, assisted by the sexton in his task, had been long at
work, they came to some hewn stones, which seemed to have made part of
a small shrine, though now displaced and destroyed.

"Let us remove these with caution, my friend," said the stranger,
"lest we injure that which I come to seek."

"They are prime stanes," said the sexton, "picked free every ane of
them;--warse than the best wad never serve the monks, I'se warrant."

A minute after he had made this observation, he exclaimed, "I hae fund
something now that stands again' the spade, as if it were neither
earth nor stane."

The stranger stooped eagerly to assist him.

"Na, na, haill o' my ain," said the sexton; "nae halves or
quarters;"--and he lifted from amongst the ruins a small leaden box.

"You will be disappointed, my friend," said the Benedictine, "if you
expect any thing there but the mouldering dust of a human heart, closed
in an inner case of porphyry."

I interposed as a neutral party, and taking the box from the sexton,
reminded him, that if there were treasure concealed in it, still it
could not become the property of the finder. I then proposed, that as
the place was too dark to examine the contents of the leaden casket,
we should adjourn to David's, where we might have the advantage of
light and fire while carrying on our investigation. The stranger
requested us to go before, assuring us that he would follow in a few
minutes.

I fancy that old Mattocks suspected these few minutes might be
employed in effecting farther discoveries amongst the tombs, for he
glided back through a side-aisle to watch the Benedictine's motions,
but presently returned, and told me in a whisper that "the gentleman
was on his knees amang the cauld stanes, praying like ony saunt."

I stole back, and beheld the old man actually employed as Mattocks had
informed me. The language seemed to be Latin; and as, the whispered,
yet solemn accent, glided away through the ruined aisles, I could not
help reflecting how long it was since they had heard the forms of that
religion, for the exercise of which they had been reared at such cost
of time, taste, labour, and expense. "Come away, come away," said I;
"let us leave him to himself, Mattocks; this is no business of ours."

"My certes, no, Captain," said Mattocks; "ne'ertheless, it winna be
amiss to keep an eye on him. My father, rest his saul, was a
horse-couper, and used to say he never was cheated in a naig in his
life, saving by a west-country whig frae Kilmarnock, that said a grace
ower a dram o' whisky. But this gentleman will be a Roman, I'se
warrant?"

"You are perfectly right in that, Saunders," said I.

"Ay, I have seen twa or three of their priests that were chased ower
here some score o' years syne. They just danced like mad when they
looked on the friars' heads, and the nuns' heads, in the cloister
yonder; they took to them like auld acquaintance like.--Od, he is not
stirring yet, mair than he were a through-stane! [Footnote: A
tombstone.] I never kend a Roman, to say kend him, but ane--mair by
token, he was the only ane in the town to ken--and that was auld Jock
of the Pend. It wad hae been lang ere ye fand Jock praying in the
Abbey in a thick night, wi' his knees on a cauld stane. Jock likit a
kirk wi' a chimley in't. Mony a merry ploy I hae had wi' him down at
the inn yonder; and when he died, decently I wad hae earded him; but,
or I gat his grave weel howkit, some of the quality, that were o' his
ain unhappy persuasion, had the corpse whirried away up the water, and
buried him after their ain pleasure, doubtless--they kend best. I wad
hae made nae great charge. I wadna hae excised Johnnie, dead or
alive.--Stay, see--the strange gentleman is coming."

"Hold the lantern to assist him, Mattocks," said I.--"This is rough
walking, sir."

"Yes," replied the Benedictine; "I may say with a poet, who is
doubtless familiar to you----"

I should be surprised if he were, thought I internally.

The stranger continued:

"Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves!"

"We are now clear of the churchyard," said I, "and have but a short
walk to David's, where I hope we shall find a cheerful fire to enliven
us after our night's work."

We entered, accordingly, the little parlour, into which Mattocks was
also about to push himself with sufficient effrontery, when David,
with a most astounding oath, expelled him by head and shoulders,
d--ning his curiosity, that would not let gentlemen be private in
their own inn. Apparently mine host considered his own presence as no
intrusion, for he crowded up to the table on which I had laid down the
leaden box. It was frail and wasted, as might be guessed, from having
lain so many years in the ground. On opening it, we found deposited
within, a case made of porphyry, as the stranger had announced to us.

"I fancy," he said, "gentlemen, your curiosity will not be
satisfied,--perhaps I should say that your suspicions will not be
removed,--unless I undo this casket; yet it only contains the
mouldering remains of a heart, once the seat of the noblest thoughts."

