by Walter Scott
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 sinceher disaster. It seemed as if the few years which followed her husband'sdeath had done on her the work of half a century. She lost the freshelasticity of form, the colour and the mien of health, and becamewasted, wan, and feeble. She appeared to have no formed complaint;yet it was evident to those who looked on her, that her strength waneddaily. Her lips at length became blenched and her eye dim; yet she spokenot of any desire to see a priest, until Elspeth Glendinning in her zealcould not refrain from touching upon a point which she deemed essentialto salvation. Alice of Avenel received her hint kindly, and thanked herfor 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 beat all times advantageous."
This quiet acquiescence was not quite what Elspeth Glendinning wishedor expected. She made up, however, by her own enthusiasm, for the lady'swant of eagerness to avail herself of ghostly counsel, and Martin wasdespatched with such haste as Shagram would make, to pray one ofthe religious men of Saint Mary's to come up to administer the lastconsolations to the widow of Walter Avenel.
When the Sacristan had announced to the Lord Abbot, that the Lady ofthe umquhile Walter de Avenel was in very weak health in the Tower ofGlendearg, and desired the assistance of a father confessor, the lordlymonk paused on the request.
"We do remember Walter de Avenel," he said; "a good knight anda valiant: he was dispossessed of his lands, and slain by theSouthron--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 unableto bear the journey."
"True--ay,--yes--then must one of our brethren go to her--Knowest thouif she hath aught of a jointure from this Walter de Avenel?"
"Very little, holy father," said the Sacristan; "she hath resided atGlendearg since her husband's death, well-nigh on the charity of a poorwidow, 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 whichan inferior applauds the jest of his superior.--Then added, with ahypocritical 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 hissanction on the jest.
"Ho! ho!" said the Abbot; "then, to leave jesting, Father Philip, takethou 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--heresygathers force like a snow-ball--the multitude expect confessions andpreachings from the Benedictine, as they would from so many beggarlyfriars--and we may not desert the vineyard, though the toil be grievousunto us."
"And with so little advantage to the holy monastery," said theSacristan.
"True, Father Philip; but wot you not that what preventeth harm dothgood? This Julian de Avenel lives a light and evil life, and should weneglect the widow of his brother, he might foray our lands, and we neverable 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 theeinstantly, brother; ride night and day, an it be necessary, and let mensee how diligent Abbot Boniface and his faithful children are in theexecution of their spiritual duty--toil not deterring them, for the glenis five miles in length--fear not withholding them, for it is said to behaunted of spectres--nothing moving them from pursuit of their spiritualcalling; to the confusion of calumnious heretics, and the comfort andedification of all true and faithful sons of the Catholic Church. Iwonder what our brother Eustace will say to this?"
Breathless with his own picture of the dangers and toil which he was toencounter, and the fame which he was to acquire, (both by proxy,) theAbbot moved slowly to finish his luncheon in the refectory, and theSacristan, with no very good will, accompanied old Martin in his returnto Glendearg; the greatest impediment in the journey being the troubleof restraining his pampered mule, that she might tread in something likean equal pace with poor jaded Shagram.
After remaining an hour in private with his penitent, the monk returnedmoody and full of thought. Dame Elspeth, who had placed for the honouredguest some refreshment in the hall, was struck with the embarrassmentwhich appeared in his countenance. Elspeth watched him with greatanxiety. She observed there was that on his brow which rather resembleda person come from hearing the confession of some enormous crime, thanthe look of a confessor who resigns a reconciled penitent, not to earth,but to heaven. After long hesitating, she could not at length refrainfrom hazarding a question. She was sure she said, the leddy had made aneasy shrift. Five years had they resided together, and she could safelysay, no woman lived better.
"Woman," said the Sacristan, sternly, "thou speakest thou knowest notwhat--What avails clearing the outside of the platter, if the inside befoul 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, andbeginning with her apron to wipe the dust from the plates, of which shesupposed him to complain.
"Forbear, Dame Elspeth" said the monk; "your plates are as clean aswooden trenchers and pewter flagons can well be; the foulness of whichI speak is of that pestilential heresy which is daily becoming ingrainedin this our Holy Church of Scotland, and as a canker-worm in therose-garland of the Spouse."