He undid the box with great caution; but the shrivelled substance
which it contained bore now no resemblance to what it might once have
been, the means used having been apparently unequal to preserve its
shape and colour, although they were adequate to prevent its total
decay. We were quite satisfied, notwithstanding, that it was, what the
stranger asserted, the remains of a human heart; and David readily
promised his influence in the village, which was almost co-ordinate
with that of the bailie himself, to silence all idle rumours. He was,
moreover, pleased to favour us with his company to supper; and having
taken the lion's share of two bottles of sherry, he not only
sanctioned with his plenary authority the stranger's removal of the
heart, but, I believe, would have authorized the removal of the Abbey
itself, were it not that it happens considerably to advantage the
worthy publican's own custom.

The object of the Benedictine's visit to the land of his forefathers
being now accomplished, he announced his intention of leaving us early
in the ensuing day, but requested my company to breakfast with him
before his departure. I came accordingly, and when we had finished our
morning's meal, the priest took me apart, and pulling from his pocket
a large bundle of papers, he put them into my hands. "These," said he,
"Captain Clutterbuck, are genuine Memoirs of the sixteenth century,
and exhibit in a singular, and, as I think, an interesting point of
view, the manners of that period. I am induced to believe that their
publication will not be an unacceptable present to the British public;
and willingly make over to you any profit that may accrue from such a
transaction."

I stared a little at this annunciation, and observed, that the hand
seemed too modern for the date he assigned to the manuscript.

"Do not mistake me, sir," said the Benedictine; "I did not mean to say
the Memoirs were written in the sixteenth century, but only, that they
were compiled from authentic materials of that period, but written in
the taste and language of the present day. My uncle commenced this
book; and I, partly to improve my habit of English composition, partly
to divert melancholy thoughts, amused my leisure hours with continuing
and concluding it. You will see the period of the story where my uncle
leaves off his narrative, and I commence mine. In fact, they relate in
a great measure to different persons, as well as to a different
period."

Retaining the papers in my hand, I proceeded to state to him my
doubts, whether, as a good Protestant, I could undertake or
superintend a publication written probably in the spirit of Popery.

"You will find," he said, "no matter of controversy in these sheets,
nor any sentiments stated, with which, I trust, the good in all
persuasions will not be willing to join. I remembered I was writing
for a land unhappily divided from the Catholic faith; and I have taken
care to say nothing which, justly interpreted, could give ground for
accusing me of partiality. But if, upon collating my narrative with
the proofs to which I refer you--for you will find copies of many of
the original papers in that parcel--you are of opinion that I have
been partial to my own faith, I freely give you leave to correct my
errors in that respect. I own, however, I am not conscious of this
defect, and have rather to fear that the Catholics may be of opinion,
that I have mentioned circumstances respecting the decay of discipline
which preceded, and partly occasioned, the great schism, called by you
the Reformation, over which I ought to have drawn a veil. And indeed,
this is one reason why I choose the papers should appear in a foreign
land, and pass to the press through the hands of a stranger."

To this I had nothing to reply, unless to object my own incompetency
to the task the good father was desirous to impose upon me. On this
subject he was pleased to say more, I fear, than his knowledge of me
fully warranted--more, at any rate, than my modesty will permit me to
record. At length he ended, with advising me, if I continued to feel
the diffidence which I stated, to apply to some veteran of literature,
whose experience might supply my deficiencies. Upon these terms we
parted, with mutual expressions of regard, and I have never since
heard of him.

After several attempts to peruse the quires of paper thus singularly
conferred on me, in which I was interrupted by the most inexplicable
fits of yawning, I at length, in a sort of despair, communicated them
to our village club, from whom they found a more favourable reception
than the unlucky conformation of my nerves had been able to afford
them. They unanimously pronounced the work to be exceedingly good, and
assured me I would be guilty of the greatest possible injury to our
flourishing village, if I should suppress what threw such an
interesting and radiant light upon the history of the ancient
Monastery of Saint Mary.

At length, by dint of listening to their opinion, I became dubious of
my own; and, indeed, when I heard passages read forth by the sonorous
voice of our worthy pastor, I was scarce more tired than I have felt
myself at some of his own sermons. Such, and so great is the
difference betwixt reading a thing one's self, making toilsome way
through all the difficulties of manuscript, and, as the man says in
the play, "having the same read to you;"--it is positively like being
wafted over a creek in a boat, or wading through it on your feet, with
the mud up to your knees. Still, however, there remained the great
difficulty of finding some one who could act as editor, corrector at
once of the press and of the language, which, according to the
schoolmaster, was absolutely necessary.

Since the trees walked forth to choose themselves a king, never was an
honour so bandied about. The parson would not leave the quiet of his
chimney-corner--the bailie pleaded the dignity of his situation, and
the approach of the great annual fair, as reasons against going to
Edinburgh to make arrangements for printing the Benedictine's
manuscript. The schoolmaster alone seemed of malleable stuff; and,
desirous perhaps of emulating the fame of Jedediah Cleishbotham,
evinced a wish to undertake this momentous commission. But a
remonstrance from three opulent farmers, whose sons he had at bed,
board, and schooling, for twenty pounds per annum a-head, came like a
frost over the blossoms of his literary ambition, and he was compelled
to decline the service.

In these circumstances, sir, I apply to you, by the advice of our
little council of war, nothing doubting you will not be disinclined to
take the duty upon you, as it is much connected with that in which you
have distinguished yourself. What I request is, that you will review,
or rather revise and correct, the enclosed packet, and prepare it for
the press, by such alterations, additions, and curtailments, as you
think necessary. Forgive my hinting to you, that the deepest well may
be exhausted,--the best corps of grenadiers, as our old general of
brigade expressed himself, may be _used up_. A few hints can do
you no harm; and, for the prize-money, let the battle be first won,
and it shall be parted at the drum-head. I hope you will take nothing
amiss that I have said. I am a plain soldier, and little accustomed to
compliments. I may add, that I should be well contented to march in
the front with you--that is, to put my name with yours on the
title-page. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your unknown humble
Servant, Cuthbert Clutterbuck. Village of Kennaquhair, -- of April,
18--

_For the Author of "Waverley," &c.
care of Mr. John Ballantyne,
Hanover Street, Edinburgh._


* * * * *


ANSWER BY "THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY,"

TO THE FOREGOING LETTER FROM CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK.


DEAR CAPTAIN,

Do not admire, that, notwithstanding the distance and ceremony of your
address, I return an answer in the terms of familiarity. The truth is,
your origin and native country are better known to me than even to
yourself. You derive your respectable parentage, if I am not greatly
mistaken, from a land which has afforded much pleasure, as well as
profit, to those who have traded to it successfully,--I mean that part
of the _terra incognita_ which is called the province of Utopia.
Its productions, though censured by many (and some who use tea and
tobacco without scruple) as idle and unsubstantial luxuries, have
nevertheless, like many other luxuries, a general acceptation, and are
secretly enjoyed even by those who express the greatest scorn and
dislike of them in public. The dram-drinker is often the first to be
shocked at the smell of spirits--it is not unusual to hear old maiden
ladies declaim against scandal--the private book-cases of some
grave-seeming men would not brook decent eyes--and many, I say not of
the wise and learned, but of those most anxious to seem such, when the
spring-lock of their library is drawn, their velvet cap pulled over
their ears, their feet insinuated into their turkey slippers, are to
be found, were their retreats suddenly intruded upon, busily engaged
with the last new novel.

I have said, the truly wise and learned disdain these shifts, and will
open the said novel as avowedly as they would the lid of their
snuff-box. I will only quote one instance, though I know a hundred.
Did you know the celebrated Watt of Birmingham, Captain Clutterbuck? I
believe not, though, from what I am about to state, he would not have
failed to have sought an acquaintance with you. It was only once my
fortune to meet him, whether in body or in spirit it matters not.
There were assembled about half a score of our Northern Lights, who
had amongst them, Heaven knows how, a well-known character of your
country, Jedediah Cleishbotham. This worthy person, having come to
Edinburgh during the Christmas vacation, had become a sort of lion in
the place, and was lead in leash from house to house along with the
guisards, the stone-eater, and other amusements of the season, which
"exhibited their unparalleled feats to private family-parties, if
required." Amidst this company stood Mr. Watt, the man whose genius
discovered the means of multiplying our national resources to a degree
perhaps even beyond his own stupendous powers of calculation and
combination; bringing the treasures of the abyss to the summit of the
earth--giving the feeble arm of man the momentum of an
Afrite--commanding manufactures to arise, as the rod of the prophet
produced water in the desert--affording the means of dispensing with
that time and tide which wait for no man, and of sailing without that
wind which defied the commands and threats of Xerxes himself.

[Footnote: Probably the ingenious author alludes to the national
adage:

The king said sail,
But the wind said no.

Our schoolmaster (who is also a land surveyor) thinks this whole
passage refers to Mr. Watt's improvements on the steam
engine.--_Note by Captain Clutterbuck_.]