"Holy Mother of Heaven!" said Dame Elspeth, crossing herself, "have Ikept house with a heretic?"
"No, Elspeth, no," replied the monk; "it were too strong a speech for meto make of this unhappy lady, but I would I could say she is freefrom heretical opinions. Alas! they fly about like the pestilence bynoon-day, and infect even the first and fairest of the flock! For itis easy to see of this dame, that she hath been high in judgment as inrank."
"And she can write and read, I had almost said, as weel as yourreverence" 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, buther maiden that was--she now serves the family--says she can write--Andfor reading, she has often read to us good things out of a thick blackvolume with silver clasps."
"Let me see it," said the monk, hastily, "on your allegiance as a truevassal--on your faith as a Catholic Christian--instantly--instantly letme see it."
The good woman hesitated, alarmed at the tone in which the confessortook up her information; and being moreover of opinion, that what sogood a woman as the Lady of Avenel studied so devoutly, could not be ofa tendency actually evil. But borne down by the clamour, exclamations,and something like threats used by Father Philip, she at length broughthim the fatal volume. It was easy to do this without suspicion on thepart of the owner, as she lay on her bed exhausted with the fatigue of along conference with her confessor, and as the small _round_, or turretcloset, in which was the book and her other trifling property, wasaccessible by another door. Of all her effects the book was the last shewould have thought of securing, for of what use or interest could it bein a family who neither read themselves, nor were in the habit ofseeing any who did? so that Dame Elspeth had no difficulty in possessingherself of the volume, although her heart all the while accused her ofan ungenerous and an inhospitable part towards her friend and inmate.The double power of a landlord and a
feudal superior was before hereyes; and to say truth, the boldness, with which she might otherwisehave resisted this double authority, was, I grieve to say it, muchqualified by the curiosity she entertained, as a daughter of Eve, tohave some explanation respecting the mysterious volume which the ladycherished with so much care, yet whose contents she imparted with suchcaution. For never had Alice of Avenel read them any passage from thebook in question until the iron door of the tower was locked, and allpossibility of intrusion prevented. Even then she had shown, by theselection of particular passages, that she was more anxious to impresson their minds the principles which the volume contained, than tointroduce them to it as a new rule of faith.
When Elspeth, half curious, half remorseful, had placed the book in themonk's hands, he exclaimed, after turning over the leaves, "Now, by mineorder, it is as I suspected!--My mule, my mule!--I will abide no longerhere--well hast thou done, dame, in placing in my hands this perilousvolume."
"Is it then witchcraft or devil's work?" said Dame Elspeth, in greatagitation.
"Nay, God forbid!" said the monk, signing himself with the cross, "itis the Holy Scripture. But it is rendered into the vulgar tongue, andtherefore, by the order of the Holy Catholic Church, unfit to be in thehands 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; butlack of wit cannot be a deadly sin, and truly, to my poor thinking, Ishould be glad to read the Holy Scripture."
"I dare say thou wouldst," said the monk; "and even thus did our motherEve seek to have knowledge of good and evil, and thus Sin came into theworld, and Death by Sin."
"I am sure, and it is true," said Elspeth. "Oh, if she had dealt by thecounsel 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 suchconditions as best corresponded with its holy pleasure. I tell thee,Elspeth, _the Word slayeth_--that is, the text alone, read withunskilled eye and unhallowed lips, is like those strong medicines whichsick men take by the advice of the learned. Such patients recover andthrive; while those dealing in them at their own hand, shall perish bytheir own deed."
"Nae doubt, nae doubt," said the poor woman, "your reverence knowsbest."