This potent commander of the elements--this abridger of time and
space--this magician, whose cloudy machinery has produced a change on
the world, the effects of which, extraordinary as they are, are
perhaps only now beginning to be felt--was not only the most profound
man of science, the most successful combiner of powers and calculator
of numbers as adapted to practical purposes,--was not only one of the
most generally well-informed,--but one of the best and kindest of
human beings.

There he stood, surrounded by the little band I have mentioned of
Northern literati, men not less tenacious, generally speaking, of
their own fame and their own opinions, than the national regiments are
supposed to be jealous of the high character which they have won upon
service. Methinks I yet see and hear what I shall never see or hear
again. In his eighty-fifth year, the alert, kind, benevolent old man,
had his attention alive to every one's question, his information at
every one's command.

His talents and fancy overflowed on every subject. One gentleman was a
deep philologist--he talked with him on the origin of the alphabet as
if he had been coeval with Cadmus; another a celebrated critic,--you
would have said the old man had studied political economy and
belles-lettres all his life,--of science it is unnecessary to speak,
it was his own distinguished walk. And yet, Captain Clutterbuck, when
he spoke with your countryman Jedediah Cleishbotham, you would have
sworn he had been coeval with Claver'se and Burley, with the
persecutors and persecuted, and could number every shot the dragoons
had fired at the fugitive Covenanters. In fact, we discovered that no
novel of the least celebrity escaped his perusal, and that the gifted
man of science was as much addicted to the productions of your native
country, (the land of Utopia aforesaid,) in other words, as shameless
and obstinate a peruser of novels, as if he had been a very milliner's
apprentice of eighteen. I know little apology for troubling you with
these things, excepting the desire to commemorate a delightful
evening, and a wish to encourage you to shake off that modest
diffidence which makes you afraid of being supposed connected with the
fairy-land of delusive fiction. I will requite your tag of verse, from
Horace himself, with a paraphrase for your own use, my dear Captain,
and for that of your country club, excepting in reverence the
clergyman and schoolmaster:--

_Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, &c._

Take thou no scorn.
Of fiction born,
Fair fiction's muse to woe;
Old Homer's theme
Was but a dream,
Himself a fiction too.

Having told you your country, I must next, my dear Captain
Clutterbuck, make free to mention your own immediate descent. You are
not to suppose your land of prodigies so little known to us as the
careful concealment of your origin would seem to imply. But you have
it in common with many of your country, studiously and anxiously to
hide any connexion with it. There is this difference, indeed, betwixt
your countrymen and those of our more material world, that many of the
most estimable of them, such as an old Highland gentleman called
Ossian, a monk of Bristol called Rowley, and others, are inclined to
pass themselves off as denizens of the land of reality, whereas most
of our fellow-citizens who deny their country are such as that country
would be very willing to disclaim. The especial circumstances you
mention relating to your life and services, impose not upon us. We
know the versatility of the unsubstantial species to which you belong
permits them to assume all manner of disguises; we have seen them
apparelled in the caftan of a Persian, and the silken robe of a
Chinese, [Footnote: See the Persian Letters, and the Citizen of the
World.] and are prepared to suspect their real character under every
disguise. But how can we be ignorant of your country and manners, or
deceived by the evasion of its inhabitants, when the voyages of
discovery which have been made to it rival in number those recorded by
Purchas or by Hackluyt? [Footnote: See Les Voyages Imaginaires.] And
to show the skill and perseverance of your navigators and travellers,
we have only to name Sindbad, Aboulfouaris, and Robinson Crusoe. These
were the men for discoveries. Could we have sent Captain Greenland to
look out for the north-west passage, or Peter Wilkins to examine
Baffin's Bay, what discoveries might we not have expected? But there
are feats, and these both numerous and extraordinary, performed by the
inhabitants of your country, which we read without once attempting to
emulate.

I wander from my purpose, which was to assure you, that I know you as
well as the mother who _did_ not bear you, for MacDuff's
peculiarity sticks to your whole race. You are not born of woman,
unless, indeed, in that figurative sense, in which the celebrated
Maria Edgeworth may, in her state of single blessedness, be termed
mother of the finest family in England. You belong, sir, to the
Editors of the land of Utopia, a sort of persons for whom I have the
highest esteem. How is it possible it should be otherwise, when you
reckon among your corporation the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli, the
short-faced president of the Spectator's Club, poor Ben Silton, and
many others, who have acted as gentlemen-ushers to works which have
cheered our heaviest, and added wings to our lightest hours?