"Not I," said Father Philip, in a tone as deferential as he thoughtcould possibly become the Sacristan of Saint Mary's,--"Not I, but theHoly 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 Ihear from others my superiors. Yet of this, good woman, be assured,--theWord, the mere Word, slayetlh. But the church hath her ministers togloze and to expound the same unto her faithful congregation; and thisI say, not so much, my beloved brethren--I mean my beloved sister," (forthe Sacristan had got into the end of one of his old sermons,)--"This Ispeak not so much of the rectors, curates, and secular clergy, so calledbecause they live after the fashion of the _seculum_ or age, unbound bythose ties which sequestrate us from the world; neither do I speakthis of the mendicant friars, whether black or gray, whether crossed oruncrossed; but of the monks, and especially of the monks Benedictine,reformed on the rule of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, thence calledCistercian, of which monks, Christian brethren--sister, I wouldsay--great is the happiness and glory of the country in possessing theholy ministers of Saint Mary's, whereof I, though an unworthy brother,may say it hath produced more saints, more bishops, more popes--mayour patrons make us thankful!--than any holy foundation in Scotland.Wherefore--But I see Martin hath my mule in readiness, and I will butsalute you with the kiss of sisterhood, which maketh not ashamed, and sobetake me to my toilsome return, for the glen is of bad reputation forthe evil spirits which haunt it. Moreover, I may arrive too late at thebridge, whereby I may be obliged to take to the river, which I observedto be somewhat waxen."
Accordingly, he took his leave of Dame Elspeth, who was confounded bythe rapidity of his utterance, and the doctrine he gave forth, and by nomeans easy on the subject of the book, which her conscience told her sheshould not have communicated to any one, without the knowledge of itsowner.
Notwithstanding the haste which the monk as well as the mule made toreturn to better quarters than they had left at the head of Glendearg;notwithstanding the eager desire Father Philip had to be the very firstwho should acquaint the Abbot that a copy of the book they mostdreaded had been found within the Halidome, or patrimony of the Abbey;notwithstanding, moreover, certain feelings which induced him to hurryas fast as possible through the gloomy and evil-reputed glen, stillthe difficulties of the road, and the rider's want of habitude of quickmotion, were such, that twilight came upon him ere he had nearly clearedthe narrow valley. It was indeed a gloomy ride. The two sides of thevale were so near, that at every double of the river the shadows fromthe western sky fell upon, and totally obscured, the eastern bank; thethickets of copsewood seemed to wave with a portentous agitation ofboughs and leaves, and the very crags and scaurs seemed higher andgrimmer than they had appeared to the monk while he was travelling indaylight, 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 poolstretched away to other currents, with a dignity peculiar to itselfamongst the Scottish rivers; for whatever may have been the droughtof the season, the Tweed usually fills up the space between its banks,seldom leaving those extensive sheets of shingle which deform themargins of many of the celebrated Scottish streams.
The monk, insensible to beauties which the age had not regarded asdeserving of notice, was, nevertheless, like a prudent general, pleasedto find himself out of the narrow glen in which the enemy might havestolen upon him unperceived. He drew up his bridle, reduced his muleto her natural and luxurious amble, instead of the agitating andbroken trot at which, to his no small inconvenience, she had hithertoproceeded, and, wiping his brow, gazed forth at leisure on the broadmoon, which, now mingling with the lights of evening, was rising overfield and forest, village and fortalice, and, above all, over thestately 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 ofthe many fine bridges which have since been built across that classicalstream, not one then existed. There was, however, in recompense, abridge then standing which has since disappeared, although its ruins maystill be traced by the curious.
It was of a very peculiar form. Two strong abutments were built oneither side of the river, at a part where the stream was peculiarlycontracted. Upon a rock in the centre of the current was built a solidpiece of masonry, constructed like the pier of a bridge, and presenting,like a pier, an angle to the current of the stream. The masonrycontinued solid until the pier rose to a level with the two abutmentsupon either side, and from thence the building rose in the form of atower. The lower story of this tower consisted only of an archway orpassage through the building, over either entrance to which hung adrawbridge with counterpoises, either of which, when dropped, connectedthe archway with the opposite abutment, where the farther end of thedrawbridge rested. When both bridges were thus lowered, the passage overthe 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 fortalicein the midst of the river. He was entitled to a small toll or customfor the passage, concerning the amount of which disputes sometimesarose between him and the passengers. It is needless to say, that thebridge-ward had usually the better in these questions, since he could atpleasure detain the traveller on the opposite side; or, suffering himto pass half way, might keep him prisoner in his tower till they wereagreed on the rate of pontage.
[Footnote: A bridge of the very peculiar construction described in thetext, actually
existed at a small hamlet about a mile and a half aboveMelrose, called from the circumstance Bridge-end. It is thus noticed inGordon's _Iter Septentrionale_:--
"In another journey through the south parts of Scotland, about a mileand a half from Melrose, in the shire of Teviotdale, I saw the remainsof a curious bridge over the river Tweed, consisting of three octangularpillars, or rather towers, standing within the water, without any archesto join them. The middle one, which is the most entire, has a doortowards the north, and I suppose another opposite one toward the south,which I could not see without crossing the water. In the middle of thistower is a projection or cornice surrounding it: the whole is hollowfrom the door upwards, and now open at the top, near which is a smallwindow. I was informed that not long agro a countryman and his familylived in this tower--and got his livelihood by laying out planks frompillar to pillar, and conveying passengers over the river. Whether thisbe ancient or modern, I know not; but as it is singular in its kind Ihave thought fit to exhibit it."
The vestiges of this uncommon species of bridge still exist, and theauthor has often seen the foundations of the columns when drifting downthe Tweed at night for the purpose of killing salmon by torch-light.Mr. John Mercer of Bridge-end recollects, that about fifty years ago thepillars were visible above water; and the late Mr. David Kyle, of theGeorge Inn, Melrose, told the author that he saw a stone taken from theriver bearing this inscription:--
"I, Sir John Pringle of Palmer stede, Give an hundred markis of gowd saereid, To help to bigg my brigg ower Tweed."
Pringle of Galashiels, afterwards of Whytbank, was the Baron to whom thebridge belonged.]
But it was most frequently with the Monks of Saint Mary's that thewarder had to dispute his perquisites. These holy men insisted for, andat length obtained, a right of gratuitous passage to themselves, greatlyto the discontent of the bridge-keeper. But when they demanded thesame immunity for the numerous pilgrims who visited the shrine, thebridge-keeper waxed restive, and was supported by his lord in hisresistance. The controversy grew animated on both sides; the Abbotmenaced excommunication, and the keeper of the bridge, though unable toretaliate in kind, yet made each individual monk who had to cross andrecross the river, endure a sort of purgatory, ere he would accommodatethem with a passage. This was a great inconvenience, and would haveproved a more serious one, but that the river was fordable for man andhorse in ordinary weather.
It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, when FatherPhilip approached this bridge, the singular construction of which givesa curious idea of the insecurity of the times. The river was not inflood, but it was above its ordinary level--_a heavy water_, as itis called in that country, through which the monk had no particularinclination to ride, if he could manage the matter better.
"Peter, my good friend," cried the Sacristan, raising his voice; "myvery excellent friend, Peter, be so kind as to lower the drawbridge.Peter, I say, dost thou not hear?--it is thy gossip, Father Philip, whocalls thee."
Peter heard him perfectly well, and saw him into the bargain; but as hehad considered the Sacristan as peculiarly his enemy in his disputewith the convent, he went quietly to bed, after reconnoitring the monkthrough his loop-hole, observing to his wife, that "riding the water ina moonlight night would do the Sacristan no harm, and would teach himthe value of a brig the neist time, on whilk a man might pass high anddry, winter and summer, flood and ebb."
After exhausting his voice in entreaties and threats, which were equallyunattended to by Peter of the Brig, as he was called, Father Philip atlength moved down the river to take the ordinary ford at the head ofthe next stream. Cursing the rustic obstinacy of Peter, he began,nevertheless, to persuade himself that the passage of the river by theford was not only safe, but pleasant. The banks and scattered trees wereso beautifully reflected from the bosom of the dark stream, the wholecool and delicious picture formed so pleasing a contrast to his lateagitation, to the warmth occasioned by his vain endeavours to move therelentless porter of the bridge, that the result was rather agreeablethan otherwise.
As Father Philip came close to the water's edge, at the spot wherehe was to enter it, there sat a female under a large broken scathedoak-tree, or rather under the remains of such a tree, weeping, wringingher hands, and looking earnestly on the current of the river. The monkwas struck with astonishment to see a female there at that time ofnight. But he was, in all honest service,--and if a step farther, I putit upon his own conscience,--a devoted squire of dames. After observingthe maiden for a moment, although she seemed to take no notice ofhis presence, he was moved by her distress, and willing to offer hisassistance. "Damsel," said he, "thou seemest in no ordinary distress;peradventure, like myself, thou hast been refused passage at the bridgeby the churlish keeper, and thy crossing may concern thee either forperformance of a vow, or some other weighty charge."
The maiden uttered some inarticulate sounds, looked at the river, andthen in the face of the Sacristan. It struck Father Philip at thatinstant, that a Highland chief of distinction had been for some timeexpected to pay his vows at the shrine of Saint Mary's; and thatpossibly this fair maiden might be one of his family, travelling alonefor accomplishment of a vow, or left behind by some accident, to whom,therefore, it would be but right and prudent to use every civilityin his power, especially as she seemed unacquainted with the Lowlandtongue. Such at least was the only motive the Sacristan was ever knownto assign for his courtesy; if there was any other, I once more refer itto his own conscience.
To express himself by signs, the common language of all nations, thecautious Sacristan first pointed to the river, then to his mule'scrupper, and then made, as gracefully as he could, a sign to induce thefair 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 ofthe right leg and the use of the left rein, to place his mule with herside 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 onebound sate behind the monk upon the animal, much the firmer rider of thetwo. The mule by no means seemed to approve of this double burden; shebounded, 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 tobudge off the spot, suddenly stretched her nose homeward, and dashedinto the ford as fast as she could scamper. A new terror now invadedthe monk's mind--the ford seemed unusually deep, the water eddied off instrong ripple from the counter of the mule, and began to rise upon herside. Philip lost his presence of mind,--which was at no time his mostready attribute, the mule yielded to the weight of the current, and asthe rider was not attentive to keep her head turned up the river, shedrifted downward, lost the ford and her footing at once, and began toswim with her head down the stream. And what was sufficiently strange,at the same moment, notwithstanding the extreme peril, the damsel beganto sing, thereby increasing, if anything could increase, the bodily fearof the worthy Sacristan.
I.
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, Both current and ripple are dancing in light. We have roused the night raven, I heard him croak, As we plashed along beneath the oak That flings its broad branches so far and so wide, Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide. "Who wakens my nestlings," the raven he said, "My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red. For a blue swoln corpse is a dainty meal. And I'll have my share with the pike and the eel."
II.
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, There's a golden gleam on the distant height; There's a silver shower on the alders dank. And the drooping willows that wave on the bank. I see the abbey, both turret and tower, It is all astir for the vesper hour; The monks for the chapel are leaving each cell. But Where's Father Philip, should toll the bell?
III.
Merrily
swim we, the moon shines bright, Downward we drift through shadow and light, Under yon rock the eddies sleep, Calm and silent, dark and deep. The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool. He has lighted his candle of death and of dool. Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to see How he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee.
IV.
Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night? A man of mean, or a man of might? Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove, Or lover who crosses to visit his love? Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply, as we pass'd,-- "God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd the bridge fast! All that come to my cove are sunk, Priest or layman, lover or monk."
How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or where the terrifiedmonk's journey might have ended, is uncertain. As she sung the laststanza, they arrived at, or rather in, a broad tranquil sheet of water,caused by a strong wear or damhead, running across the river, whichdashed in a broad cataract over the barrier. The mule, whether fromchoice, or influenced by the suction of the current, made towards thecut intended to supply the convent mills, and entered it half swimminghalf wading, and pitching the unlucky monk to and fro in the saddle at afearful rate.
As his person flew hither and thither, his garment became loose, and inan effort to retain it, his hand lighted on the volume of the Lady ofAvenel which was in his bosom. No sooner had he grasped it, than hiscompanion pitched him out of the saddle into the stream, where, stillkeeping her hand on his collar, she gave him two or three good souses inthe watery fluid, so as to ensure that every other part of him had itsshare of wetting, and then quitted her hold when he was so near theside that by a slight effort (of a great one he was incapable) he mightscramble on shore. This accordingly he accomplished, and turning hiseyes to see what had become of his extraordinary companion, she wasnowhere to be seen; but still he heard, as if from the surface of theriver, and mixing with the noise of the water breaking over the damhead,a fragment of her wild song, which seemed to run thus:--
Landed--landed! the black book hath won. Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun! Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be, For seldom they land that go swimming with me.
The ecstasy of the monk's terror could be endured no longer; his headgrew dizzy, and, after staggering a few steps onward and running himselfagainst a wall, he sunk down in a state of insensibility.
